“You know,” Dulcie said, twirling the gold locket around her neck—my mother’s locket, “I used to wonder what it felt like to be you. The Titanis Princess. The golden girl. Daddy’s genius. Now?” She leaned in, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Now I just feel sorry for you.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But my throat burned.
She held up a photo. Faded. Torn at the edges. My mother and I, arms wrapped around each other. One of the few pictures I kept hidden in my bedside drawer.
She smiled, then slowly tore it in half. Right between our faces.
“She hated you, you know,” she hissed, letting the pieces flutter like ash. “Always talked about how you reminded her of the mistakes she couldn’t undo. But she loved me. Said I had potential.”
Lie. I knew it was a lie. I knew my mother too well before she died.
Her voice turned saccharine again. “Poor little Danica. You always had the grades, the looks, the press, the perfect life. But guess what?” She tapped her flat stomach. “I can give Reagan what you can’t.”
My jaw clenched.