My House, My Rules

1
The very first day I met my birth family, I knew my real enemy wasn't the girl who'd taken my place. It was her sycophantic cousin, standing right beside her.
When Sophie, the girl who’d grown up in my stead, was clearing out the master bedroom for me, my cousin Isabelle quietly slipped in and started unpacking her own luggage.
She actually thought I would just swallow that.
“You’ve just arrived, you’re probably not used to it yet. You can stay in my room for now,” she’d said with a saccharine smile.
I walked into the room, grabbed her suitcase, and threw it right out the window.
“Now that I’m back,” I announced, my voice calm but cold, “I’m the one who makes the rules in this house.”
Behind me, Sophie, who had been bullied and pushed around by Isabelle for more than a decade, started weeping. Tears streamed down her face in two thick, dramatic lines. “I knew you’d come,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad I never gave up hope!”
Please. Call me a control freak, I don’t care.
If I was going to run the lives of a family I had no blood ties to, you better believe I was going to run this one.
…
I’ve had this inexplicable urge to control everything around me for as long as I can remember. By the age of three, I was already the tiny, tyrannical matriarch of my household.
My adoptive parents and my two older brothers would just scratch their heads in my presence, always repeating the same mantra: “Chloe’s the smartest one in the family. Whatever Chloe says, goes.”
I remember when I was a kid, I once stormed into my brothers' school brandishing two kitchen knives to take care of the punks who were bullying them. The gossip spread through our small town like wildfire. "The Davises are all so quiet and honest," people would whisper, "but that youngest daughter of theirs is a little terror. You sure she's really theirs?"
Turns out, they were right.
The summer I turned nineteen, I was told my birth parents were the Walters family, from the city of Auburndale. Coincidentally, that’s where I was going to college.
The Walters family called me repeatedly, making up endless excuses to get me to visit. Curiosity finally got the better of me, and I agreed to go see them.
They were well-off, living in a large villa in a gated community, and apparently owned a small company. The day I arrived just so happened to be Mrs. Walters’ birthday, and they were having a small dinner party with relatives.
Before the meal, the guests mingled in small groups. Among the younger crowd, one girl, dolled up to an almost painful degree, caught my eye. She was Isabelle, the daughter of Mr. Walters' younger brother. I couldn't figure out why a cousin, who was neither the birthday girl nor the host, was dressed like a Christmas tree. She fit my stereotype of a schemer perfectly.
And sure enough, it didn't take long for Isabelle to start showing her true colors.
It wasn’t even noon yet, but Sophie had already prepared several hot dishes. She approached me timidly. "Um… I cleaned out the room for you this morning. You can move in whenever you're ready."
She pointed to the largest bedroom on the second floor. I was surprised; the girl who took my place was more sensible than I’d expected.
My gaze shifted from the mountain of plates stacked by the stove to Sophie's hands, which were covered in small burns. "All this food… did you cook it all by yourself? Didn't you guys think of going to a restaurant or hiring a caterer?"
Sophie managed a shy, awkward smile. "Mom and Dad say homemade food is cleaner. And it shows our sincerity to the relatives."
Sincerity? They were making a young girl cook a three-course meal for a dozen people. If they were so sincere, why didn't they lift a finger themselves?
For the first time, I took a proper look at the girl whose life had been switched with mine. Sophie had her dark hair tied back in a low ponytail. She was thin, with a dark complexion, not very tall, with a pear-shaped figure and a round, plain face. I sighed internally. She was a Davis, through and through; she had our family’s face.
Unaware of my thoughts, Sophie said hesitantly, "Chloe… want me to show you to your room?"
I smiled and followed her upstairs.
The moment we opened the door, the color drained from Sophie’s face. The room was filled with someone else’s luggage.
"This isn't my stuff!" she stammered, her voice trembling. "I swear, I emptied the room for you." She was on the verge of tears.
I just watched her calmly. "So, you're saying you've already given this room to me, which means I can do whatever I want with it, right?"
Sophie blinked, then nodded even more vigorously.
With her confirmation, I walked in, picked up the duvet and pillows from the bed, and tossed them out the window into the garden below. Then, as Sophie stared in stunned silence, I picked up a laptop from the desk, snapped the screen back until it cracked, and threw it out the window, too.
Afterward, I turned to Sophie and smiled.
"Don't worry," I said, my eyes crinkling. "I know this isn't your stuff."
"It belongs to your dear cousin, Isabelle."

2
I’d seen Isabelle sneaking upstairs earlier, dragging her bags into the room. She wanted to claim the best bedroom for herself, thinking she could pull a fast one while I was distracted.
I almost laughed out loud.
Just how much had the Walters family spoiled this niece of theirs? Did she really think she was so special that I, the actual daughter, would just roll over and accept this insult?
Sophie looked at the chaos, then back at me, her eyes shining with pure adoration.
I dusted off my hands. "If you really want to thank me, you can help me unpack."
I had only brought a small backpack with some toiletries. The only valuable item was a small aromatherapy diffuser. I have trouble sleeping, and I can't get a wink without it.
Seeing Sophie actually start to reach for my bag, I couldn't help but pat her on the shoulder.
"I'm kidding," I said, my tone softening. "It was just a joke. You don't have to act like a maid."
I gently steered her out of the room and downstairs, intending for her to finally sit down and rest. But the girl was pathologically diligent; she scurried right back into the kitchen. The Davis work ethic was clearly hardwired into our genes.
Honestly, I had come here with a whole playbook of strategies to deal with the "fake daughter." I never expected her to be so… disarmingly simple.
Luckily, my performative cousin, Isabelle, was still flitting about the party, a big, bright sign on her forehead that practically screamed, "Come at me."
Less than ten minutes after I’d disposed of her luggage, I noticed Isabelle heading back upstairs, probably to bring in more of her things. It was only a matter of time before she discovered her belongings scattered across the lawn.
I was curious to see if she would come down and scream at me. That would give me the perfect opening to ask exactly what gave her, a mere cousin, the right to act like the queen of her uncle’s house.
But Isabelle was more cunning than that. She decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. A moment later, my things came crashing down from the second-floor window. Then, she came downstairs and sat right across from me without a word. As our eyes met, she shot me a quick, venomous glare.
The object she’d thrown was my aromatherapy diffuser.
So, later, as she was pouring drinks, she made a point of running her fingers over a glass tumbler and saying to Sophie, "Glass things are just so fragile, aren't they? Next time you go shopping, you should get the plastic kind. They don't break, and they last for years." A command disguised as a suggestion.
And Sophie, bless her meek heart, just replied, "Oh, okay. I'll remember that."
A great-aunt overheard and immediately started fawning over Isabelle. "Isabelle is not only beautiful, but she's so sensible! Already thinking about being thrifty at her age."
Others chimed in.
"I've watched this girl grow up. She's been brilliant since she was a child. Reciting poetry at six, knew her multiplication tables backward and forward at seven."
"I bought her a Lego set once, and she finished it in an afternoon. I knew right then she was going to be successful."
Isabelle’s mother, my Aunt Carol, was a woman whose phoniness was practically an art form. She wrapped an arm around Isabelle's shoulder and feigned humility. "Well, if she were as smart as you all say, she’d be getting a full scholarship to Auburndale University."
I remembered then—the results for the college entrance exams were being released today.
At Aunt Carol's reminder, everyone started predicting that Isabelle was a shoo-in for A.U.
Isabelle smiled demurely. "It's all thanks to Uncle and Aunt's guidance. And, of course, the good Walters family genes."
It was a backhanded slap at Sophie—implying she wasn't smart, wasn't capable, wasn't pretty, and now, that her genes were inferior. Sophie sat in silence through it all, her head bowed so low her chin was practically touching her chest.
And what were her parents—my parents—doing while this was happening?

3
As the relatives anointed Isabelle the shining star of the family, my own father, Mr. Walters, beamed with pride—at his niece. "That's just Isabelle being her brilliant self," he said. "Not like Sophie, who can't seem to do anything right."
The birthday girl herself, Mrs. Walters, added, "Sophie just isn't cut out for academics."
Aunt Carol was positively glowing. She raised her glass. "My dear sister-in-law, Isabelle has lived with you for so many years, eaten your food, been shaped by your wisdom… you’ve raised her into such an outstanding young woman. I’m almost ashamed to call myself her mother."
The other relatives piled on. "It’s true! The clothes Isabelle wears, the school supplies she uses—always the best brands."
"Even after my brother’s family made it big, they never forgot about us poor relatives."
"And my sister-in-law is a senior teacher in the district! She treats Isabelle even better than her own daughter, sparing no expense or effort for her education."
An elder of the family nodded sagely. "He's the head of our generation, after all. He hasn't forgotten his roots."
My birth parents soaked it all in, sitting at the center of the table, trying and failing to suppress their smug smiles.
My suspicions were confirmed. This couple was the type to sacrifice their own child for the sake of appearances, all while patting themselves on the back for their magnanimity. They would bend over backward for a relative just to earn a good reputation.
Isabelle knew them inside and out. That's why she had the audacity to take over my room on the very day I arrived. She knew that even if I made a fuss, they would force me to back down for the sake of their precious public image.
And right on cue, my clueless mother opened her mouth. "I treat Isabelle well because she deserves it," she declared. "Sophie doesn't look good in anything, unlike her cousin."
Isabelle looked absolutely triumphant. Perhaps tired of picking on the ever-passive Sophie, she decided to set a trap for me.
"Chloe has a great figure, too," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You can tell she’s a Walters girl. Now you can wear my old clothes!"
I had to stop myself from laughing. She wanted to fight a control freak for territory?
I asked her, my voice light and casual, "Why would I wear your hand-me-downs? Do you think you're worthy?"
I was the one who controlled others. No one controlled me.
Isabelle froze for a second, then quickly recovered. "Chloe, you just got here, so you don't know. Sophie could never fit into my clothes, but you're much thinner than her."
I set down my chopsticks. "What does my being new here have to do with you offering someone your second-hand clothes?"
"Or are you saying that Sophie, who was raised as their own daughter for nineteen years, isn't even worthy of her cousin's old clothes?"
"But me, the daughter who just walked in the door—I'm just barely worthy enough to receive them?"
Isabelle started to panic. "Chloe, what are you talking about? You're their real daughter!"
"I'm just a guest here, I don't have that kind of power."
"Anyone who didn't know better would think I was bullying my own cousin."
"You're being too sensitive. You're probably just not used to things yet. It's okay, I don't blame you."
When people know they're in the wrong, they resort to playing the victim.
Too bad for her, we control freaks are masters at spinning the narrative.
I folded my hands on the table. "Am I being too sensitive? Or are you, in your own subtle way, trying to lay down the law for me? Telling me that in this house, all the kids have to use your leftovers."
Isabelle shot up from her chair. "Chloe, that's outrageous! I never meant that at all!"
I immediately glanced at the heads of the household, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, whose faces had darkened. They were obsessed with their reputation. The moment they sensed this girl wasn't as docile as they thought, they would start revoking her privileges. For people like them, their public image was more important than anything.
It must be the Walters family's control-freak gene. As a fellow sufferer, I knew exactly how to treat the symptoms.
"Cousin, why are you so angry? Perhaps you should have some soup to cool down."
"We're celebrating a birthday here. Aren't you being a little spoiled, raising your voice at someone else's party? It's almost like you have no respect for the hosts."
"All the relatives were just saying how sensible you are. Don't you think you're making them look bad now?"
After a moment of tense silence, my father, Mr. Walters, finally spoke, his voice tinged with displeasure.
"Isabelle. Chloe just got home. Some things are for the adults to arrange."
At his words, my cousin froze in place. The rest of the relatives, who had just witnessed my verbal assault, stared in stunned silence.
And Sophie… Sophie was looking at me with a newfound reverence.

4
Isabelle didn't dare say another word. The heads of the Walters household were her patrons, after all. Her parents, my uncle and aunt, worked out of town and only came back for holidays, leaving Isabelle entirely in the care of my parents. Their financial situation was significantly worse than that of my birth family.
Originally, Isabelle's plan was to stir up conflict between me and Sophie, then sit back and reap the benefits. She never imagined I could dismantle her scheme with just a few sentences and leave her completely cornered.
My Aunt Carol's eyes darted around, and she quickly came up with a new tactic. "You've misunderstood, brother. Isabelle is just used to being the big sister; she instinctively wants to take care of her younger cousins."
"Isabelle just finished her exams, she'll be off to college in September. She's just going to miss Chloe, that's why she's being a little overbearing."
This family was certainly good at sweet-talking. No wonder they’d managed to convince my parents to dote on their niece instead of their own daughter.
The other relatives quickly jumped in to smooth things over.
"If Isabelle gets into A.U., she won't be able to come home as often."
"Some of her clothes probably won't be suitable for college anyway, so it makes sense she'd want to leave them for her cousins."
"That's right, I haven't even asked yet. Isabelle, what do you think you scored on your exams?"
Isabelle casually brushed her hair back. "Well, in all the practice exams, I was scoring over 600."
A few of the male cousins chimed in, "The exams in our district are notoriously hard. Isabelle definitely broke 650, maybe even 700!"
Isabelle, sensing another opportunity, turned her attention back to me under the guise of concern. "Sophie and I both took the exams this year. We don't need to talk about Sophie's results, but what about you, Chloe? What did you estimate your score to be?"
We don't need to talk about Sophie's results?
Sophie awkwardly stood up. "There are still a few dishes to finish. I'll just go check on the stove."
No one answered her. No one cared about her feelings. Aunt Carol, however, was fixated on my academic performance. She moved her chair closer to mine. "Don't be afraid to say, Chloe. No one will blame you if you're wrong."
One of the cousins added with a smirk, "Yeah, the schools in the countryside don't have many resources. Just doing your best is enough."
Amid their gleeful, expectant gazes, I answered clearly, "Seven hundred and thirty-five."
The table fell silent for a few seconds, then Isabelle let out a sudden, sharp laugh. She quickly apologized, claiming she’d choked on her water.
"I was just so surprised," she said, feigning innocence. "Chloe, honey, I asked for an estimate. Why did you give such a precise number, down to the single digit?"
"Do you have any idea what that score means? You could get into the best program at A.U. with that."
My birth mother, Mrs. Walters, adopted the tone of a seasoned educator. "Don't the teachers in your town ever analyze the admission scores from previous years?"
She was implying my high school teachers were unprofessional, that they couldn't grasp the exam's key concepts and gave their students overly simple tests.
Aunt Carol seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She patted my shoulder. "It's good for young people to have dreams." Then she started offering "advice." "If you're really set on A.U., the Hamiltons' son next door goes there. You can ask him for some pointers; he'll give you a reality check."
Mrs. Walters added, "I just ran into Mr. Hamilton yesterday. He said Ethan just got home."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "The Hamiltons? Are you talking about Ethan Hamilton?"
The moment I said his name, Isabelle's face lit up. "He's a famous e-sports player, on the A.U. team! Do you watch his streams? If you want his autograph, I can get it for you."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Are you two close?"
Isabelle exchanged a look with my parents, then lowered her head and bit her lip coyly. "I guess you could say that. If you want to retake the exams next year to get into A.U., I can ask Ethan to help you study."
I couldn't tell if her little act of blushing modesty was for my benefit or for my parents'.
Aunt Carol leaned in, her eyes glinting with cunning. "Ethan and our Isabelle are practically childhood sweethearts," she whispered conspiratorially. "The Hamiltons are very wealthy, you know. Twenty years ago, they had a chandelier that cost a million dollars. Their son has all the debutantes chasing after him, but he's always preferred to hang out with our Isabelle."
This was a wealthy neighborhood, home to multi-millionaires. The Walters had snagged this villa, one of the least desirable ones in the corner of the development, purely to network with the upper crust. Their own daughter, Sophie, lacked the charm to do so, but their pretty, tall niece Isabelle was a social asset. A single business deal with the Hamiltons could sustain the Walters' company for a year. Of course they preferred the niece who could help them.
In the end, Aunt Carol's bragging about exam scores and the boy next door was all about putting me down. She was terrified her daughter would lose her favored status and the perks that came with it.
To cement her daughter's image as an irresistible siren, she continued, her voice full of pride, "Ethan is such a proud boy; he won't give other girls the time of day. But the moment he sees our Isabelle, it's 'Izzy, Izzy' this and 'Izzy' that. He absolutely adores her."
I closed my eyes for a moment, a slow smile spreading across my face. Then I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Ethan Hamilton.
Heard you have a lot of little "sisters" throwing themselves at you?

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