Amber
"Sloan, I think I should slow down."
My knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as I glanced sideways at my sister. She was drunk, again.
"Why?" she giggled, her head hanging halfway out the window, hair whipping like loose ribbon in the wind.
In the backseat, five-year-old Ayvah snored softly, curled under a blanket. I eased my foot off the gas.
Sloan flopped back into her seat with a huff. "What the fuck, Amber? I told you to go fast, didn't I?"
"Ayvah's in the backseat, Sloan," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the road. "I'm not risking her life just because you want to feel alive."
"You're such a damn buzzkill," she muttered, rolling her eyes and taking another swig from the bottle.
We were always like this. Sloan, reckless and adored by Mama. Me, cautious and Papa's quiet shadow. Rose and I got along just fine. But Sloan? She needed the spotlight. And when she married Pariston Hemsworth, yes, that Pariston, our silent rivalry carved into something deeper.
I used to have the kind of crush on him that made your heart ache in silence. Watching him at charity galas, listening to him speak at business events. I knew he'd never be mine. But I didn't think he'd belong to her.
"Give me that," Sloan slurred, lunging for the wheel.
"Sloan!" I yelled, trying to bat her hands away.
"I'll drive!" she screamed, yanking hard.
"Ayvah is with us!" I shouted, wrestling for control.
The tires screamed before the world tipped sideways. Metal groaned. Glass exploded. Pain bloomed. Blood. Screams. Darkness.
"Paaa!"
Ayvah's cry sliced through the silence.
"Ayvah!" I screamed, thrashing awake.
I jolted upright with a gasp, drenched in sweat, heart racing like a war drum inside my chest. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.
No shattered glass. No blood. No screams.
Just silk sheets. Polished floors. Shadows.
Pariston's room.
It was just a nightmare.
Except, it wasn't. It was a memory.
My hands trembled as I touched my face, as if trying to convince myself that I was still here,that I had survived.
They hadn't.
Sloan.
Ayvah.
Gone.
Because of me.
I gripped the edge of the bed, willing my pulse to settle, but it only got worse when I heard his voice.
"Had a good sleep?"
I flinched, "Papa!"
Pariston sat on the leather armchair near the window, dressed in his usual tailored suit, a newspaper folded on his lap. His dark eyes flicked toward me, calm and unreadable.
"Dinner in five minutes," he said simply. Then he stood, buttoned his blazer, and walked out.
That was it. No emotion. No confrontation. No comfort. Not even anger.
I stared at the empty doorway long after he left. I expected fury from him, accusations for ruining his life. But he is calm?
Maybe he was trying. Maybe we could find a way through this.
Maybe.
I slid out of bed slowly and took a cold shower, trying to wash off the dream, the shame clinging to my skin like a second layer. I pulled on a simple white dress and pinned my damp hair back before heading downstairs.
The dining room was already full when I entered. No one looked up as I stepped in. No one offered me a smile or even a greeting. I took the empty seat beside Pariston quietly, keeping my head down.
The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the soft clinks of cutlery.
"She always used to make her pasta with extra cheese," his mother suddenly said, placing her fork down with a sigh. "Ayvah wouldn't eat anyone else's cooking."
"She got that from Sloan," his father added with a smile, the first one I'd seen on his face since I arrived. "She was such a wonderful mother. Always so attentive. So elegant."
"She'd never have let Ayvah stay up so late," his mother said, glancing toward me for the briefest second. "Or get into a car so late at night. Sloan was careful." The jab was subtle, yet heavy enough to crush my chest.
Pariston said nothing. Just chewed quietly, eyes focused on his plate.
"I still remember Ayvah's fifth birthday," his father mused, looking off into memory. "Sloan organized everything herself. Didn't leave a single detail untouched."
"She would've made a brilliant political wife," his mother said, placing her napkin neatly on her lap. "She had poise. Grace. People loved her."
And I was the shadow trailing behind her. The afterthought.
The replacement.
My fingers tightened around the edge of my napkin. I didn't look up. I didn't speak. I just listened to their praise, each word a reminder of what they lost, and what I could never be.
What I stole.
"I hope you understand," his mother continued smoothly, her voice now directed at me, "you have very large shoes to fill."
I nodded stiffly, my throat burning. "Yes, ma'am." She hummed, unsatisfied.
Pariston set his fork down, the sound sharp in the stillness.
"Let's go, Amber."
I glanced at him, there was no warmth in his gaze. No anger either, as if he is just fulfilling a necessity.
I stood, silently, pushing my chair back. As we left the dining room, I could still hear his mother sighing softly behind me, almost mournfully.
"She was everything a man could want in a wife," she whispered.
And I? I was the woman who took it all away.