Branded a Slut, All Because of My Stepsister’s Scheme

The silence in my dorm room felt suffocating, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn't shake off. I sat cross-legged on my narrow bed, staring at the empty space where Mom's belongings used to be—her favorite lavender scarf, the small framed photo of us at my high school graduation, the worn copy of Pride and Prejudice she'd read to me countless times. Everything was gone now, packed away by Dad the day after the funeral like she'd never existed at all.

The afternoon light streaming through the window seemed too bright, too cheerful for the hollow ache that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. Three weeks. It had only been three weeks since Mom died, and already the world felt like it was spinning without me.

The sharp sound of my dorm door slamming open made me jump, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dad stood in the doorway, his face set in that familiar expression of cold irritation that had become his default whenever he looked at me. His expensive suit was perfectly pressed, his graying hair slicked back with the same precision he applied to everything in his life—everything except being a father to me.

"Emily." His voice cut through the room like a blade. "We need to talk."

I scrambled to my feet, smoothing down my worn jeans with trembling hands. "Dad, I—"

"Sit down." He didn't wait for me to comply, instead moving to stand by the window with his back to me, hands clasped behind him like he was addressing a board meeting. "There are going to be some changes at home."

My stomach twisted into knots. Changes? What kind of changes? I perched on the edge of my bed, gripping the faded comforter Mom had bought me when I first moved into the dorms. "What do you mean?"

He turned around, and for a moment, I caught something flickering in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or shame. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Vanessa will be moving into the house. She'll also be transferring here, to your university."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Vanessa. His other daughter. The one he'd had with his secretary while Mom was battling cancer the first time, thinking she might not survive. The daughter he'd kept secret for years until Mom discovered the affair through a credit card statement for a child's birthday party.

"But Dad," I whispered, my voice cracking, "Mom just died. The house—it's still her house. Her things are still—"

"Your mother is gone, Emily." His tone was brutal in its matter-of-factness. "And Vanessa is my daughter too. She deserves a proper home, a proper education. She's been living in that cramped apartment with her mother for too long."

I felt like I was drowning, gasping for air that wouldn't come. "What about me? What about what I deserve?"

His jaw tightened, and I saw that familiar flash of anger that always appeared when I dared