Actually, visibly combusting from shame—self-immolating right there on the kitchen tile while the rest of us pretended not to notice the human bonfire.
The only thing missing was someone throwing a marshmallow into the flames.
Emma's wheeze graduated to a snort.
One single, traitorous, volcanic snort that detonated in the kitchen like a flashbang laced with pure evil.
The kind of sound that didn't just expose her—it testified against her in court.
Sarah's head whipped up from behind the counter.
Her eyes—wide, wild, absolutely feral with mortification—locked onto her twin with the heat-seeking precision of a woman who had identified the enemy and was prepared to escalate to thermonuclear sibling warfare.
She didn't look like a girl who'd spilled juice.
She looked like a woman who'd spilled her dignity, her sanity, and a good portion of her future inheritance.
"Don't," Sarah hissed. "Don't you DARE—"
"I'm not—" Emma's voice was three octaves too high.
