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Sloane wasn’t surprised Marissa flew first class to Paris while she was crammed into coach, nor that her sister breezed past baggage claim to a waiting limo, leaving Sloane to wrestle with their luggage and find a cab.

It was just another day in the Marissa show, and Sloane was the unpaid stagehand.

By the time Sloane made it to their rental unit, Marissa—well rested due to her seat that could be made up into a bed on the ten-hour flight across the ocean—was ready to go to brunch.

“I just need a couple hours of sleep.” Sloane plopped down on the couch, taking in their home for the next couple of weeks. The chic two-bedroom rental in downtown Paris boasted large floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with natural light and stunning views of the bustling cityscape.

Sloane would’ve loved to just sit there and gaze for a while. Not as much as she would love a nap, but still…

Marissa rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you sleep on the plane? I did.”

“It’s a little more difficult to sleep in a middle seat with strangers on either side of you. Just give me two hours. I’ll never make it clubbing tonight if I don’t get a little rest.”

Marissa hadn’t mentioned clubbing, but Sloane knew it was inevitable, given her sister.

Marissa stuck out her lip in a pout. “I don’t want to waste any of my time in Paris. We only have two weeks. Don’t be selfish, Sloane.” It was all Sloane could do not to laugh at the audacity of that statement as she stared up at her sister in her designer blouse that screamed wealth. “We’re in Paris! You can sleep when you’re dead.”

Sloane took in a breath and let it out slowly, trying to settle her stomach. Jet lag was a real thing, and it wasn’t like she’d had much sleep before their flight either. Marissa had needed her to run a ridiculous number of errands for the past few days.

“I might be dead sooner than you think if you don’t let me sleep.”

“You know what? That’s fine.”

For a fleeting moment, Sloane allowed herself to believe her sister meant it. That without William and Clarice constantly whispering venom into her ear, Marissa might finally be willing to be reasonable. That maybe, just maybe, they could be actual sisters.

She should’ve known better.

“I’ll just call Daddy and tell him this isn’t working out. That you’re not keeping up your end of the bargain. I’m sure he still has Detective Whitman’s number on speed dial.”

A chill ran through Sloane’s veins at the mention of the officer’s name. It had been a long time since anyone had voiced that threat to her face—but even when unspoken, she could always feel it lingering just beneath the surface.

She stood, attempting to shake off her exhaustion. “Maybe I just need a coffee. Like you said, we’re in Paris.”

“Perfect.”

Marissa looked her up and down then started riffling through her suitcase, tossing discarded choices everywhere. Things Sloane would have to pick up and put away later.

Finally, she shoved a dress into Sloane’s hands. “Put this on. You can’t show up looking like some charity case in your thrift-store rejects.”

“I’m fine with what I have,” Sloane said quietly. She wasn’t wearing Marissa’s clothes.

Marissa huffed, exasperated, but let it go. “Just hurry up.”

Sloane pulled her long black hair into a messy bun, splashing some water on her face in the bathroom. She caught sight of her own crystal-blue eyes in the mirror—definitely her most unique feature.

And what Marissa hated most about her. Even when Sloane had shown up at the Getty mansion at just shy of eighteen—homeless, penniless, desperate for enough money to bury her mother—Marissa’s only thought had been how unfair it was that Sloane’s eyes were more striking than hers.

Never mind that Marissa’s eyes were a warm, lovely brown, or that the two of them were near mirror images in every other way. It didn’t matter. Sloane had something Marissa couldn’t steal, couldn’t buy, and couldn’t bear. Something she was convinced was better.

Sloane would have traded their eye colors in a heartbeat if it meant easing Marissa’s simmering resentment. If it meant she could finally be seen as a real member of the family instead of a barely tolerated outsider.

But that was a fantasy as impossible as escaping the reality she’d walked into. How could she have known that showing up on her biological father’s doorstep would feel less like a reunion and more like stepping into a trap? One she’d never escape.

She turned from the sink and, a few minutes later, was following Marissa out the front door. “Do you have a place in mind, or should we look up somewhere to go?”

“We’re going to a café just down the street. Danielle and Courtney are meeting us.” Marissa slipped on her designer jacket as they walked down the narrow side alley. “They happen to be in Paris too. Isn’t that perfect?”

Sloane gritted her teeth. Danielle and Courtney weren’t supposed to be here. She knew them well, Marissa’s two self-absorbed best friends who often encouraged her bad behavior. William would never have approved it, so, of course, Marissa just hadn’t asked. She’d just leave it for Sloane to clean up any messes they made.

As usual.

The café was nestled on a bustling cobblestone street, its wrought-iron chairs and marble-topped tables exuding Parisian charm. Sloane tried to take in the scenery, the romance of it all, but Marissa’s high-pitched laughter kept pulling her attention back.

Marissa, Danielle, and Courtney sat together, their heads close, whispering and giggling. Sloane perched on the edge of her chair, nursing her coffee, feeling like an outsider.

“Oh my God, do you see that skirt?” Courtney sneered, tossing her sleek blonde hair over her shoulder.

Danielle snorted. “It’s like something from a decade ago. Vintage, maybe?”

“Not even,” Marissa chimed in, glancing sideways at Sloane. “That’s just her style. She’s…minimalist.”

The three dissolved into laughter. Sloane’s cheeks burned, but she kept her gaze fixed on her coffee cup. She’d chosen her outfit carefully to travel—a soft cream sweater and a floral skirt—but it couldn’t compare to their tailored dresses and luxury accessories.

“Doesn’t she get tired of looking like she shops in the clearance bin?” Courtney whispered, as if Sloane weren’t sitting right there and couldn’t hear her perfectly.

Sloane gripped the handle of her cup tightly. She wanted to get up and leave, to escape the humiliation, but she couldn’t. As always, she was trapped.

Danielle leaned in toward Marissa. “You’re so patient, Marissa. I don’t know how you put up with her.”

Marissa smirked. “I’ve had years of practice.”

Sloane’s throat tightened, but she kept her expression neutral. She knew better than to react; it only fueled Marissa’s cruelty.

“Oh, speaking of patience,” Danielle said, stirring her cappuccino with a delicate silver spoon. “You won’t believe what my mother had the audacity to say before I left. She actually expects me to spend the summer working at my dad’s office. Like, filing papers or something equally degrading. I told her, ‘Do you know how much therapy that would cost me?’”

Courtney gasped in mock horror. “Ew, like a real job? That’s criminal. I thought your parents loved you.”

“Right?” Danielle rolled her eyes dramatically. “They just don’t understand how exhausting my life already is. I had to book this trip between two galas and that charity brunch I hosted for…what was it again? Oh, right, stray cats or something.”

Marissa leaned back in her chair, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “At least your parents pretend to care about your schedule. Mine are all, ‘You’re so lucky to have time to travel.’ Lucky? I earned this trip. Do they not understand how hard it was to keep my GPA above a 2.0 with everything else I had going on?”

“I still don’t get why your dad made you bring her.” Danielle nodded toward Sloane.

Marissa sighed, exasperated. “Apparently, I can’t be trusted to cross the street without her keeping tabs on me. Daddy dearest is convinced I’ll run off to Ibiza or something.”

Marissa had never told her friends the truth about Sloane’s position in the family. They knew Sloane had shown up destitute five years ago, but they’d assumed the family had taken her in out of the kindness of their hearts.

Not that they considered Sloane a thief and were prepared to send her to prison if she didn’t follow their every whim and demand.

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Would you run off to Ibiza?”

Marissa grinned. “Only if the company was right.”

Courtney giggled. “Well, speaking of distractions, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me last week. Remember Jeremy? The one with the yacht?”

Danielle’s eyes widened. “Yes! What happened with him?”

Courtney smirked, savoring the attention. “So, he flew me out to Miami for the weekend. His yacht? Stunning. His ex-girlfriend? Not stunning. She showed up at the marina and made this whole dramatic scene. I mean, honestly, how insecure can you be? It’s not my fault she wasn’t invited.”

Marissa laughed. “Classic. What did Jeremy do?”

“Oh, he told her to leave, obviously,” Courtney said, inspecting her manicure. “But the best part? She tried to throw her drink at me and missed. Splashed her own dress instead. I just stood there, sipping my rosé, like, ‘Who’s the real winner here?’”

The table erupted in laughter, their voices rising above the gentle hum of the café.

Sloane kept her eyes on the street outside, watching the tourists wander by, doing her best to drown out the chatter.

Marissa sipped her mimosa. “My big news is that I’m focusing on me for the rest of the year. I’ve decided to curate my Paris photos very carefully. There’s this influencer I follow who posts nothing but Paris content, and she has, like, a million followers. If I can replicate her vibe, I could totally hit fifty thousand by the end of the trip.”

Danielle clapped her hands together. “Ooh, yes! You should do a shoot by the Seine. I brought my DSLR—you’ll look amazing.”

Marissa beamed. “Finally, someone who gets it.”

Sloane shrank farther into her chair, wishing she could disappear entirely. This wasn’t the Paris she’d dreamed of—the city of lights, love, and art. It was just another stage for Marissa and her friends to show off, and she was the unwilling audience.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine walking away, wandering the city on her own. She could visit the Louvre, spending hours with the art. Or maybe sit in a quiet park or lose herself in the charm of Montmartre.

“Are you even listening, Sloane?” Marissa’s sharp voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Yes,” Sloane lied, her voice barely audible.

“Good,” Marissa said, giving her a pointed look. “You’re not here to sulk. Try not to ruin the vibe, okay?”

Sloane bit her tongue and nodded, knowing it was easier to stay silent than to fight back.

Marissa grinned at her friends. “Okay, so let’s talk about our clubbing plans for tonight. It’s my very first night in Paris. It has to be perfect.”