As an interior designer, I knew this room was technically flawless. It was also a beautiful, expensive lie.

The room, and the 280 guests, revolved around a single point of light: my sister, Olivia. She was radiant, her beauty almost aggressive in its perfection, her white silk dress clinging to her like a second skin. She laughed, a sound cultivated to be both musical and infectious. She was the center of everything. She always had been.

I watched, feeling the familiar role settle over me. I was the quiet one, the functional one, the one who fixed things. I was the shadow that made her brightness possible.