Melisa stood at the top of the staircase like a perfectly sculpted ornament—elegant, untouchable, and very much in the wrong place for a "guest."
Below, the living room buzzed with familiar voices. Laughter. Chitchat. The occasional clink of tea cups. Camilla and Robert Everhart were chatting with Aunt Eleanor like old friends dropping by for a social call instead of, say, two people who had just handed their daughter off like expired milk.
Melisa's lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. Just a polite expression of disinterest.
Then Camilla spotted her.
"Melisa," she called out softly, like they hadn't dragged her through years of polite neglect and emotional starvation.
Melisa didn't reply. She descended the staircase with the grace of someone who'd learned early that quiet dignity was the only armor allowed. No drama, no tears, just straight-backed silence. She walked past her mother and father and took a seat beside Aunt Eleanor, legs crossed, spine straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Aunt Eleanor reached over instinctively, her palm brushing over Melisa's fingers like she was grounding her.
Camilla tried again. "How have you been, sweetheart?"
Melisa tilted her head, studying the woman who'd once spent more on Olivia's ballet recitals than Melisa's entire education. "Well enough."
Polite. Hollow. Just enough civility to sting.
Her gaze flicked to Robert. His smile was too tight, his fingers wrapped too hard around the handle of his cup. "We were worried you might not be adjusting well. It's a big change. And Olivia—"
"Wants to apologize," Melisa finished for him, eyes sliding lazily toward her sister, who sat demurely with downcast eyes like a porcelain doll caught in a rainstorm.
Melisa leaned forward, her voice feather-light. "So?"
That one word sliced through the air.
Olivia bit her lip like a tragic heroine in a third-rate soap opera. "Sister, I—I truly regret everything. Aunt Eleanor, please talk to her... she's misunderstanding me…"
Eleanor didn't move. Her expression was kind, but her body language was Switzerland.
Melisa blinked slowly, voice soft as snow and twice as cold. "You're apologizing to me. Don't detour through someone else."
Olivia's eyes shimmered. Very convincing. Almost.
"Sister…" she murmured, clutching her skirt like her soul depended on it.
Robert's face tightened. "Melisa, that's enough."
Ah, there it was. The real tone. The one reserved for "you're embarrassing me in front of people who matter."
"Enough?" Melisa repeated, tone airy, eyebrows slightly raised. "Because I didn't immediately kneel and thank her for ruining my life?"
"Your sister already apologized," Camilla added, smoothing Robert's arm like she could pet the rage out of him. "Don't be dramatic."
Melisa gave a soft laugh. "This isn't some childhood spat over birthday cake, Mother. I got married in someone else's place. In case you forgot—because I didn't."
The silence that followed was thick, awkward, delicious.
Aunt Eleanor blinked, impressed. Uncle George quietly set down his tea with a faint clink. Olivia blinked her pretty eyes and tried not to cry on command.
Robert's jaw ticked. Camilla looked stunned, like someone had slapped her with a velvet glove.
"I understand you're upset," Camilla said tightly. "But we came to see you. Can't you meet us halfway?"
Melisa leaned back, crossing her legs with the elegance of someone about to deliver a court verdict. "Halfway is reserved for people who try."
Olivia tried again, this time with trembling lips and a voice like wet tissue. "Sis… it's my fault. But don't blame Mom and Dad. They didn't know—"
"Didn't they?" Melisa smiled thinly. "And you're so good at sharing the spotlight. Truly, you deserve an award."
Olivia blinked. "What?"
"Acting," Melisa supplied, too brightly. "You should try the entertainment industry. You're already playing the pitiful sister role flawlessly."
That did it. Olivia stood abruptly, face crumpling. She fled from the room in a flurry of muffled sobs and chiffon skirts.
Camilla stood halfway as if debating whether to go after her.
"Melisa," Robert said sharply, "apologize to your sister."
"Not even if the Earth starts spinning backward."
"You're still our daughter," Camilla said. "Why are you being so cruel?"
Melisa stood. Her smile was still in place, but the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
"Oh, that's rich. Now you remember I'm your daughter?"
Aunt Eleanor's hand closed around hers again, warm and steady.
Camilla opened her mouth—probably to say something about ungratefulness and family values—but Mr. Soveir finally decided he'd had enough.
He stood slowly, his gaze sweeping the Everharts like a boardroom he was about to fire.
"You heard her. This is her home now. If she wants you to leave, you leave."
Robert's mouth tightened. He stood and adjusted his sleeves like he was still in control of something—anything. "We'll talk later," he muttered.
"No," Melisa said, voice cool and final. "We won't."
Camilla hesitated again at the door, glancing back with something that tried to pass for maternal worry.
Melisa didn't blink.
"Sis, please…" came a distant sob from Olivia down the hall.
"Oh, go console your golden girl," Melisa said sweetly. "She might bruise her ego if no one claps after her performance."
That sealed it. Camilla turned without another word, and the Everharts exited with stiff backs and sharper tempers.
The silence afterward was heavier than their presence.
Melisa sat back down. "Sorry. That was… messy."
"Nonsense," Aunt Eleanor said gently, pulling her into a side hug. "You cleaned house."
Melisa let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She didn't cry—not exactly—but her eyes were suspiciously damp.
Uncle George reached for a biscuit and passed it to her wordlessly.
Comfort, apparently, came in carbs.
Then the butler appeared at the doorway, half-panicked and breathless.
"Sir, Madam—there's… a situation."
He looked hesistated.