Page 8 of Deranged Imposter

She grimaces, flushed cheeks trembling to swallow a groan. “Auntie’s persuasive.”

It’s a good start. Mine will never replace hers, but she could benefit from a second mother figure. My mom has been pushing for more family time, and Isa always comes up with plausible excuses to leave after dinner.

Maybe she’s terrified of getting too close, bonding with a new family, and fears it being ripped from her again. Her family’s car accident viciously shattered her, and it took a long time for her to open up. My father agreed to Mom’s request to be Isa’s legal guardian, but he drew the line at adoption.

I agreed with him, simply because it meant she would’ve been my stepsister. If she was—

That’s a bridge I don’t even want existing.

I’ll have a harder time convincing my father that Isa is good to me. He has narrow, traditional views about bloodlines and merging wealthy families. He’s gotten better over the years as Isa spends time here, but he’s not accepting her fast enough.

With his approval or not, I’m keeping her by my side.

Her graduation is nearing, and she’s already researching places to nurture her passion. I hate it. I want her eating out of the palm of my hand; I’ll feed her, so she won’t have to lift a finger.

“You conspire with her again,” I chide staunchly and thumb the erratic pulse on her neck. “I’ll persuade her to get suitors for you.”

She toys with her fingers, twisting them nervously as her brows draw in. “Saying no to Sunday breakfast is hard enough. But suitors? Would I sound ungrateful?”

Steering her away from the framed picture and toward the bed, I sit beside her as more tainted memories knit through my veins.

I remember the three of us in here, watching a horror movie to prove we were not afraid, but we were defeated by the tenth jump scare.

“You can’t be unappreciative of useless matters,” I mumble, burying my face in her neck.

A relieved sigh purrs deep in my chest. This is the long-awaited moment after dealing with tangy perfume and spicy cologne. High-end is only by reputation, doing a disservice to what could’ve been decent fragrances.

“She’ll get sad,” Isa reasons with a consoling pat on my back.

“Once an actress, always one. She’s guilt-tripping you.” I scoff at her naivety.

My mother has no qualms about manipulative conduct as long as it’s not harmful, but the concept itself is inherently toxic.

“I’m upset.” I nip her neck, relishing her stunned yelp.

When I get tired from overworking, I like to sleep against her neck to feel her pulse on my lips. She hates it when I leave little bruising marks on her skin. But I shouldn’t be held accountable for my actions during times when I have no cognitive awareness.

I still recall the deadpan stare when I used that excuse. She pouted the entire day and would only talk to me after I swore not to do it again. Time has proven that I have no self-control.

“Why?” she sputters, leaning away from the second nibble.

“I had to meet strange women because you agreed to drag me home for a gift, one I could’ve bought on my own.”

She freezes and stops blinking, a look of contemplation storming across her confused face.

A gift or dinner is not the same as a gathering.

She couldn’t lie properly, but I was too weak against her pleading eyes.

“If I wanted a party, I could pay for it.” I nuzzle harder into her neck, circling a firmer hold around her waist to halt her fidgeting.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Isa babbles, laughing fretfully.

“And it was thoughtless of you to lie to me.” I pinch her hip with my fingers to suppress her protest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her throat bobbing in an anxious roll. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Good,” I praise through another innocent kiss on her pulse. “I want to be updated wherever you are and who you are with. Even between classes.”

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