Chapter 23 Twisted Lies
*Mia’s POV**
My father hadn’t changed. Not one bit.
He stood in the center of what used to be our living room, every inch the successful businessman in his tailored charcoal suit. The same rigid posture, the same cold eyes, the same air of perpetual disappointment when he looked at me. Only the silver threading his temples binted at the passage of time.
The room itself had transformed completely since my childhood. Mom’s beloved watercolors had been replaced by expensive abstract pieces that Taylor’s mother preferred. The warm, comfortable furniture was gone, exchanged for sleek leather and chrome that matched their sophisticated tastes. Even the air felt different no longer the subtle scent of Mom’s favorite jasmine tea, but something artificial, designer, chosen to impress rather than comfort.
Taylor perched on the arm of Dad’s favorite leather chair, the same chair where Mom used to read me bedtime stories. Her Louboutin heels crossed elegantly at the ankle, her cream designer dress arranged just so. Everything about her calculated for maximum effect.
“The Havers project,” she began, her voice dripping with practiced emotion, “was supposed to be mine.” A perfectly timed pause, a delicate catch in her throat. “Marketing Director. Everything was arranged.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Trust Taylor to spin another elaborate lie. But the familiar rage burning in Dad’s eyes stopped any amusement cold. His jaw clenched in that way it used to right before he’d tear into Mom, right before he’d destroy her with words sharper than knives.
“Really?” I kept my voice level, thinking of Mom surrounded by hospital machinery. Stay calm. Stay focused. “And how exactly did I manage that?”
Taylor’s blood–red lips curved into that practiced pout – the expression that had wrapped Dad, Kyle, everyone around her little finger for years. “Don’t play innocent, Mia.” She leaned forward, diamonds glinting at her throat. “We both know how you operate.”
“How I operate?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue. “Please, enlighten me.”
Dad moved closer, looming over me like he used to when I was fifteen and questioning why Mom’s things were being packed away. “Watch your tone, young lady.”
“Three years.” Taylor rose gracefully, each movement choreographed for maximum impact. “Three years as nothing but a housewife.” Her voice caressed the word like an insult. “Then suddenly you’re chief designer for a major project?” A delicate laugh, sharp as broken glass. “We all know what that means.”
The implication hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. Dad’s face darkened further, that familiar vein pulsing in his temple.
“Is that what you think?” My voice came out soft, dangerous. “That I slept my way into the position?”
“Well…” Taylor traced a manicured finger along the leather chair’s arm. “You certainly didn’t get it on merit. Unless…” Her eyes glittered with malice. “Unless you’ve been doing more than just keeping house these past three years? Maybe with that handsome designer friend of yours?”
The accusation hit exactly where she intended, scraping against raw wounds – my marriage to Kyle, my lost babies, everything still bleeding beneath the surface. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
“Do you ever get tired?” I asked instead.
Taylor blinked, perfect mask slipping just slightly. “What?”
“Of living in lies. Of twisting everything to suit your narrative.” I stepped closer, watching her composure crack just a fraction. Does it exhaust you, Taylor? Always plotting, always manipulating always trying to destroy anything good in my life?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her fingers clutched the chair harder, knuckles whitening beneath perfect polish.
1/2
“Don’t you?” I pressed. “Like you didn’t know what you were doing when you pushed me down those stairs? When you watched me bleed while spinning your lies?”
“That’s enough!” Dad’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. His face flushed dark with fury. “How dare you accuse your
sister-”
“She’s not my sister.” Each word came out razor–sharp, cutting through years of pretense. “She never was. She’s just the girl who helped you destroy my mother’s life. Who’s spent years trying to destroy mine.”
The click of heels on hardwood announced Taylor’s mother’s arrival. She glided in like a cobra, wrapped in expensive silk, perfume overwhelming the air around her. “Still bitter after all these years, Mia?” Her smile was all teeth. “Still can’t accept that your father chose us?”
“Chose you?” I turned to face her, this woman who’d helped tear my family apart. Her perfectly arranged ash–blonde hair, her calculated elegance, everything about her a study in careful manipulation. “Or did you and your precious daughter scheme and manipulate until he had no choice?”
She moved closer, her perfume suffocating. “Your mother knew what she was getting into.” Each word precise, chosen to wound. “She tried to hold onto a man who never loved her. And now look at her – lying in that hospital bed, tubes keeping her alive.” A cruel smile curved her painted lips. “Maybe it’s karma. Maybe this is what happens to women who don’t know their place.”
The sound of my palm connecting with her face cracked through the room like a gunshot. The perfect oval of her face snapped sideways, a red mark blooming on her cheek.
“Don’t you dare.” My voice shook with fury, with years of suppressed rage. “Don’t you dare speak about my mother.”
“You little-” Dad’s hand raised, face contorted with a fury I remembered from childhood nightmares.
I braced myself for the blow, for the familiar pain of his disappointment made physical. But it never came.
A different hand caught his wrist. A voice I knew better than my own cut through the tension like a blade of ice. “Touch her,” Kyle said softly, dangerously, “and I will destroy everything you have.”
