This Family Runs on Greed and Poison

§01

The ceramic bowl was cold against my fingertips, a chilling contrast to the forced warmth of the grand lounge. Inside, a pale, thick concoction of soaked grains swirled into a virtuous-looking paste, garnished with a single, perfect raspberry that sat like a drop of blood on snow.

“I had the chef make it special for you, Carys.” Brynn’s voice was pure honey, laced with something sharp and unseen, like ground glass. “It’s the resort’s signature overnight grain bowl. Full of nutrients. You’ve been looking so pale lately.”

Her eyes, a shade of blue too bright to be sincere, held mine for a fraction too long, searching for a reaction. I offered a tight, practiced smile, a shield I had perfected over eighteen years. “Thank you, Brynn. That’s… thoughtful of you.”

The air in the Serenity Peak Wellness Retreat was thick with the scent of cedarwood, chlorinated water from the indoor pool, and a suffocating hypocrisy. This was our new family’s first official outing. A carefully curated performance of familial bliss, orchestrated by my father, Mitchell Rhodes, and his new wife, Jocelyn Fairchild.

My stepsister, Brynn Covington, was its star performer.

And my stepbrother, Camden Stratford, was her captivated audience of one.

I lifted the heavy silver spoon. The grains smelled faintly sweet, of vanilla and cinnamon, but underneath, there was another scent. Something earthy and slightly bitter, a phantom aroma I couldn't quite place.

Like almonds left too long in the rain.

I looked across the room. My father was laughing at something Jocelyn had whispered in his ear. Camden was watching Brynn with an amused, predatory stillness.

None of them were looking at me. They never were. I was a ghost at their feast, a relic of a past they were desperate to bulldoze over.

My mother, Annelise Blanchard, would have hated this place. She despised manufactured tranquility. She found her peace in the chaotic energy of the stock market, in the thrill of a hostile takeover.

This resort, with its hushed tones and enforced wellness, was Jocelyn’s territory. It was a reflection of her: beautiful on the surface, sterile and cold underneath.

Taking a deep breath, I scooped a small amount of the grain mixture. The texture was smooth, deceptively pleasant. I raised it to my lips. For a fleeting second, I hesitated. A tiny alarm bell, faint and distant, rang in the back of my mind. I dismissed it as paranoia.

My life was a constant state of low-grade paranoia.

I tasted the lie.

§02

The decision to come to this mountain prison was, of course, not mine. It was a proclamation, delivered by my father a week ago over a dinner that felt more like a corporate board meeting where my vote didn't count.

“It’ll be good for us,” he’d said, his gaze flicking nervously towards Jocelyn, who sat at the head of the table—my mother’s seat. “A chance to bond. To become a real family.”

A real family. The words had echoed in the cavernous dining room of the house my mother had built, each syllable a small desecration of her memory.

A real family wasn't something you could assemble like a piece of IKEA furniture. It was forged in shared history, in unconditional love, in scraped knees and bedtime stories.

We had none of that. We were a collection of strangers bound by a marriage certificate and a mountain of unresolved resentment.

The car ride up to Vermont had been a masterclass in my own invisibility. Brynn had squeezed herself into the middle seat of the SUV, a strategic move that pressed her shoulder against Camden’s arm while physically boxing me against the window. She chattered endlessly about the resort’s five-star rating and its celebrity clientele.

She’d brandished a bag of imported ketchup-flavored chips, a garish red bag that clashed with the car's cream leather interior. “They’re my absolute favorite, Cam. Flown in from Canada. You have to try one.” Her voice was breathy, intimate.

He’d plucked one with an indulgent, predatory smile, his fingers deliberately brushing hers. “Only for you, Brynn.”

I had turned to stare out the window, watching the dense green of the forest blur into an impenetrable wall. It felt like a mirror. A barrier I could see through, but never pass.

For eighteen years, since my mother died and my father remarried, I had lived on the other side of the glass, watching a life that was supposed to be mine.

§03

Later that evening, the carefully constructed family portrait was on full display in the resort’s grand lounge. A fire crackled in a floor-to-ceiling stone hearth, casting flickering shadows on the expensive, uncomfortable furniture.

My father, Jocelyn, Camden, and Brynn were gathered around an antique backgammon board.

Mitchell Rhodes had bought it last month from a Sotheby's auction, loudly proclaiming it a "long-lost family heirloom." It was a lie, a prop to bolster his image as a man of inherited taste, a desperate attempt to erase the fact that he had married into both wealth and power.

He didn't play. He just watched, a proud peacock, his pride swelling as his biological daughter, Brynn, masterfully played the coquette with Jocelyn’s son.

“Oh, you’re too good, Camden! I can never see that many moves ahead,” Brynn would laugh, her voice a tinkling bell as she deliberately left a checker exposed. It was a nauseatingly transparent performance.

Camden, for his part, accepted the flirtation with the cool detachment of a man accustomed to adoration. He would capture her piece, his movements economical and precise. “Strategy takes practice, Brynn. You’ll get there.” His tone was patronizing, yet it made her blush.

Jocelyn, draped in a cashmere shawl the color of old money, would smile knowingly from her armchair. “Let her win a round, darling,” she’d murmur to her son, her eyes glinting with the cold satisfaction of a puppeteer. “Don’t be cruel.”

It was a closed circle. Perfect. Impenetrable. A fortress of four.

I sat on the far side of the room, sketching in my notebook. The charcoals were a comfort, their dusty residue a tangible proof of my existence. I was drawing the fireplace, focusing on the way the light fought against the shadows.

It felt appropriate.

I pretended their existence was nothing more than background noise. I pretended their calculated cruelty—the inside jokes I wasn't privy to, the shared glances that slid right past me—didn’t slice me open, again and again.

That was my role. The quiet, artistic outcast. The ghost of Annelise Blanchard’s first, failed relationship. The living reminder that this "perfect" family was built on a foundation of grief and betrayal.

And they never let me forget it.

§04

A fire ignited in the pit of my stomach.

It was not a slow burn, but a flash flood of searing heat. It coiled like a serpent, hot and vicious, its fangs sinking deep into my viscera.

The taste of bile and bitter almonds flooded my throat, acrid and terrifying. The grand lounge, with its tasteful decor and muted lighting, began to swim. The edges of the room blurred into a nauseous watercolor, the crackling of the fire dissolving into a dull roar in my ears.

I dropped the spoon. It clattered against the ceramic bowl with a sound that seemed deafeningly loud in the sudden silence of my senses.

Brynn’s face swam into focus. Her feigned look of concern was a grotesque parody of sisterly care. “Carys? Are you alright? You’ve gone completely white. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I tried to speak, to form a word, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. My hands flew to my stomach, clutching the epicenter of the pain. The world tilted violently, and the plush, patterned carpet rushed up to meet me.

The next hours were a chaotic montage of fragmented sensations. The rough texture of the carpet against my cheek. The distant, tinny sound of someone shouting my name. The lurching motion of being lifted. The piercing wail of a siren that seemed to be coming from inside my own skull.

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