Chapter 25

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

I slammed my apartment door so hard the walls shook. The sound echoed through the empty space, matching the thunder in my heart. My hands shook as I poured myself a drink, spilling expensive whiskey or "Damn you, Camille," I whispered, then screamed it: "DAMN YOU!"

The crystal glass flew from my hand,

shattering against the wall in a spray of amber liquid and broken dreams. Thirty million dollars. The Cedar Hill estate. All of it gone to those worthless foster kids.

My legs gave out and I slid to the kitchen floor, surrounded by the mess I'd made. Just like my life -

everything perfect on the surface, chaos underneath. And now Camille, sweet, stupid Camille, had managed to ruin everything even from the grave.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" I spoke to

the empty air, imagining her ghost watching me fall apart. Little Miss Perfect with her secret fortune. Did you laugh about it? Did you enjoy knowing you had something I didn't?"

I grabbed another glass, hurled it across the room. The crash brought a sick satisfaction.

years I spent

yourself. Making you think you

hair out of place even in my rage. The mask I'd worn for so long it had become my face. With a cry

mirror.

creating

one a different mask I'd worn. The perfect daughter. The loving sister. The secret lover. The hidden

you?" I accused my broken reflection. "That's why you left the money to them. You

hurricane, destroying everything in my path. Ripped designer clothes from their

cracked but didn't

Even my destruction had limits. "I clawed my way out of nothing! I made myself perfect!

Camille at my fashion show launch. Her arm around my waist, both of us sailing.

"I didn't

you. Make you run away. Sign those divorce papers. But you had to be stubborn, didn't you? Had to fight back. And now look what happen The Tome joined the pile of broken glass

the stack of Camille's journals. The

Chapter 25

"I leave with hope rather than malice.' Hope

practicing being the perfect daughter, the perfect sis "You don't know what it's like," I told the journals, my voice breaking. "To have nothing. To be nothing. To know that one wrong move

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