The champagne at vineyard receptions always tastes like cheap vinegar disguised by an expensive label, but tonight it tasted like absolute victory.

I didn't go home for Thanksgiving.

Instead, I spent the holiday at a small beach house in Santa Cruz with Marcus and a few friends from work, eating fried turkey and drinking craft beer on the deck while watching the Pacific tide roll in. It was the first Thanksgiving of my adult life where I didn't spend four hours getting criticized for my posture, my income, or my choice of clothing.

I thought that would be the end of it. I thought the clear boundaries I had drawn would keep them at bay.

I was wrong.

Three weeks later, in mid-December, I was finishing up a late presentation at my agency's office downtown. The building was mostly empty, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows showing the glowing skyline of San Francisco.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged open.

I didn't think much of it until I heard the sharp, frantic click of high heels on the polished concrete floor.

I turned around.

Elise was standing at the entrance of our open-plan office.

She looked entirely different from the pristine bride I’d seen three months ago. She was wearing a heavy trench coat, her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and her hair was pulled back into a messy, unstyled bun. She looked smaller, exhausted, and deeply bitter.

"So this is where you’ve been hiding," she said, her voice shaking as she walked toward my desk.

I stayed seated, keeping my hands resting casually on my keyboard. "Elise. How did you get past security downstairs?"

"I told them I was your sister," she spat out, stopping at the edge of my desk. "I told them it was a family emergency."

"Is it?" I asked calmly.

"You ruined my life!" she suddenly screamed, slamming her purse onto my desk. The loud thud echoed through the empty office. "Carson broke up with me! His family threatened to sue me for fraud! All my friends stopped inviting me to things! I had to delete all my social media accounts!"

"You said those things on the balcony, Elise," I reminded her, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "Nobody forced you to say Carson was spineless. Nobody forced you to say you were using him for money."

"I was drunk!" she sobbed, throwing her hands in the air. "Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re drunk! But you—you calculated it! You sat on that video for months! You waited until the exact moment to destroy me!"

"I didn't destroy you," I said softly, looking up at her. "I just stopped protecting you."

She blinked, frozen by the phrase.

"For twenty years," I continued, "I took the hits so you could be the golden child. I let Dad mock me so he wouldn't look at your grades. I let Mom ignore me so she could focus on your dream weddings and your outfits. I spent my entire life being the trash bin for this family's cruelty. All I did at your wedding was take out the trash."

Elise’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at me, looking for the brother she used to push around, the quiet kid who would shrink into the background whenever she demanded attention.