Chapter 3: Scripting Fate

Back then, Megan had done everything to get herself adopted by the Grants, convinced she’d be the family’s little princess.

She thought she was stepping into a Hallmark movie.

And the bonus? A built-in big brother—Ryan Grant, Oakview High’s golden boy.

Everyone knows that story: the misunderstood rich boy and the sweet orphan girl, living under one roof, forbidden glances turning into something more.

But life isn’t a TV script. Ryan was no Prince Charming. Instead of kindness, he gave Megan nothing but scorn.

"You think you can just waltz in here and play princess? Newsflash: I see right through you. You just want our money, right?"

At home, Ryan made Megan’s life hell. At school, he got his crew to do the same.

The Grants, if they ever noticed, offered only a half-hearted, "Don’t be so rough, Ryan," before vanishing back into their own worlds.

The truth? The Grants never really wanted a daughter. They adopted because some psychic at Mrs. Grant’s book club swore a daughter would bring a decade of luck.

Between their own flesh and blood and an adopted girl, the Grants always chose Ryan.

Oddly, while Ryan ignored Megan, he was always polite—almost gentle—with me, the Sanders’ daughter.

Maybe he saw how I hustled: straight A’s, every scholarship, double shifts as a student and cafeteria helper. My hands smelled like bleach half the time, but I always smiled.

"Chloe Sanders—now there’s a girl with some grit."

It was a cliché: the rebellious rich boy drawn to the girl who’d never had it easy.

In the end, when the Grants died, inheritance lawyers came. Megan got nothing. Ryan made sure of it. Soon after, he married me—at the biggest wedding Oakview had ever seen.

At the altar, he squeezed my hand and declared, "Chloe Sanders, from now on, what’s mine is yours."

But I never got to enjoy any of it. Megan, wild with rage and despair, barreled down Main Street in her car and ended my life with one blinding crash.

Now, Megan didn’t hesitate—she picked the Sanderses.

No riches, but no schemes. Just home-cooked dinners, honest affection, and sitcom reruns on a battered couch. It was the kind of warmth that might catch the eye of a golden boy like Ryan, maybe even give her a shot at her own Cinderella ending.

She grinned at me, a challenge burning in her gaze: "Sis, this time, I’m the heroine. Now you can see what it’s like to walk a mile in my old shoes."