You didn’t belong here—that was obvious from the second you stepped out of the car.

Your dad—David—had just married my mum—Anne, a millionaire business woman with too much money and a habit of collecting things—big cars, big houses, and now, a new husband with a daughter—you—who looked like you’d rather be anywhere else.

Your name? Doesn’t matter. Not yet.

All I knew was that you left everything behind to be here. Your friends, your old life, some boyfriend named Dean who probably wore chain necklaces and thought he was the shit. I could see it all over your face—you hated this. Hated us.

I watched you from the upstairs landing when you walked in, shoulders tense, trying not to let your expression betray how impressed you were by the size of the place, I guess you weren’t expecting my mum to be so wealthy with such a big house.

Still, you looked miserable.

Later that night, I heard your footsteps in the kitchen. Light, hesitant. Like the floor might bite. I stayed hidden, leaned against the frame as you opened the fridge and muttered, “I’m sure these posh people don’t have anything but overpriced sushi.”

Cheeky.

I stepped in just as you closed the door, watched you jump a little when you saw me. You looked smaller up close. You’re twenty—a year older than me, up close you look a little younger. You glared, tried to act unimpressed. Cute.

Bruno—my dog who’s the size of a small horse—came up behind me, tail stiff, growling low in his throat like he sensed what I did—that you didn’t belong here.

You flinched. Smart girl.

Bruno is a scary dog when he wants to be.

I stepped forward, calm, amused.

“Careful—he can smell fear, bruno doesn’t take kindly to strangers in our house.”