After His Sister Pushed Me Down the Stairs

The invitation arrived on embossed cardstock, Nevaeh's elegant script flowing across the page: "Welcome to the Family Tea Party."

I traced my finger over the raised letters, suspicion gnawing at me. Nevaeh Hughes had never welcomed me to anything in our entire lives.

"She's probably poisoning the tea," I joked to Quentin over breakfast.

He didn't smile. "She insisted on hosting this. It would look strange if you didn't attend."

So I went, armed with my best smile and a dress that matched the pale blue theme Nevaeh had selected.

The Hughes mansion's sunroom had been transformed into a pastel wonderland. Nevaeh greeted me with air kisses that never touched my skin.

"Laura, darling! You look... comfortable," she said, her eyes flickering over my designer outfit with calculated disdain.

She guided me to a seat surrounded by women I recognized from charity boards and society pages—all Nevaeh's loyalists.

"Special blend," Nevaeh said, pouring tea from a silver pot. "Just for you."

I took a cautious sip. The tea tasted strange—bitter with an underlying sweetness that wasn't quite right.

"Drink up," Nevaeh urged, her smile too wide. "It's an ancient family recipe."

As the conversation flowed around me, the room began to tilt slightly. Colors seemed too bright, sounds too sharp.

"Are you feeling alright?" Nevaeh asked loudly, drawing everyone's attention. "You look flushed."

"I'm fine," I insisted, though my tongue felt thick.

Nevaeh clapped her hands. "Let's play a game! We've hidden a special prize—a family heirloom."

The women scattered, searching for the "prize." I remained seated, fighting the strange sensation that my limbs were disconnected from my body.

"Found it!" A woman's voice rang out. "In Laura's purse!"

They gathered around as she pulled out a diamond bracelet I'd never seen before.

"That's not mine," I said, but my words slurred.

"Oh, Laura," Nevaeh's voice dripped with false concern. "Stealing is such a terrible habit."

Before I could defend myself, Quentin appeared in the doorway. His expression was unreadable as he surveyed the scene.

"Security footage," he said coldly, holding up his phone. "Interesting viewing."

Nevaeh's smile faltered. "What?"

"The cameras I installed last month. They captured everything—including you planting the bracelet."

The room fell silent.

---

Two months later, I stood in a boutique, surrounded by wedding dresses. Though Quentin hadn't proposed yet, I was already dreaming.

"This one makes me look like a whale," I complained, emerging from the dressing room in a gown with too much fabric.

The room spun suddenly. I grabbed the mirror to steady myself.

"Miss? Are you alright?" The attendant's voice sounded distant.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting down, a cool cloth on my forehead.

"I've called a doctor," the manager said. "You fainted."

Quentin arrived within minutes, his face pale with worry.

"She's pregnant," the doctor announced later. "About eight weeks along."

I stared at him in disbelief. "That's impossible."

"These tests are quite accurate, Ms. Carlson."

I turned to Quentin, whose expression had shifted from shock to something softer.

"A baby," I whispered, tears filling my eyes. "Our baby."

---

The nursery would be pink and gold, I decided. Or maybe yellow—gender neutral until we knew. I spent days planning, imagining Quentin's face when I told him properly, over a romantic dinner I was planning for Friday.

And Nevaeh—she would have to accept this. For the sake of being an aunt.

I wrote her a letter, pouring my heart onto the page:

*Nevaeh,*

*Despite everything between us, I believe this child can heal old wounds. I'm asking for a truce—not for me, but for your niece or nephew...*

---

I found her on the second-floor landing of the Hughes mansion, staring out the window.

"Nevaeh," I called softly. "I need to speak with you."

She turned, her eyes cold. "What is it?"

I held out the letter. "I think it's time we tried to get along."

She took it, her perfectly manicured nails tearing the envelope open. As she read, something changed in her face—a mask slipping away.

"A truce?" she laughed, the sound high and brittle. "You think I want to be aunt to your brat?"

"What?"

"I've loved him since we were children," she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Quentin has always been mine."

The realization hit me like ice water. "That's sick. He's your brother."

"He will never be a father to your mongrel," she sneered.

I backed away, horrified. "I'm leaving."

As I turned, her hand shot out, shoving me hard between my shoulder blades.

I felt myself falling backward, arms windmilling uselessly. My other hand clutched instinctively at my stomach.

The marble steps rushed up to meet me.

Pain exploded through my body as I tumbled down the staircase. Each impact drove the breath from my lungs.

As darkness closed in, I saw Nevaeh standing at the top of the stairs, a smile playing on her lips.

The last thing I heard was her soft voice: "Goodbye, Laura."