Part 2They Stole My Name, I'll Steal Their Empire

“Chloe! I thought after all these years, you would have grown up, learned some sense. Why must you fight Sloane for Carter?”

Ethan’s anger was predictable. His eyes held a familiar glint of contempt. “I know what you’re thinking. You see the Hayes family name, the money. You think marrying Carter means you’ll be set for life, dripping in luxury.”

He took a step closer. “But you and Carter have no real connection. Nothing like him and Sloane. They grew up together. Why are you so selfishly clinging to this arrangement and making Sloane miserable?”

A dry laugh escaped my lips. “Ethan, you just listed all the reasons the Hayes engagement is so valuable. Why on earth would I give it away?” I stepped toward him, my eyes locked on his. “You’re so worried about Sloane’s pain. What about mine? And another thing—did you ever once stop to ask if I, your actual sister, even like Carter?”

He looked genuinely stunned, sputtering, “You don’t deserve…”

My gaze turned to ice. He stopped himself, a look of shamefaced anger crossing his face as he registered my mocking, knowing expression.

What a joke. We were both daughters of the Donovan family. But when it came to me, the only sentiment was that I didn’t deserve it.

I dropped my eyes, the dust motes dancing on the dark wood floor stinging them. I turned away sharply. “Don’t bother with the room. I’m heading back to campus this afternoon. I have an internship to focus on. I won’t be staying here.”

“Chloe!” he called out as I walked away. “You bullied Sloane in high school. You were the reason she fell into a depression and had to drop out for a semester. Don’t you feel any guilt for what you owe her?”

My feet froze on the top step. A hot, acidic sting filled my eyes.

Bullied her?

It didn’t matter what I said. They would always believe the daughter they had raised, the one they knew.

I walked down the stairs and into the living room. My mother was now fussing over Sloane, feeding her something from a small bowl. She looked up as I approached, her body tensing.

“Chloe, you’re not staying for dinner?”

I stood there, studying the familiar lines of her face, the curve of her brows that mirrored my own. A treacherous flicker of hope ignited in my chest.

“I have to get back to school,” I said. “Internship prep is starting.”

My mother hesitated, a wave of relief washing over her features, followed by something else—guilt, maybe. “About Sloane… well, never mind. You… be safe on the road.”

The silence stretched for a few seconds. I gave a small, self-mocking smile.

“…Okay.”

This house. Eight years ago, or today, it made no difference. I wasn’t welcome here.

Not even by my own mother.

I walked out of the Donovan mansion without a backward glance.

…

On the city bus, my phone buzzed. A text from Ethan.

Chloe, you have to pay back what you owe Sloane. It’s my duty as her brother to see that she gets justice, and my responsibility as your brother to teach you right from wrong.

I stared at the message, then powered my phone off.

Eight years ago, Sloane and her friends had made my life a living hell at school. They’d thrown my textbooks in the trash, cut my hair in the bathroom, put hand sanitizer in my water bottle. After school, they would corner me, tripping me, calling me names, their laughter echoing as I picked myself up off the pavement.

In a strange way, it was almost easier than the group home, with its constant hunger, the casual cruelty of the older kids, and the endless chores. Back then, I didn’t understand what it meant to be the true, lost daughter of the Donovans. All I knew was that my parents and my brother loved the beautiful, delicate Sloane. If I wanted to stay in this beautiful, delicate house, I had to get along with her.

I couldn’t go back to the system. I just couldn’t.

So I told myself to endure it. Just like before. Just endure it, and it will pass.

But Sloane didn’t want to share her home. She switched tactics. She started showing up with mysterious bruises, telling her friends I was hurting her. She paid a shady online clinic for a depression diagnosis and tearfully announced she had to drop out of school because of the trauma.

The rag doll from Carter was the final straw.

She’d ripped it from my hands, her face twisted with a viciousness I’d never seen before. “Why do you get to keep anything from him? You’re a pathetic little stray who should have stayed in the system! Why did you have to come back and try to steal my family?”

For the first time, I hit her. I fought back. For that one doll.

It was the only gift I had received since returning to the Donovans. My home, my name, my brother, my parents—they were all hers now. Why did she have to take this one small thing, too?

That night, Sloane presented my parents with edited security footage from a camera in the hall. It showed one thing, crystal clear: me, striking her.

Her carefully constructed narrative of being bullied, her fabricated depression—it all solidified with that video. I was the villain.

They sent me away to Blackwood Creek. And for eight lonely years, that doll, and the memory of a boy I’d met only once, were the only comforts I had.