I went to my mountain cabin to relax, only to find my sister and her in-laws living there. When she yelled, “What do you want, Parasite? I’ll call the police”, I just smiled and stepped inside. A minute later, her face went pale.

What’s a parasite like you doing here? Get out right now, or I’m calling the police.”

In the living room, where the firelight flickered softly, casting dancing shadows on the high, vaulted ceilings, my biological sister, Charlotte Hayes, spat those words at me. Her voice, sharp and venomous, cut through the warm, festive air. In her hand was a delicate, long-stemmed crystal glass—the luxury brand I had given her as a Christmas present last year. Inside it swirled a deep ruby vintage, a bottle that had been aging for years in my Mountain Lodge’s private cellar, a bottle worth several thousand dollars. Her lips, stained with that expensive liquid, glistened sensually.