The slap came without warning.
One second I was standing in the hallway outside the ballroom, trying to blend into the wallpaper like I always did, and the next my head whipped to the side so violently I tasted blood on my tongue.
"How dare you!"
Mother's voice cut through the classical music and polite laughter spilling from the party. Her face, perfectly made up, not a single blonde hair out of place, was twisted with a rage I knew all too well.
My cheek burned. My eyes watered. But I didn't cry. I had learned years ago that tears only made it worse.
"I didn't—"
"She pushed me!" Vivienne's voice rang out from behind Mother, high and trembling with theatrical fear. "Mama, she pushed me down the stairs!"
I turned to look past Mother and saw my sister at the base of the grand staircase, about ten feet away. One manicured hand pressed dramatically to her very pregnant belly. Her rose-gold gown, custom Valentino, because only the best for Vivienne, didn't have a single wrinkle. Her chocolate-brown hair still sat in perfect curls around her shoulders.
But her eyes. God, her eyes were gleaming with triumph.
And beside her, steadying her with one hand on her elbow, was Christopher.
My Christopher.
Well. Not mine anymore. Not for seven months now.
"That's not what happened," I said, but my voice cracked. Because I couldn't stop staring at his hand on her arm. At the protective way he angled his body toward her. "I didn't push her. I didn't even touch her."
"Liar!" Mother's hand connected with my other cheek. Harder this time, and my vision blurred. "I saw you! You put your hands on your pregnant sister and shoved her!"
"I didn't! She was blocking the top of the stairs, telling me about—" I stopped myself, but it was too late.
"Telling you what?" Christopher demanded, moving away from Vivienne to step closer. His handsome face, the one I used to trace with my fingers in the dark, was flushed with anger. "That we're having a baby? That's what set you off?"
My pregnant sister.
We're having a baby.
The words made my stomach turn.
"She didn't just tell me," I said, and I hated how my voice shook. How small I sounded. "She was rubbing it in my face. Laughing about how you were sleeping with her the whole time we were together—"
"That's a lie!" Vivienne's voice broke on a sob. "I would never do that! Christopher and I didn't get together until after you two broke up! Tell her, Chris!"
Christopher's jaw tightened, and he wouldn't look at me. "We started dating three months after you and I ended things, Anastasia. Not that it's any of your business."
Three months. But Vivienne was seven months pregnant. I could see it in the swell of her belly, obvious even in the empire waist of her gown.
The math didn't add up, and everyone here was smart enough to know it.
But no one said a word.
"You're lying," I breathed. "She's seven months pregnant, Christopher. We only broke up seven months ago. That means—"
"It means you need to stop making wild accusations," Mother hissed, stepping between us. "Christopher and Vivienne's relationship is none of your concern. What is your concern is the fact that you just assaulted your sister!"
"I didn't touch her! She was standing at the top of the stairs, blocking my way, telling me she was pregnant with Christopher's baby. Telling me they had been together for almost a year. I tried to walk away and she grabbed my arm, got in my face, and when I pulled away from her, she threw herself down the stairs!"
Vivienne let out a wounded gasp. "I grabbed your arm because you looked upset! I was trying to comfort you and you shoved me! I barely caught the railing or I would have fallen all the way down!"
"That's not what happened!"
But the ballroom doors burst open before I could say anything else. Guests flooded into the hallway, society wives in glittering gowns, businessmen in custom tuxedos, all of them drawn by the commotion. They stared at the scene unfolding in the marble corridor.
At Vivienne, clutching her pregnant belly with tears streaming down her perfect face. At Christopher, hovering near her like a protective shield. At Mother, standing between us like she was protecting her real daughter from a monster. At me. The adopted daughter who had just attacked the woman celebrating her twenty-third birthday.
"What's going on?" Father's voice boomed as he pushed through the crowd. His steel-gray hair was perfectly styled, and he looked between us with cold, assessing eyes.
"Anastasia pushed Vivienne down the stairs," Mother announced. "She could have lost the baby, Richard." The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through them like wildfire.
Father's face went hard. "Is this true?"
"No! I didn't—"
"She's jealous," Vivienne whispered, and her voice was so broken, so convincing, that I almost believed her myself. "Ever since Christopher and I got engaged, she has been… saying things. Cruel things. Tonight she confronted me about the baby and when I tried to calm her down, she just… she snapped."
"You're lying," I said, but my voice sounded weak even to my own ears. "You know you're lying."
"Why would I lie about something like this?" Vivienne's eyes welled with fresh tears. "You're my sister. I love you. I just wanted you to be happy for me."
The performance was flawless. Academy Award worthy. And everyone was buying it.
"Always knew there was something wrong with that girl," someone whispered behind me.
"Poor Vivienne. Can you imagine? Your own sister attacking you while you're pregnant?"
"Didn't they used to date? Christopher and Anastasia?"
"For a few months, maybe. Nothing serious. He's clearly much better suited to Vivienne."
"Still, the jealousy must be eating her alive. Especially now that they're expecting…"
"Unhinged. Absolutely unhinged."
The whispers built and built until they were all I could hear.
Christopher had cheated on me with my sister. Got her pregnant while we were still together. And somehow, I was the villain in this story.
This was my life. This had always been my life. For as long as I could remember, I'd been the problem. The mistake. The one who ruined everything just by existing.
When we were kids and something broke, it was my fault. When Vivienne didn't get into her first-choice school, somehow I had sabotaged her. When she wanted the last piece of cake, I was selfish for taking it first.
And when she wanted my boyfriend? Well. Apparently, he was never really mine to begin with.
Christopher and I had dated for two years. Two years of late-night conversations and stolen kisses and promises about the future. He had said he loved me. He had said I was different from other girls.
He had lied.
Because seven months ago, he had sat me down in a coffee shop and told me it wasn't working. That we wanted different things. That he needed space.
I had cried for weeks.
And apparently, the entire time I was mourning our relationship, he had already been with Vivienne. Already building a life with her. Already putting a baby inside her.
"Anastasia." Father's voice cut through my thoughts. It was cold, and filled with disappointment. "Is this true? Did you push your sister?"
I met his eyes, trying to find even a shred of belief there. A hint that he might listen to my side.
There was nothing.
"No," I said quietly. "I didn't."
"She's lying!" Vivienne sobbed.
Father's expression didn't change. "Go to your room. Now. We'll discuss this later."
"But I didn't—"
"Now, Anastasia." Mother's voice dropped to that quiet tone that made my stomach clench. "Before you embarrass this family any further."
This family.
Like I wasn't actually part of it. Like I never was.
"She's pregnant, Richard," Mother continued, turning to Father. "She's carrying Christopher Whitmore's child. The Whitmore family connection we've been cultivating for years. And Anastasia just tried to—" Her voice broke dramatically. "If something had happened to that baby…"
"Nothing's going to happen," Father said firmly, but he was looking at Vivienne with something I had never seen in his eyes when he looked at me.
Concern. Love. Fear.
"I'll call Dr. Morrison to come check on you immediately," he told Vivienne. "And Christopher, please accept our deepest apologies for this… incident."
Incident. Not attack. Not assault.
Because even he knew I hadn't really pushed her.
But it didn't matter. The story was already written. I was already guilty.
"You heard your father," Mother said, turning back to me. "Go."
So I ran.