I Took The Same Exam, They Only Celebrated Her Chapter 04

I Took The Same Exam, They Only Celebrated Her Chapter 04

Rory’s lips twitched into a smug little grin, one she quickly suppressed. “Isn’t that a bit unfair? Where will my sister sleep?”

“There’s that spare room. She can have that.”

That “spare room” was a tiny, dusty closet crammed with junk.

I had no objections. I just nodded and started hauling my things inside. Liam and Asher even “helped” me drag the bed over.

“Only fits a bed?” Asher muttered, his voice laced with something almost like pity. “Vivi, just apologize to Rory. She’s kind. She’ll put in a good word for you.”

“I apologized for taking the money.”

“I mean about the peanuts.”

“I didn’t do it.”

He sighed. “So, what—you’re saying I put them there?”

“…” I sank onto the bare mattress, my voice flat. “Does it even matter anymore?”

“Vivi, why are you always so stubborn?”

I remembered when we were young. He’d call me his broken princess, swore he’d always protect me.

Back then, Rory had already stolen all our parents’ love, so I latched onto him. He was brilliant, always top three. I used to beg him to tutor me.

Then Rory started asking him too. He’d always tell me to wait—she came first. And that wait… it just never ended.

After that, it was just me, my test papers, and my books.

I looked at the boy crouched before me. The light in his eyes wasn’t the same anymore.

“It’s fine, really,” I murmured. “I’m not staying much longer anyway.”

After kicking him out, I scratched a mark onto the wall. Just a couple more, and I’d be gone.

The next day, workers stormed in. They tossed out everything I hadn’t packed in time like it was garbage. Mom seemed a little guilty. “If you want any of it, grab it now.”

I looked down at the mess on the floor.

There was the hair clip she bought me at the amusement park, right before my first round of chemo at age four.

There was the teddy bear Liam gave me before a terrifying surgery when I was five.

And the matching T-shirts we made together when the doctors said I was finally getting better at six—our faded handprints still stamped on the fabric.

I’d kept and treasured them all, tucked away in the back of my closet for over a decade.

I stared at them for a long, long moment. Then I turned away.

“No,” I said, my voice hollow. “Throw them out. I don’t want them anymore.”

In my faded, old T-shirt, I helped Rory haul in bags of designer clothes. “Mom and Dad bought all this for me yesterday,” she announced, smug as ever.

When I didn’t react, she snapped, “And you still owe me five hundred dollars. When am I getting it?”

“Three days,” I said. “I found a job.”

Day one: I collapsed at the door, body wrecked.

Day two: I could barely lift my arms, but I dragged myself back out anyway.

Day three: I handed her the cash. She tossed it on the table and ordered me to iron her dress for some party.

Day four: My body adjusted to the brutal labor. My boss was impressed and even gave me a fifty-dollar raise.

Day five: I overheard them talking about hiring a college admissions consultant for Rory and buying a condo near whatever school she got into, so she wouldn’t have to suffer through dorm life.

Day six: A family trip was planned. “Five tickets,” she announced loudly, “and make sure one’s for Asher.”

My footsteps faltered. I was just a ghost, drifting unseen through their world.

Rory watched with immense satisfaction as I left before dawn and came back late, reeking of sweat, looking like I’d just been fished out of water.

Meanwhile, she lounged in the air conditioning, nibbling watermelon. Pinching her nose, she shrieked, “Ugh, what is that stench? Did you go shovel manure or something, sis?”

Asher silently handed her a mask.

Liam glanced over and muttered, “Seems healthy enough to me. Still faking it, huh?”

I didn’t answer. I had no strength left for words.

Back in my tiny room, I used my fingernail to scratch the final mark into the wall.

Then my phone buzzed.

I booked the cheapest red-eye flight I could find.

I crept out with just my backpack. At the front door, I paused, taking one last deep look at the house where I’d spent eighteen years.

Memories flickered like a broken slideshow. Seven years of smothering attention, followed by eleven years of cold, absolute neglect.

In the name of their twisted “fairness,” I’d walked on eggshells. Too afraid to take meat at the dinner table. Too afraid to ask them to drive me—I took the bus for eleven years.

And it was never enough for her.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

From this moment on, my life was my own.

The door clicked shut softly behind me. Not a single person noticed I was gone.

It wasn’t until a news crew and cameras showed up at their front door that they realized something was terribly wrong.