Melisa leaned on the balcony rail, watching the scene below like it was some second-rate family drama being staged for public entertainment. Her father stood at the center, face flushed crimson—not from shame, obviously, because that would require self-awareness. No, this was the usual: wounded pride and a bruised ego.
Ah, the joys of family.
"Melisa! Get down here!" he bellowed, his voice booming across the garden.
She didn't move. Just tilted her head and smiled—a lazy, taunting thing. "Why?" she called back. "I already heard everything. But remind me again—why should I be the one apologizing?"
Veins popped on his forehead like they were auditioning for a medical ad. "You know why! Olivia just wanted to talk. And you—you pushed her!"
Melisa's smirk curled wider. "Did I? And of course, she told you that, so naturally, it must be gospel."
"There were witnesses," he snapped. "Stop lying!"
Right. Witnesses. As reliable as Olivia's tears.
She didn't bother pretending to care. "Maybe next time, you should warn your precious daughter not to provoke people—unless she enjoys consequences."
"Y-You—!" He stuttered, choking on the effort to sound fatherly while clearly on the verge of a meltdown.
Melisa waited. And when he said nothing, just sighed and glared, she added, "It's funny. You used to call me gentle. Said I had such a 'sweet' temperament. Guess that was before I realized being sweet only got me shoved into corners."
He scoffed. "You've changed."
She didn't flinch. "Yeah. That tends to happen when you're forced to live someone else's life in their dress, with their name on the invitation card."
"We're your parents, Melisa. We gave you this life—you think you'd be standing there in that villa without us?"
"Oh, absolutely not," she said, smiling coldly. "I'd probably be somewhere peaceful, living a quiet, drama-free existence. Instead, I got this—this circus, courtesy of my loving family."
"Melisa…" Olivia's voice finally chimed in, soft and breathy, like she'd just recovered from fainting in a Jane Austen novel. "I already said I was sorry. What more do you want from me? I'll do anything—just tell me."
Cue the tears—silent, sparkling, and perfectly timed. The Olivia Special.
Melisa turned to her, expression flat. "Anything?" She snorted. "Start with disappearing. I don't need your tears or your rehearsed apologies. They're like bad perfume—cheap, suffocating, and impossible to wash off."
There was a beat of silence. The crowd, ever hungry for drama, leaned in just enough to catch every word.
Of course, Olivia wilted. A true professional. Shoulders hunched, eyes wide, lip trembling—probably rehearsed the look in the mirror for hours.
And then—because she couldn't resist playing Mother Teresa—she added, "If you must hate someone, hate me. But please, don't take it out on our parents. They had no choice."
Ah. The classic guilt-trip. Delivered with all the sincerity of a credit card commercial.
Melisa tilted her head. "No choice?" Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Was it also 'no choice' when you *stole—'"
She didn't even get the word out before Olivia's face drained of color.
"Sister, stop! Please!" Olivia lunged forward, grabbing Melisa's arm like a damsel in a soap opera clutching her last lifeline.
Melisa blinked at her. "Touchy subject?" she murmured. "You afraid I'll tell them what you really did?"
The guests, previously pretending not to eavesdrop, now shifted openly. Their murmurs stirred the air like wind before a storm.
Her father's jaw tensed.
And then—
"What did she steal?"
A new voice cut clean through the tension like a scalpel.
All heads turned.
Leonard.
The crowd parted without a word, instinctively sensing the change in temperature. He didn't rush. Just walked forward slowly, each step measured, gaze sharp.
He looked up—one brief glance at Melisa on the balcony—before turning back to Olivia.
His voice, when it came, was calm and surgical. "You cry a lot," he said. "I wonder—is that a reflex from childhood or just your favorite manipulation technique?"
A few people inhaled sharply. Others tried not to laugh. Melisa said nothing, but oh, she enjoyed it.
Olivia's face crumpled just a touch—not enough to ruin her act, but enough to show the cracks.
"Brother Leo…" she whispered, voice trembling. "Why do you always speak against me? Did Sister… say something to you?"
Leonard didn't even glance at Melisa.
"She doesn't have to," he said, voice dry. "You repeat the same scene so many times, it's practically on a loop."
That did it. A few stifled chuckles broke through. Olivia's shoulders stiffened, hands clutching the fabric of her white dress like she might rip it in half just to change the subject.
Their father stepped in again, clearly rattled. "Leonard, this is our family's issue. It's none of your business."
Leonard raised an eyebrow, bored and unimpressed. "Then maybe try handling it like a family—before it spills out into everyone else's laps."
The words weren't loud, but the weight of them silenced the garden.
Olivia's lashes fluttered, her lower lip catching between her teeth as she tried to summon more pity. It didn't land.
Melisa watched the entire thing from above, not speaking, not smiling. She felt nothing triumphant—just… relief. Because for once, she wasn't the one being dressed up as the villain while someone else cried their way into forgiveness.
For once, someone else had stepped into the spotlight—and peeled off Olivia's mask for everyone to see.
And the best part?
Melisa didn't have to lift a finger.