THE WRONG SISTER

EMILIA’S POV

I remember when I was ten years old, my father used to warn us never to step into his office.

He said it calmly, like a suggestion.

Like a rule that mattered.

My sister listened. She always did. She nodded, stayed in her room, kept her hands clean and her shoes polished. She learned early that obedience earned safety.

I learned something else.

Curiosity was louder than fear.But I was never obedient and as a child I was always curious.

The office sat at the end of the west wing, separated from the rest of the house like a sealed wound. The hallway leading to it was always empty, always quiet, always colder than the rest of the house. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and dared you to make a sound.

The door was old-fashioned. Solid. Heavy.

But my father underestimated the children. Especially bored ones.

The key was hidden behind the third book on the hallway shelf. Accounting, Volume Two. I didn’t know what accounting was, but I knew the book was never dusted and never moved. I knew how to tilt it just enough to feel the metal catch release behind the wall.

The first time I stole the key, my hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it.

The second time, I was calm.

By the third, it felt like the house itself expected me to do it. And took out one of the spare keys and kept it to myself, so i could lock myself in without any suspicions from father.

Inside, the office smelled like leather, smoke, and something darker, something sharp that sat at the back of your throat. The walls were lined with shelves filled with files I couldn’t read and books no one ever touched. The desk was massive, carved from dark wood, scarred in places like it had survived things it wouldn’t talk about.

I learned where to hide.

Behind the heavy curtains if I needed air. Under one of the desks if voices came too close. Between the filing cabinets where the shadows were thick and forgiving. I could make myself small. Invisible. I was very good at that.

That was where I learned the truth about my father.

Men came into that office angry and left quiet. Some arrived loud and confident and walked out pale, eyes darting, hands shaking as they adjusted their jackets. Names were exchanged like currency. Numbers like weapons.

I learned that my father didn’t just run businesses.

He ran people.

And then there was the name that kept returning, circling every conversation like a vulture.

Don.

The first time I heard it, I didn’t know why my chest tightened.

“Don doesn’t negotiate,” one man said once, voice tight.

“He doesn’t have to,” my father replied. “He wins.”

They spoke about him like he wasn’t a man but a force. Something unavoidable. Something violent and precise.

Cold.

Cruel.

Calculating.

I pressed my ear harder against the desk when I heard the reason his name mattered so much.

“He wants an alliance,” my father said.

Silence followed. The heavy kind.

“And the price?” someone finally asked.

I remember holding my breath. I remember my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it.

“A marriage.”

My fingers curled into the carpet.

Not me. Never me.

“She’s perfect,” another voice said. “Obedient. Quiet. Beautiful.”

My sister.

They talked about her like she wasn’t a person. Like she was land. Territory. A peace offering wrapped in silk and handed over to a man who terrified grown criminals.

I didn’t know what Don looked like then. I didn’t know his age or his face or the sound of his voice. But I knew he wasn’t the kind of man you said no to.

And I knew my sister wouldn’t survive him.

When the meeting ended, I stayed hidden long after the door closed. Long after the echo of footsteps faded. My chest hurt in a way I didn’t understand yet.

That was the first time I realized our lives were already decided.

Years later, nothing has changed except for me.

I grew up in shades of black. I learned to move quietly, speak sharply, and listen more than I talked. My father tried to keep me hidden, out of sight, out of danger.

But you don’t grow up brushing against hell without learning its shape.

I know the rules now. I know the bloodlines. I know the names that still make rooms fall silent.

And I know Don.

Not just as a name whispered behind closed doors but as the man who is supposed to marry my sister.

The man who looks at our family like something he already owns.

The man who doesn’t know yet that I am not obedient.

And if he thinks slipping a ring onto one of us will bring him peace.

He’s about to learn how wrong he is.