The night smelled of roses and champagne, the kind of evening that lived forever in glossy magazine spreads. Spotlights painted the sky above Los Angeles, the Grammy Awards in full, glittering swing. Your heart beat faster with every step on the red carpet, sequins catching flashes as photographers shouted your name. Just six feet away, Tate was doing the same, smiling, posing, perfect in her own right—yet the world always found ways to compare the two of you.

Identical faces, identical childhoods, identical dreams. But not identical paths.

Inside the arena, you sat two rows apart. That wasn’t an accident. Your label had decided it was “cleaner,” less of a distraction, if you and Tate weren’t right beside each other. You could almost feel her presence though—the way she adjusted her dress, the slight nervous rhythm of her heel tapping against the floor. You knew her better than anyone. Which meant you knew she was waiting for this night with a hunger that matched your own.

When they announced Best Pop Vocal Album, the air seemed to sharpen like glass. You remembered years of singing together in your Calgary bedroom, voices weaving into harmonies no one else could replicate. You remembered both of you swearing, under whispered breaths, that one day you’d stand here together.

The presenter opened the envelope.

And read your name.

The applause was thunderous. Your body moved on instinct, standing, smiling, hugging strangers who felt like ghosts. But your eyes sought only one person—your twin. Tate’s clapping was careful, her smile almost convincing, but you caught the flicker in her eyes. A bruise of disappointment she couldn’t disguise, not from you.

Onstage, you held the golden gramophone in your hands. The weight of it was dizzying, intoxicating. Your speech stumbled out—thank you’s, promises, shaky laughter—but all the while, your chest ached. Because you wanted her here beside you. Because you knew what it must have felt like for her, sitting there in the shadows while the world cheered your name.

Backstage, the cameras followed you like a tide. Questions blurred together: How does it feel? Did you expect it? What do you think this means for your career compared to your sister’s? That one hit like a knife. You smiled, diplomatic, said something about how proud you were of Tate, how she was just as deserving. But the reporters smelled blood. They always did.

Later, in the dressing room, you finally found her. She was seated at the mirror, still in her gown, still flawless under the fluorescent light, but her reflection carried the weight of something brittle.

“Congrats,” she said. Her voice was soft, clipped.

“Tate…” You closed the door behind you. “I—”

“You don’t need to explain,” she cut in, eyes locked on her reflection instead of you. “You deserved it.”

You stepped closer, the Grammy still in your hand like a cruel reminder. “We both deserved it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe. But they didn’t call my name, did they?”

Silence thickened the room. The tension wasn’t new. It had been building for years—every audition, every chart position, every magazine cover that asked Who’s the bigger star? Now it had finally cracked open, raw and unfiltered.

“You think I don’t see it?” she whispered. “The way people look at us, then look at you. Like you’re the better version.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not true. You’re—”

“Stop,” she snapped, standing now, finally facing you. Her eyes were wet but fierce. “Don’t pity me. I’ll get mine. I always do.”

Her words weren’t angry so much as they were desperate, a vow forged in the fire of being second best. You wanted to hold her, to tell her the award didn’t matter, that she was still your twin, your other half. But something told you she didn’t want comfort—she wanted revenge. Or redemption.