The house looked smaller than Delaney remembered.
She stood on the porch, bag at her feet, staring at the door she hadn't walked through in two years. The paint was peeling slightly around the frame. The welcome mat was new—cheerful, optimistic, wrong.
Her mother opened the door before Delaney could knock.
They hugged briefly—the kind of hug that fulfilled an obligation without committing to anything deeper. Her mother smelled like lavender soap and coffee, familiar in a way that hurt.
Delaney followed her inside. The living room was exactly as she'd left it—same couch, same photos on the mantle, same clock ticking too loud in the silence. Her father sat in his armchair, newspaper in hand, and nodded at her without getting up.
That was it. That was the reunion.
She carried her bag upstairs to her old room—the one at the end of the hall, the one that still had her debate team trophy on the shelf and her college acceptance letters pinned to the corkboard. She closed the door and sat on the bed that felt too small for who she'd become. Her bruised face stared back at her from the mirror above the dresser—purple and yellow now, fading but still visible.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Amore: *Landing in 3 hours. Will come straight to the house.*
Delaney stared at the message, then set her phone face-down on the nightstand.
Three hours.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster she'd memorized as a teenager.
Amore arrived exactly when she said she would.
Delaney heard the car pull up from her room—the door closing with expensive precision, the measured click of heels on the walkway. She went to the window and looked down.
Her sister stood on the porch, adjusting her coat; long, tailored, the kind that cost more than Delaney made in a month. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, makeup perfect, posture impeccable. She looked like a diplomat's wife. Like someone who had never struggled a day in her life.
Delaney hated her immediately.
Then she noticed the boy.
He stood slightly behind Amore, small for what looked like maybe a tween, wearing a too-big jacket and clutching a stuffed animal that had seen better days. His dark hair was neatly combed but his eyes, his eyes were old. Tired. Watching.
Delaney's stomach dropped.
She went downstairs as her mother opened the door.
Amore stepped inside, all grace and controlled emotion. She moved to hug their mother, but the embrace was brief, almost formal. Like colleagues greeting at a conference.
Their mother stepped back, eyes moving to the boy.
The words were clipped, professional. Stating a fact.
Their mother's expression didn't change much; a slight tightening around her eyes, a careful neutrality settling over her features.
She didn't crouch down to greet Victor. Didn't offer warmth or cookies or grandmother affection. Just stepped aside to let them enter, already turning back toward the kitchen.
Not "welcome home." Not "I'm so glad you're here." Just logistics.
Delaney watched from the stairs as Amore's professional facade flickered—just for a second—before settling back into place.
Then Amore turned and saw Delaney.
The sisters stared at each other for a long moment. Amore's smile was thin, controlled.
Amore's smile tightened.
Their mother had already disappeared into the kitchen—not fleeing, exactly, but not engaging either. The sounds of dishes being arranged, water running. Busy work.
Their father remained in his study, door closed.
It was just the three of them now—Delaney, Amore, and the silent boy between them.
Amore's mask slipped.
The diplomat's wife posture sagged slightly. She sat on the couch, suddenly looking less polished, more exhausted. Victor stood beside her, still clutching his stuffed animal.
Delaney crossed her arms.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Amore's jaw tightened.
Delaney stared at her. At this perfect, polished woman who'd always had everything figured out, now falling apart on their mother's couch.
Then she looked at Victor.
The boy was watching both of them, his expression carefully blank. But his knuckles were white where he gripped the stuffed animal.
Amore froze.
Amore's face went pale.
Silence.
Amore looked away, jaw trembling.
Amore's hands covered her face. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled.
Delaney felt something twist in her chest. Something that felt uncomfortably like pity.
She looked at Victor again. The boy was still watching, still silent. Still performing that careful blankness she recognized now as survival.
Their mother returned from the kitchen with a tray—tea, some crackers, arranged with mechanical precision. She set it down without comment, her expression neutral.
Their mother nodded and left again. Not offering comfort. Not asking questions. Just... present but absent.
Victor took a cracker when Amore gestured to him but didn't eat it. Just held it, staring at it like he wasn't sure what to do.
Delaney's phone buzzed. She pulled it out—another update from Marshall, another photo of Elena.
She was about to respond when she noticed Victor's reaction.
The boy had gone rigid. His eyes locked on the phone in her hand, wide and alert. And then, almost instinctively, his expression changed. His head tilted slightly. His mouth pulled into a small, practiced smile—stiff, robotic, wrong.
The influencer pose. The camera-ready expression he'd been trained to produce on command.
Delaney's breath caught.
She lowered the phone slowly. Victor's smile faded immediately, his face going blank again.
Delaney had spent her entire career hunting for truth, exposing lies, pulling back curtains to reveal what people were hiding.
But looking at this child—this boy who'd been filmed, documented, turned into content for strangers to consume—she realized her sister had spent years filming a lie.
And now that lie was standing in their mother's living room, holding a cracker he didn't know he was allowed to eat, waiting for the next command.
Delaney looked at her sister. At the desperation. At the exhaustion beneath the expensive coat and perfect makeup.
Then she looked at Victor.
The boy was watching her now, those old eyes waiting, calculating, trying to figure out what she wanted from him.
And Delaney thought about The Fighter. About Elena. About the surveillance, the documentation, the invasion.
About how she'd built a career doing exactly what Amore had done—turning people into stories, into content, into things to be consumed.
The hypocrisy burned in her throat like acid.
Amore exhaled, relief flooding her face.
Amore nodded quickly.
Delaney turned and walked back upstairs to her room, closing the door behind her.
She sat on the bed, phone still in her hand, and stared at Marshall's latest update.
Then she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Bruised face. Tired eyes. A journalist who'd spent months hunting someone for being fake while her own sister had been running a con that used a child as its centerpiece.
And now that child was downstairs, trained to smile for cameras, unable to speak, discarded the moment he stopped being profitable.
Delaney set her phone face-down on the nightstand.
Downstairs, she could hear Amore's voice—quiet, controlled, explaining something to their mother in that professional tone that revealed nothing.
And their mother's response—measured, distant, performing her own version of family.
And somewhere in that performance, a silent boy held a cracker he didn't know he could eat.
Waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.