The Unchosen Daughter's Ultimatum

I walked upstairs with the highball glass of amber liquid, its aroma lingering in the air like a forgotten promise.

Laughter spilled from the living room.

My father, the Don, usually buried in family meetings and turf wars, was sitting comfortably, utterly captivated as Chloe regaled them with tales of her “heroics” in Sicily.

“We practiced shooting under the guidance of the old Don in Corleone,” she said, her eyes shining. “He said I have the instincts of a natural-born leader—strong enough to run all of New York.”

My mother clutched Chloe’s hand, tears glistening in her eyes.

“My good daughter. You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? You need to rest more—training too long will wear down your will and dull your judgment.”

Marco sat beside them, polishing a custom Browning handgun—a gift for Chloe—like a loyal soldato.

I stood on the threshold, a silent, uninvited observer caught between the dim kitchen and the bright living room.

That room was warm, bright, filled with sound and attention.

This space—my space—was quiet, dim. Forgotten.

Chloe’s voice rose, laced with mock sweetness.

“Alessia, why are you just standing there? Are you still mad I ruined your party?”

The conversation died.

Three pairs of eyes snapped to me, as if I were a problem that had just walked in.

My father’s brow furrowed.

“Alessia, come in. Don’t be a killjoy.”

My mother shot me that impatient look—the one she always wore whenever Chloe complained.

“You chose such an inconvenient day,” she snapped. “Chloe had just landed, and we were exhausted from the airport. You knew that.”

And then, the dagger.

“If you’re going to be petty with the future heir, then you don’t deserve the Moretti name.”

Chloe gasped, her eyes wide with false concern.

“Mamma, don’t be so harsh,” she pleaded. “You’ll hurt Alessia’s feelings…”

But the cold smile at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

She knew the date of my party. I’d told her a week in advance.

She had even replied:

“Can’t wait! I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise, indeed.

Ever since we were children, Chloe had a way of turning every situation into a test—a test where the family had to choose.

They always chose her.

Even my fiancé chose her.

I should have felt something—anger, betrayal, grief.

But there was only… a dead calm.

“I’m not angry.”

The three words cut through the tension like a blade.

Everyone stared at me.

My father blinked.

My mother narrowed her eyes.

Chloe tilted her head with a pout of feigned confusion.

They had expected a tantrum, not this quiet composure.

Which meant… they knew what they’d done would hurt me.

They just didn’t care enough to stop it.

My father let out a breath, forcing a smile.

“Good. That’s good. We’re a family. We don’t hold grudges.”

“Of course,” I said, nodding with perfect obedience.

It was the same voice I used when I spoke to the old men at the family’s annual meetings.

The relief in their eyes was instant.

They turned their attention back to Chloe.

Dinner began.

In addition to the appetizers I had prepared, the staff had added several more dishes—Sicilian risotto, roasted lamb chops, all of Chloe’s favorites.

“You’re too thin,” my father murmured, piling food onto her plate.

“Eat up. You need to build your strength before taking over the Bronx business,” my mother added, dabbing at her eyes again.

Marco chimed in with a grin.

“Don’t worry. If those Irish bastards give you any trouble, I’ll break their legs for you.”

Chloe laughed, her golden hair shimmering in the light.

“No need. I can handle them.”

They all chuckled lightly.

I ate in silence, the warmth of the food doing nothing to thaw the ice in my core.

Then, for the first time all night, my mother glanced at me.

She hesitated, then held out a glass of champagne.

“Have a drink. Don’t think that just because we spoil Chloe, we don’t care about you. I care about you, too.”

The words sounded… rehearsed. Like a line she had used too many times.

I looked down at the glass, then slowly set my utensils down.

“No. I’m full.”

Her expression shifted—from surprise to annoyance.

“What’s gotten into you lately?”

She was about to say more, but Chloe suddenly clutched her chest, her eyes wide.

“Mamma… I… I can’t breathe—”

Her voice was hoarse, her breathing ragged.

She stumbled backward, knocking over her chair.

Panic erupted instantly.

“Chloe!” my mother screamed.

“What’s happening?!” My father shot to his feet so fast the table shook.

Marco was already at her side, checking her pulse and breathing, looking for signs of poison.

“Her heart is racing—something’s wrong!”

My own heart hammered against my ribs—not with fear, but with the twisted irony of it all.

In the chaos, no one noticed me standing perfectly still—just watching.

A faint voice in my head spoke.

She’s faking it.