After My Sister Died, I Went Insane for Revenge

Thinking of their howls—writhing in the flames, begging for mercy—I smiled.

Silently. Coldly.

Finally, I was home.

Just as I stepped onto the threshold, the sharp point of Jessie’s high heel pressed against the doorframe, blocking my way.

“Caitlin,” she said sweetly, “you’re filthy. You should wash up in the yard before coming inside.”

Her voice was gentle, almost soft. But her eyes—those eyes—gleamed with venom.

“The backyard faucet still works,” she added, smiling. “I’ll ask someone to help you.”

It was winter. The water outside was bone-deep cold.

If I used that icy pipe, I’d surely fall sick.

I turned to Preston, silently pleading—but he didn’t even glance at me.

“Clean up before you come in,” he said flatly and walked inside.

The door slammed shut behind him. I was locked out.

I crouched in front of the rusted faucet, fingers trembling, soaked in frostbite before a drop even touched me.

Three bodyguards surrounded me—the same men who had slapped my sister at the wedding.

One unscrewed the fire hydrant nozzle and smirked. “Madam, don’t take it personally.”

The leader licked his lips. The pressurized water shot out, icy and merciless, drilling straight down my collar.

“The lady told us to scrub every crevice clean,” he chuckled darkly.

From the second floor window, Jessie’s shadow loomed behind the curtain.

When Preston passed by, she snapped it shut.

I wiped the water from my eyes.

And smiled.

When I stepped into the house, hair dripping and clothes soaked, there were three new "fountain sculptures" frozen in grotesque poses in the yard—bloated, unconscious, and bruised like swollen hogs.

Preston frowned, then surprisingly wrapped a towel gently around my wet hair.

“Why did it take you so long to wash?” he asked, almost kindly.

“I only told you to rinse your feet.”

He slid a bowl of chicken soup across the table. Steam curled upward.

“I had the kitchen make it specially. Go change first—drink it while it’s hot.”

I nodded faintly and went upstairs to change.

When I returned, Jessie greeted me with a saccharine smile and a bowl of soup in her hands.

She leaned forward. “Here, Caitlin, let me serve you—”

But in the next moment, scalding soup poured down my front.

“Ah!” Jessie cried, dropping the bowl theatrically. “Caitlin! I was trying to help, and you splashed me! You burned me on purpose!”

She clutched her perfectly untouched hand to her chest.

“I know you don’t like me, but Preston— I won’t come back again! Clearly, I don’t belong here!”

Preston rushed to her side, seizing her uninjured hand with trembling tenderness.

He didn’t spare a glance at me—or the blistering burn swelling on the back of my own hand.

Instead, he turned and snapped, “Caitlin! Apologize to Jessie!”

Something inside me cracked.

So this is how they repay sincerity?

This is how they treat a sister?

I stormed to the front door.

With a sharp beep, I locked the villa from the inside.

“Caitlin!” Preston bellowed. “Where are you going? Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Apologize to Jessie—now!”

I turned slowly.

My face was pale, eyes burning red. I took one step forward, then another.

Jessie, still nestled in his arms, suddenly froze.

Her eyes widened in horror. She pointed toward the television mounted on the wall.

“You… you’re…”

Her voice was choked, trembling.

I raised a finger to my lips and whispered, “Shh… The real show is just beginning.”