1
Maya
His gaze burns with the heat of a thousand suns.
I feel it so strongly I get the desperate urge to scratch at the skin his eyes won’t stop mercilessly devouring. At first, I could have sworn his staring actually hurt—it burned bad—but the longer he does it, the more numb my skin grows. Now, only a phantom itch remains. Like scarred, charred tissue that has lost its feeling.
Every breath I take feels like it’s been doused in liquid nitrogen; it freezes my lungs. My heart. My blood.
“Maya, did you know that maple syrup has fewer calories than honey? Maybe you should consider putting it over your pancakes instead. But if I were you, I’d avoid pancakes altogether, sweetheart,” my sister says, her dainty wrist making a weird crackling sound as she moves her fingers through the air.
She talks with her hands. Which, in retrospect, is a good thing, because she’s pumped with so much Botox she no longer has any facial expressions left. The hands help her communicate; it’s really the only way I can tell if she’s being sarcastic or genuinely happy. When she’s happy, her hands move frantically. When she’s sarcastic, they lie completely still on her hips. And when she’s in a bitchy mood? She moves them with elegance. Like a queen putting down a peasant.
I’m the peasant. She’s the queen.
“Right, Graham?” She flutters her thick lashes at her husband.
The husband who is currently eating me alive with his eyes.
As always, he has either completely tuned her out, or he is purposely refusing to answer even though he hears every word. But when he reaches across the table a second later and hands me more honey to pour over my sad plate of oat flourless pancakes, I get my answer.
I give him a small smile—a rarity for me. Usually, I try my absolute hardest to ignore him because he gives me way too much attention for my liking. He looks too much. Touches too often. Meddles too deep.
But no matter how much I dislike my sister, and no matter how much venom and bitterness she throws my way, I would never stoop that low.
That devils-dancing-in-hell level of low.
That burn-in-eternal-fire level of low.
I won’t spread my legs for my sister’s husband. The worst part is knowing that if I did, he wouldn’t say no. And that is the only visible crack in the reflection of my sister’s perfect life—the only flaw in the diamonds showing on every inch of her skin. Her own husband would fuck her sister at the very first opportunity. And she’s completely, blissfully unaware of it. It actually makes me a little sad for her.
I finish squeezing a small pool of honey onto my plate and take a bite, but it doesn’t taste sweet anymore. It tastes bitter, as if my sister’s words managed to poison the food itself.
Watch your calories, Maya. (I am not even remotely overweight.)
You’re far too pale, like a Victorian ghost. (Not everyone can afford to tan in Aruba every month, dear sister.)
Suck your stomach in, Maya. (The pouch there is for protecting my vital organs, Valeria.)
I force down another bite of the pancake, hoping the honey can balance the bitterness flooding my mouth.
Graham is still looking at me.
Why?
He has a beautiful, skinny, plucked and tucked woman sitting right next to him. She has his massive diamond ring resting on her dainty, slender finger. What could I possibly have that she doesn’t?
The answer to that is absolutely nothing.
Which is exactly why his fascination with me confuses me to my core. Valeria was always the most charismatic one. The prettiest. God, even the smartest. It isn’t fair. But at the end of the day, she was my sister, and my love for her always managed to override my jealousy. Until she turned sixteen, and everything changed.
Suddenly, my sister hated me. Despised me. She put me down every single chance she got. She even slept with two of my boyfriends in high school, getting them completely wrapped around her pretty little finger, yet refused to actually date them no matter how much they begged. They were only good enough for her to spread her legs for when they belonged to me; the second I dumped them, they were no longer worth the dirt under her expensive shoes. She’s a man-eater.
Her husband giving me fuck-me-eyes across the breakfast table must be her ultimate karma.
Valeria looks down at her nails, scowling when she notices a microscopic chip in her polish. “My love, I need to go get my nails done. Can I take the Porsche today?”
Graham rolls his eyes carelessly. “Take whatever car you want, Valeria.”
