For two years Sienna had treated me like staff — borrowing my things without asking, carrying stories to her mother, mocking my job.

I looked at her, this spoiled, drunk, unhappy young woman, and for the first time I did not feel my usual flare of resentment.

Because I had spent two months learning what her father was, and somewhere in that learning I had started to wonder what it had been like to grow up as his daughter, in this house, under this exact smiling menace, learning young that the family’s image was the only thing that was allowed to matter.

I did not know yet whether Sienna was my enemy or just another person Arthur had shaped.