u/HelicopterIll6097

Anyone know of a free link or another name for this novel?

Chapter 1

SAT scores came out. I got 1580. My twin sister barely scraped 950.

But when the acceptance letter from NYU showed up at our house, Mom handed it straight to my sister.

"You two look identical anyway. Your sister's going to NYU in your place."

I stared at her. "WHY?!"

Dad slammed his fist on the table.

"Why? Because when your mom was pregnant, YOU stole all the nutrients from your sister! That's why she's been sick her whole life!"

My brother jumped in with this nasty smirk.

"You owe her. It's just switching colleges. Stop being so dramatic."

Something inside me went cold.

I walked away, found a quiet corner, and called Harvard admissions.

"Hi... Yeah, I'm accepting that early admission spot you've been holding for me."

...

The guy paused, then practically yelled into the phone.

"Wait, seriously? Oh my god, Riley—okay, okay."

"So just to confirm, we're covering everything!"

"Full ride for four years, you pick whatever major you want, free apartment, and we'll help you find a job after you graduate."

I said thanks and hung up.

And just like that, I was alone in the house again.

Then my phone started blowing up.

My brother, Jaxon posted in our massive family group chat:

"Congrats to my baby sister Brooke for crushing the SAT with a 1580! She's headed to NYU this fall!"

Everyone started freaking out.

"Wow, Brooke's incredible. My kid barely got into state school."

"She's really making the family proud!"

Then someone typed: "What about Riley? How'd she do?"

I started typing back, but before I could hit send—

[You have been muted by Jaxon]

Then he answered for me.

"Riley? She got a 950. Barely scraped into community college. Total waste. Don't worry about her."

I actually laughed.

Then Mom and Dad jumped in:

"By the way, we're all driving Brooke to NYU for move-in day. Anyone who wants to come see campus, you're invited!"

"I'm coming!"

"Me too!"

I locked my phone and stared at the wall.

My whole life, they made sure I never looked better than Brooke.

Not once.

Mom and Dad never told anyone about my grades.

And Jaxon? One time he ripped up my honor roll certificate right in front of me and said:

"We don't keep this crap in the house."

But when Brooke won some tiny local art thing?

They framed it and hung it in the living room like it was the Mona Lisa.

So yeah. To everyone else, I was the screwup. No one even questioned it.

I went back to my tiny-ass room and pulled out this old metal box from under my bed.

Inside were all my awards—the ones Jaxon tore up.

I'd taped them back together in secret.

A drop of tear hit the top one and bled through my name.

Brooke's always been sick and fragile, so Mom and Dad spoiled her like crazy.

Please help find!! I found it on one of those subscription sites and it is very expensive.

I had been in the unforgiving heart of Moscow for three long years. Three years of securing weapons routes, negotiating with the Bratva, and surviving assassination attempts so the Vitiello Syndicate could expand its empire. I was the Syndicate��s top negotiator, their most ruthless closer, but to the world��and to the lower-ranking soldiers��I was simply an overseas business associate. I was only allowed to return to New York once a year for a brief summit, always shadowed by guards, always on the clock. This winter, the Moscow routes were finally solidified. The Boss granted me an early leave. I didn't call ahead. I wanted to give my husband, Julian, a surprise. Julian was my anchor. While I waded through blood and ice, he managed our legitimate fronts in the city��the casinos, the real estate. He was the clean face of our dirty money. I bypassed the heavy security downstairs with my override codes. The private elevator hummed as it carried me up to our luxury penthouse in Manhattan. The familiar chime echoed softly as the doors parted. I stepped into the foyer, my dark wool coat smelling of jet fuel and cold wind. I expected the quiet hum of the city below, maybe Julian sitting in his study pouring over ledgers. Instead, the sharp, cheerful sound of a cartoon playing on the massive living room television assaulted my ears. I walked into the living room and froze. Sitting on the custom Italian leather sofa��the one I had personally flown to Milan to select��was a strange woman. She had soft, honey-blonde hair pinned up in a messy bun, wearing a cashmere sweater that looked suspiciously like one of Julian��s. In her arms, she bounced a chubby, dark-haired toddler, no older than two. She looked up, startled by my sudden appearance. For a second, a flash of fear crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a polite, inquiring smile. "Oh, hello," she said, her voice bright and entirely too comfortable. "You must be here for Julian? He just went down to the lobby to grab a package. Did security let you up?" She didn't wait for my answer, adjusting the toddler on her hip. "If it's business, you can leave a message with me. I'll make sure he gets it." Her tone was casual, relaxed. The unmistakable tone of a woman who owned the space she occupied. The tone of the lady of the house. My eyes drifted from her smiling face to the grand marble fireplace behind her. My breath hitched, a cold, sharp blade twisting directly into my chest. Above the mantle, where our wedding portrait had hung for five years, there was a new canvas. A massive, professionally shot family portrait. Julian, standing tall and handsome in a tailored suit, his arms wrapped securely around this blonde woman. She was smiling radiantly, holding the baby boy, and a little girl stood in front of them, holding Julian��s hand. They looked perfect. Neat. Complete. I stared at it for a long, suffocating moment. The blood I had spilled in Russia suddenly felt pointless. All the money I had wired, the sleepless nights, the bullets I had dodged��all of it had paved the way for this perfectly curated lie. I forced the corners of my mouth to curve upward. The smile felt like cracked glass on my face. "I'm his sister." The woman��s eyes widened in genuine delight. She practically leaped up from the sofa, carefully setting the toddler down among a pile of expensive wooden blocks. "Aria? Oh my god, Julian��s sister! Please, sit, sit down!" She rushed forward, gesturing to the armchair. "Julian talks about you all the time! He always says his sister is stuck in Europe managing the family��s old export business. Why didn't you tell us you were coming back?" She moved toward the bar cart, pouring a glass of sparkling water. "He said you were so isolated overseas that it was hard to keep in touch. You didn't even make it to our wedding... we were so bummed." Our wedding. I took the glass she offered, my fingertips turning white from the cold grip. "The house is a bit of a mess, I'm sorry," she continued, entirely oblivious to the lethal stillness radiating from me. She casually kicked a stray toy truck under the coffee table. "With Leo being two, and Mia in preschool, it��s a madhouse." I looked around. My home. The cold, modern aesthetic I had designed had been suffocated by pastel baby mats, family photos, and the overwhelming scent of vanilla and baby powder. Every trace of my existence had been scrubbed clean. "That's Leo?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft. "Yes! He just turned two," she said, beaming with pride as she wiped a bit of drool from the boy's chin. "He's a little terror, just like his father." I nodded slowly, taking a sip of the water. It tasted like ash. She sat across from me, looking at me with the fond affection one reserves for long-lost family. "You know, Aria, Julian really appreciates everything you do. He keeps meticulous track of the money you wire back every month from the European accounts. He says when you finally come home, he��s going to make sure you get your fair share of the profits." My jaw locked so hard my teeth ached. The money I wired back. The millions in laundered syndicate cash and my personal enforcer bonuses. I thought that money was securing our investments, paying off the local politicians, keeping our territory safe. Instead, it was funding his domestic bliss with another woman. There was a knock on the door. It wasn't the main entrance, but the private service elevator. The blonde woman��Clara, I deduced from a piece of mail on the table��stood up cheerfully. "That must be Mrs. Rossi from next door. She baked cookies for the kids," Clara said, walking over to open the door. An older woman stepped in, carrying a tin box. She paused when she saw me, her eyes sweeping over my dark clothes and cold demeanor. "Clara, dear, who is this?" the older woman asked. "This is Julian��s sister, Aria! From Europe!" Clara introduced me with bright enthusiasm. The older woman��s face broke into a wide, knowing smile. She walked over and warmly grasped my free hand. "Oh, the famous sister! The one who sends all the money back! Julian speaks the world of you, dear." She patted my hand, utterly clueless. "I have to tell you, your brother is a saint. A real rarity in this city. He bought Clara that beautiful boutique downtown, he drops the kids off at school every single morning, and he never stays out late drinking or gambling. If my late husband had been half the man Julian is, I would have died a happy woman." Clara blushed, looking down at her hands with a shy smile. "He really is wonderful." The neighbor left shortly after, leaving the cookies on the counter. I slowly turned my gaze to the corner of the room. Sitting on a console table, half-hidden behind a vase of fresh lilies and some framed ultrasound pictures, was an antique silver music box. It was a heavy, ornate piece. It belonged to my father, the former Underboss of the Syndicate. When he was murdered in a rival hit five years ago, I asked Julian to keep it in our bedroom safe. It was the only piece of my father I had left. Clara noticed where I was looking. "Oh, that old thing?" she laughed lightly. "Julian picked it up at an antique auction in Brooklyn. He said the modern decor was too cold, that we needed something with a little history to make the place feel like a real home." An antique auction in Brooklyn. He took my murdered father's most prized possession and gave it to his mistress as a flea-market trinket. I lowered my eyes, staring into my glass. I swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to draw the suppressed pistol strapped to the small of my back. Not yet.