Living My Sister’s Life for Revenge

She hastily closed her books, hurried back to her apartment, and began packing. Grabbing her violin case, she stepped out into the biting winter cold.

He had insisted that Stacy learn to play the violin, and her hands still bore the calluses from hours of practice.

The snow was falling thick and fast, blanketing the ground in white. The icy wind cut through her coat, seeping into her bones.

Downstairs, he stood under the streetlamp, a black coat draped elegantly over his tall frame, his phone pressed to his ear. He appeared composed, even serene, as if the cold didn’t touch him. When his gaze fell on Stacy, however, a flicker of impatience crossed his sharp, flawless features.

Snowflakes dusted his dark hair, settling like tiny white blooms on his forehead. He noticed and brushed them away, his movements deliberate. She instinctively averted her gaze.

Before Stacy could gather her thoughts, the man ended his call, striding toward her with purpose.

He took her hand, the sudden contact sending a jolt through her. Stacy froze, her mind spinning. Reacting instinctively, she pulled her hand back with too much force.

Pat stopped in his tracks, his expression darkening. She looked up at him, startled, and saw anger etched on his face.

His sharp gaze pinned her in place, his voice cutting through the silence like the winter wind. "Get in the car."

His tone was as cold and unyielding as his icy hands.

Pat Taylor—the only son of the powerful Taylor family—had been spoiled his entire life. Now the head of the family, his authority was absolute, and defiance was rare. His anger was both expected and feared.

Stacy lowered her head, saying nothing, and climbed into the back seat without protest.

As she settled in, she watched him through the window. His face, already clouded with irritation, seemed to grow darker. She couldn’t help but wonder what had upset him this time.

He got into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the car.

They drove off quickly, the snow-covered scenery blurring past. Stacy stared out the window, lost in thought. Perhaps he was angry because she had pulled away. Perhaps it was because she had kept him waiting.

Or maybe his anger had no reason at all. It was hard to talk with him.

Her mind wandered. His temper was constant, his irritation frequent. Over time, she had stopped trying to understand him.

Breaking the silence, Pat’s voice was sharp yet casual. "Have you been busy lately? How’s your piano practice coming along?"

The familiar question took Stacy by surprise. She glanced at his profile, her lips curving into a bitter smile.

Her thoughts drifted back to the past. She remembered how captivated she had been by his handsome face when they first met. People said Pat preferred gentle, cultured women—those skilled in piano, chess, calligraphy, and painting.

When he had asked her what she studied in college, Stacy had answered "music," hoping to impress him.

To win his favor, she had taken up the violin. But Pat had dismissed her efforts as inadequate. Determined to make her better, he’d hired a renowned teacher to train her.

All of that felt like a distant memory now.

She touched the violin case beside her and replied quietly, "I’ve been dealing with some things these past two weeks. I didn’t have time to practice."

In truth, she had been too busy taking care of Macey to think about anything else.

The car fell silent again, tension filling the air. Stacy caught sight of Pat’s furrowed brows in the rearview mirror.

Suddenly, he stepped hard on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, and Stacy’s head slammed into the backrest. Pain flared through her nose, and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

Pat glanced at her through the mirror, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. "Sorry, the road’s slippery," he said, his tone laced with amusement.

Stacy murmured softly, "It’s okay."

Satisfied with her response, he leaned back, his earlier moodiness dissipating. "I’ve been busy with work lately. Go see Tara Hester for me tomorrow."

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

Tara, once comatose, had always been more important to Pat than Stacy could ever be. Even when Stacy played the violin, it was Tara who listened from her hospital bed.

After Tara’s miraculous recovery, Pat became convinced that Stacy’s playing had contributed to her awakening. Since then, he’d insisted Stacy visit Taylor’s restaurant every few days to play for Tara. This recent gap had been the longest yet.

But Stacy didn’t want to go.

Hearing her agreement, Pat glanced at her through the mirror, his tone softening slightly. "You’ve lost weight."

Stacy offered a faint smile, saying nothing. She thought of Macey. If Pat’s sister were ill, perhaps she would look even more worn out than Stacy did now.