Vicky stopped by the shopping centre after work. The head accountant’s anniversary was coming up, and her team had asked her to pick out a gift. She’d found a few options, snapped pictures on her phone, and planned to show her colleagues the next day so they could decide together. As she stepped onto the escalator heading down to the ground floor, she just wanted to get outside—away from the crowds and noise.
“Vicky?!” a woman’s voice suddenly called out.
She turned her head left, scanning the faces of people riding up, but didn’t recognise anyone.
“Vicky!” the voice came again.
This time, she glanced back and spotted a girl with fiery red hair trying to push her way down the ascending steps.
“Wait for me at the bottom, don’t leave!” the girl shouted.
Vicky stepped off and waited. The shock of red hair disappeared at the top of the escalator for a second before rushing back down as the girl sprinted, bumping into people along the way. The bright colour made it hard to focus on her face.
“Emma!” Vicky exclaimed when she finally recognised her stepsister.
“That’s me. Surprised? I’ve been wandering around town hoping I’d bump into you. Knew it’d happen eventually. There’s a café downstairs—let’s sit.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks already. So glad I found you,” Emma said earnestly.
They picked a table, and Vicky studied her. The bright red hair, clumpy mascara making her lashes stick out like pine needles, red lipstick matching her hair. Her delicate features made her look doll-like, almost cartoonish.
Emma was only four years younger, around twenty, but her skinniness and outfit—pleated miniskirt, black knee-high socks over tights, chunky white trainers, cropped denim jacket over a pink crop top—made her seem like a teen.
Vicky noticed people staring.
“You look amazing,” Emma said just as the waitress dropped off menus. Emma immediately buried herself in it, ordering pizza, cake, and coffee while Vicky just went for a latte.
“God, I’m starving. Lucky you—you can eat anything and stay slim. I’m always stuck on some awful diet,” Emma sighed.
“Really?” Vicky raised a sceptical brow. Emma had always been tiny.
“You haven’t seen my mum. She weighed a tonne, no joke. No wonder Dad left. You got the good genes, though. D’you think they do beer here?”
“Ask, but I won’t—I’m driving,” Vicky said.
“You’ve got a car? Fancy! Hey, any jobs going at your place? I’ve been here two weeks and still haven’t found work.”
“How’ve you been managing?”
“Robbed Dad,” Emma giggled. “He’d’ve drunk it all anyway. After you left, he started really hitting the bottle, got sacked, scraped by on odd jobs. Then he shacked up with some dinner lady who smuggled food from work. Total disaster.”
Vicky listened, stunned—though she shouldn’t have been. She’d never liked Emma’s dad. When Mum brought him home, she’d said Vicky was just jealous. Then came Emma. Vicky was in Year 11, prepping for uni.
They’d clashed immediately. Emma took Vicky’s things without asking, ruined clothes. Mum defended her: “You’ve got loads, don’t be selfish—Emma grew up without a mum.” Vicky knew Mum just wanted peace, but it still hurt. Then came the diagnosis. Four months later, she was gone.
Emma’s dad expected Vicky to work straight after school, but she fled to the city. She’d been skimming from grocery money since before Mum died. Got into uni, lived in halls, worked evenings at FastBite. Graduated, landed a decent job, saved like mad, and bought a flat within a year. She’d met Daniel at work—he’d helped her get a used car six months back.
“What qualifications do you have?” Vicky asked, snapping back.
“Seriously? Like I had time for school. Worked at a corner shop. Dad lost it completely—got fired. You think I’d stick around? He’s shacked up with another drunk now. No future back there.”
Vicky smirked. Yeah, a shop girl didn’t have many prospects.
“What job d’you think you could do?”
“I’d make a great secretary. Your boss young?”
“Not really, and married, with a secretary already.”
“Shame. Not doing cleaning, though,” Emma said, eyes lighting up as the pizza arrived.
“If you need cash, does it matter if you’re filing papers or mopping?” Vicky lied. “I’ll ask around.” No way was she getting Emma a job there.
“Got a bloke, then?” Emma eyed her ringless hand.
“Not married, but been with Daniel two years. Planning to wed.” A lie. They’d dated two years but never lived together—Daniel’s mum was ill, and he wouldn’t burden Vicky with her care.
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Thought you were smart. If he hasn’t proposed in a year, he won’t. It’s now or never.”
“Where’d you get that wisdom?” Vicky scoffed, glancing at her ring.
“His?” Emma smirked. “Tiny.”
Vicky flushed. Emma loved big, gaudy things—but Vicky adored the delicate band with its small diamond. Daniel had gotten it in Amsterdam, matching studs too. At work, colleagues always complimented them. Wasn’t that love?
“It’s a diamond,” she muttered.
“So he’s loaded?” Emma paused mid-bite.
“Not at all. He just loves me.”
Emma gave her a weird look, then dropped her gaze.
“You? Got someone?”
“Looking. Lived with one…” She sighed. “I want someone rich—flat, car, the lot.”
Ah. That’s why Emma came. Husband-hunting. Good luck in that get-up.
Vicky finished her coffee, eager to leave but knowing Emma wouldn’t let her.
“Gotta go.” She signalled for the bill—Emma didn’t offer to split.
“You’ll ask about the job?”
“Yeah.” Vicky stood.
They walked out together.
—
Vicky and Mum had lived alone after Dad left. Then came Emma’s dad. Vicky never trusted him. When Mum got sick, she blamed them—but the doctors said it was advanced cancer.
Emma’s dad started drinking. Somehow, Emma never found Vicky’s hidden cash—money that got her out. Memories blurred as they reached the car.
“Vicky… you rent, yeah?”
“No, bought a mortgage.”
“Wow. Can I crash with you? Just till I find work.”
“Where’ve you been staying?”
“Mate’s place.” Emma looked away. “Need out.”
Vicky hesitated. Letting Emma in meant no more Daniel over. Emma pulled a sad-puppy face. Vicky caved.
“Fine.”
Emma beamed, darting into the passenger seat.
“One-bed flat. Sofa-bed in the kitchen. Cool?”
“Perfect.”
For two weeks, Emma lazed around while Vicky worked, then vanished evenings—coming home reeking of smoke and booze. “Clubbing for blokes,” Vicky guessed.
“Any luck job-hunting?” Vicky finally asked.
“Was gonna ask you,” Emma retorted.
“Only cleaning going.”
“Bored of me?”
“No, but I like my space. Got clubbing cash—can’t you rent?”
“Blokes pay for me.”
“No surprise.”
Daniel asked when Emma was leaving. They’d sneak around, but it was awkward with his mum next door. Vicky complained Emma was mooching—then found a stain on her favourite dress. Emma swore she hadn’t worn it. Liar.
“Could work at FastBite like I did.”
“Let me talk to her,” Daniel offered.
One evening, the doorbell rang. Emma beat Vicky to it, dressed in tiny shorts and a tight top.
“Wow,” Daniel said.
Emma instantly flirted—brushing against him at dinner. Vicky stormed off. Later, a shriek sent her running back.
“Enough. Not interested. Done leeching off Vicky? Plenty of jobs—you just don’t want one. Or a bloke who’d fall for this.” Daniel gripped her wrists.
“Ow! Let go!” Emma whimpered.
“What’s—” Vicky froze in the doorway.
“He attacked me!” Emma cried.
“Shut it. You came onto me. Out by tomorrow, or I’ll bin your stuff myself.” He shoved her away.
Emma fled. They heard her rummaging.
“Don’t follow her,” Daniel said.
She reappeared with two bags—arrived with one.
“Keys,” Daniel demanded.
Emma slammed the door.
“Where’ll she go?” Vicky fretted.
A year later, Vicky and Daniel married quietly, and though she sometimes wondered where Emma ended up, she knew some chapters were better left unread.
