Prodigy by Theft

I worked on paper now. No screens. No files. Nothing that could be copied by whatever mechanism Alessia had weaponized against me.

The design came together slowly at first, then all at once—the way real work does when you stop second-guessing yourself. A ring. The band was braided rose gold, thin as a whisper, wrapping around itself in a pattern that suggested something alive. The setting held a white gold orchid, petals cupped around a violet diamond so deep in color it looked like frozen wine.

I called it Violet's Kiss.

The paper was still warm from my hand when I heard someone gasp across the office.

"Did you see? Alessia just posted another piece. Absolutely stunning."

My fingers went cold.

"It's incredible. How does she do it so fast?"

"Viviana, your sister's unreal. You must be so proud."

I pulled out my phone. Alessia's Instagram stared back at me. Posted six minutes ago—a clean, professional photograph of a design that made my stomach drop.

Violet's Kiss. New work. More to come.

Every detail. Every proportion. Every petal on the orchid. All of it, presented to the world before I'd even finished cleaning up my drafting desk.

I didn't hear whoever walked past my workstation. I only registered them when their hand closed around my paper and lifted it into the air.

"Hey—look at this. Viviana's got the same design. It's identical."

Chairs scraped. Footsteps approached. Within seconds, I was surrounded by a perimeter of faces I'd worked alongside for years, and none of them looked friendly.

"No way. Let me see that." Someone snatched the paper. "Holy shit, she's right. It's the exact same piece."

I stood. "Give that back."

"Were you going to submit this? Copy your own sister's work and hope nobody noticed?"

"That's mine." My voice came out harder than I intended. "She copied me. She's been copying me from the start."

Someone laughed—the short, dismissive kind that's worse than an insult.

Then the crowd shifted. A figure in white moved through the parting bodies like she'd rehearsed the entrance.

Alessia.

She wore a pale dress that made her look younger than she was. Her eyes were already wet, already performing, already conducting the room's sympathy like an orchestra. She'd learned early that crying was a form of power, and she'd never forgotten the lesson.

"Viviana..." Her voice trembled at exactly the right frequency. "Why would you do this to me? I know things have been difficult between us since you came back. I know you blame me for... for how things were when we were children. But these are mine. I worked so hard on them."

She paused. Let the tears fall. Let the silence do its work.

"If you're angry at Mom and Dad, I understand. But please don't take it out on my work."

The room was already convicting me. I could feel it—the weight of collective judgment, the way people lean toward the simplest story. Alessia had handed them a narrative wrapped in tears and designer clothes, and they were swallowing it whole.

Someone shoved me from behind.

I went forward hard, my temple connecting with the edge of my desk. The sound my skull made was dull and intimate. Blood, warm and immediate, traced a line down my cheek.

Alessia rushed forward. She crouched beside me, hands extended, the picture of sisterly concern—and then she threw herself backward, limbs flailing, a small cry escaping her lips.

You've got to be kidding me.

"I was just trying to help her up." She looked around the room, eyes enormous. "Viviana, why would you push me?"

"Are you okay, Alessia?" Someone was already helping her to her feet. "Don't go near her. She's dangerous."

"Someone should call security."

"She should be fired. Today."

Alessia straightened her dress. "She's still my sister. I don't want any trouble. I just..." She dabbed at her eyes. "I just wanted to help."

I laughed. I couldn't help it—the sound came out of me before I could stop it, dark and genuine and utterly inappropriate for someone who was supposed to be begging for forgiveness.

"Alessia," I said. "Come here a second. I want to apologize. Really."

She hesitated. The room was watching. She couldn't refuse without breaking character.

She leaned in, close enough that I could smell her perfume, could see the tiny flicker of triumph she hadn't quite hidden in the corners of her mouth.

I smiled.

Then I hit her.

Open palm, full force, the kind of slap that leaves a mark and a story. She stumbled sideways, heels betraying her, and went down on the polished floor with a satisfying crack.

"Oh, honey." I looked down at her, my hand still stinging. "You've got to be more careful. I barely touched you."

She stared up at me through the curtain of her hair, and for one unguarded second, I saw what lived underneath the performance. Something cold. Something calculating. Something that had been waiting years for this moment.

Then the mask snapped back into place. The wounded expression. The trembling lip.

I didn't wait for the encore. I turned, shoved through the crowd of officemates who were suddenly too stunned to stop me, and walked out.

The blood had reached my collar by the time I hit the elevator.