I paced the living room with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, jaw tight enough to crack. My head was still ringing from the argument, every word of hers echoing like she hadn't left an hour ago.
Celestia. Always Celestia.
She had to be the center of every storm. The one who got the last word, the one who always knew better. If I said up, she'd argue down—not because she truly believed it, but because in her head she couldn't ever be wrong. And the dramatics—God, the dramatics.
I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to the empty room. "Why do I even put up with this? Why do I let her get under my skin every damn time?"
It wasn't like she'd backed down. No, she never did. Even when she walked out with Duchess cradled in her arms, even when her voice was softer, she was still winning. She always had to have the upper hand. I was tired. Tired of being the bad guy in every argument, tired of feeling like I was the one who had to apologize just to keep the peace.
