The rain started the same night she made up her mind. The kind of rain that scratched at the windows like it had secrets to tell. Maya sat in the backseat of the cab, her fingers tracing lazy circles on the foggy glass. The driver didn't talk much, and that suited her fine. Her reflection stared back, expression soft and guiltless—exactly what she needed to be.
When the gates of the Sinclair estate came into view, something inside her twisted. Not from fear. From anticipation.
She was ready to come home.
The door opened before she even knocked. Jackie stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised so high they almost touched her bleached hairline.
"Oh, no. What the hell is this?"
Maya's lips trembled, not with sadness, but performance. "I'm not here to fight."
Jackie laughed, dry and bitter. "Right. You just missed our sparkling personalities."
"I miss my father."
She didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped inside like she belonged there—which she did. Jackie didn't move. Just watched her walk in, watched the way her hand brushed against the mahogany walls, the way her shoes whispered against the marble floor. She knew the house better than Jackie ever would.
"Maya?"
His voice came from the top of the staircase, raw and hesitant. Mister Sinclair looked down at her like he was seeing a ghost.
"I'm sorry," Maya whispered, chin tucked down. "I just… I've been thinking a lot. About you. About everything."
She climbed the stairs slowly. Each step echoed like a heartbeat. When she reached him, she lifted her eyes just enough for him to see the shine in them.
"I want to come home. I want to be your daughter again."
He didn't say a word. Just wrapped his arms around her like he was afraid she'd disappear if he didn't.
And just like that, the first piece fell into place.
It started small.
Maya offered to help set the table. She laughed at Jackie's jokes. She complimented Magali's perfume. And when Mister Sinclair was around, she looked grateful. Gentle. Loving.
She'd wait until Magali left her purse unattended in the living room, then glance at Sally over text:
Now. Top zip. Back pocket.
Luna was already outside, pretending to make a phone call near the study windows. When the maid left the office unlocked for three minutes too long, Luna slipped in like a shadow.
The documents were scanned, split, and carefully slipped into two places: Jackie's room, under the false bottom of her makeup drawer, and Magali's purse, where the scent of Chanel couldn't hide legal fraud.
Maya never touched anything herself. That was important.
"Babe," Luna whispered over the phone that night, "if you ever get arrested, I'm not snitching. But I will write a memoir."
Maya smiled. "Make it a trilogy."
The real poison came with the pills.
Sally met her outside the school gym, hoodie up, head down. The exchange was quiet, fast, no eye contact.
"Are you sure about this?" Sally muttered.
"She brought drugs into my house," Maya said flatly. "Just not yet."
Two nights later, Maya knocked on Jackie's door with wide eyes and a shaky voice.
"I just need someone to talk to."
Jackie, surprisingly, let her in. Maybe it was the softness in Maya's tone. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was guilt.
They sat awkwardly at the edge of Jackie's bed. Maya talked about nothing—school, memories, her favorite perfume. And as Jackie looked away, checking a text, Maya slid the pill pack behind the dresser. Quiet, precise.
She didn't act on it yet. That wasn't the goal.
The goal was fear.
The next morning, Maya left her door cracked open. Mister Sinclair walked by on his way to the study. Right as his shadow passed her room, she screamed.
"Get out! What are you doing with that?!"
Jackie's confused voice echoed from her own room. "What the hell are you talking about?!"
Maya stumbled out into the hallway, breathless, eyes wide. "She tried to put that—those—under my bed!"
"What the—?" Jackie came storming out as Maya flung the pills to the floor, far enough from her own door, close enough to Jackie's.
"Dad, I swear to God, she tried to frame me!"
Jackie froze. Mister Sinclair stared at the pills.
"She's lying," Jackie said, voice low. "That's not mine."
"I saw her!" Maya cried. "She didn't know I was awake, she just—she thought I wouldn't notice—"
"Stop," he said sharply. "Both of you. Just stop."
He picked up the pills, inspected them, his expression unreadable.
"Magali!" he shouted. "We need to talk."
Later that day, Maya curled up beside him on the living room couch, her legs tucked beneath her, head gently resting against his shoulder. She didn't say anything at first. Just breathed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
He looked down. "Of what?"
"Of losing this," she said. "Of losing you. I'm trying so hard to be good. And they just… they hate me, Dad."
He looked away, jaw clenched.
"I want to believe you," he murmured.
"You don't have to believe anything. Just… just keep your eyes open."
And he did.
Over the next week, the cracks widened like hairline fractures spreading through glass.
Jackie started slamming doors without warning. Muttering things under her breath that were too quiet to make out, but loud enough to notice. Magali—always poised, always in control—began glancing up from her phone every time Maya entered the room, like she expected something. Like guilt had a shape now, and it wore Maya's face.
Mister Sinclair stopped sleeping through the night. He'd get up at random hours, check the locks, make rounds through the house like a man guarding a vault instead of a home.
And one night, just after midnight, he found the key.
It was buried in the side pocket of Magali's purse, tucked beneath a wrinkled receipt and a pair of earrings she never wore. The same key that unlocked the drawer in his private study—where every confidential Sinclair document was meant to stay.
He took it. Quietly. Didn't mention a word.
The next morning, before anyone woke up, he opened that drawer.
Half of the documents were gone.
He didn't speak at breakfast. He didn't look at Magali once. But when she left the room to take a call, he followed. Calmly.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" he asked.
She turned slowly. "What are you talking about?"
He held up the folded pages, retrieved that morning from beneath her lipstick case. His hands didn't shake. His voice didn't rise.
But Magali's expression crumbled.
"Maya did this," she hissed. "She went through my purse, she planted—"
"No," he said, voice sharp enough to stop her cold. "She didn't. You did this. You let me believe you could be trusted."
"She's manipulating you!"
He stepped closer. "You broke into my study."
"For us!" she cried. "For the baby—"
"Stop."
The word snapped in the air like a whip. Her mouth closed instantly.
He turned and left the room. A minute later, she heard the lock click behind him.
Three days passed.
Magali didn't speak to him unless she had to. Jackie stayed in her room, her footsteps muffled, her music low. The entire house felt like a throat full of glass.
And then Maya brought the envelope.
She didn't say anything at first. Just placed it gently on his desk. Her hands were trembling, her lips pale.
He looked up from his laptop. "What is this?"
"I know you're not going to believe me," Maya said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I heard her. She was on the phone late at night, in the kitchen. She didn't know I was there. She was talking to her ex-husband… and she said something about the baby being his."
She looked up at him, eyes wide with fear and something quieter—grief, maybe.
"That's why I did the test," she said, gently placing the second envelope on the table. "And… I pulled her phone records too. She's been calling him for months."
He stared at the envelope for a long time. Then opened it.
His eyes scanned the page once. Then again. His brow furrowed. His fingers stiffened.
"No," he said, so quietly it almost wasn't a word. "No, this is—"
"I didn't want to hurt you," Maya said. "But I thought you deserved to know."
He held the paper like it was burning him. The DNA test was clear. The child Magali claimed was his… wasn't.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look at Maya.
He stood. Walked out of the room. Climbed the stairs one step at a time.
From below, Maya listened.
There was silence for a few seconds.
Then a door opened. Slammed.
"Get your things," his voice rang out. Cold. Final. "Both of you."
"What?" Jackie screeched. "You're kicking us out?! Over her?!"
"She forged documents!" he roared. "She stole from me! She lied about my child!"
"That little bitch—" Magali started, but the words caught in her throat.
Mister Sinclair's voice cut her off. "Don't say another word."
He came back down alone, his face ashen, jaw tight. Maya sat still on the couch, fingers curled in her lap, her eyes wet and glassy.
He stood in front of her.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For not seeing it sooner. For letting them make you feel like you didn't belong here."
She didn't reply. Just leaned her head against his chest when he knelt to hug her.
Outside, the storm clouds broke.
Inside, it was finally quiet.