Part 2The Fiancée Who Picked the Wrong Family

And just like that, Sophia moved in.

Ostensibly, it was to “get to know the family better” before the wedding.

After dinner one evening, I was curled up in my attic loft, reading a graphic novel.

I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by Sophia’s voice, deliberately softened to a breathy whisper.

“Ethan, look at Mia’s loft! It’s so romantic. With that huge skylight, you must be able to see all the stars at night.”

I didn’t even lift my head.

Ethan’s voice was laced with a smile. “Yeah, Mia’s loved this space since she was a kid.”

“It’s amazing,” Sophia breathed, her tone full of longing. “Ethan, what do you think about us turning this into our own little private space after we’re married? We could make it a cozy reading nook or a home theater. It would be so romantic!”

Ethan paused. “But… this is Mia’s room.”

Sophia ignored him.

The footsteps continued up the stairs. Her face appeared in the doorway, plastered with that impeccably considerate smile.

“Mia, honey. Reading?”

She walked in, her gaze sweeping greedily across the photos and books lining my walls, finally settling on the glass skylight above.

She turned back to me, her voice practically dripping honey.

“Mia, sweetie, I was just thinking. It must be so inconvenient for you, living all the way up here in the attic, having to go up and down these stairs all the time.”

“The guest room downstairs is so much bigger and more accessible. Why don’t you let me… look after the loft for you? I promise I’ll keep it spotless. You can move into the guest room, and your parents won’t have to worry about you getting tired from the stairs.”

If you want to steal my room, just say so. Why wrap it in a pretty little bow?

I finally looked up from my book.

“No, thanks, Sophia.”

The smile on her face froze for a fraction of a second.

I blinked innocently. “This is my room. I’ve lived up here for over a decade. I don’t find it inconvenient at all.”

Then, as if a brilliant idea had just struck me, I raised my voice just enough to carry down the stairs.

“Sophia, is there something wrong with the guest room? Is the mattress too hard? Is the Wi-Fi signal bad?”

I paused, then offered my most helpful suggestion.

“You can just tell Maria, you know. She can get you a new mattress, or we can get a signal booster. Oh, I know!”

I swiveled toward the top of the stairs, yelling down to my dad, who was reading the paper in the living room.

“Dad! I think Sophia hates the guest room and wants my loft! Maybe you can build her a new little cottage in the garden? Make sure it has a skylight!”