Harper Langley was only eight, but she moved through the house like someone twice her age—quiet, alert, careful. Since her mother died giving birth to Mason, she had taken on the role of protector. She fed him, soothed him, and learned quickly that any mistake could trigger the woman her father had married too fast.
That evening, Harper reached for a glass from the cabinet. Mason, ten months old, babbled in his walker. She filled the cup slowly—careful was survival. But her hands slipped. The glass shattered across the tiles. Mason cried. Harper’s heart raced. She scrambled to gather the shards before anyone noticed.
“Harper!” Miranda’s heels thundered. She stormed in, face twisted in anger. “What did you do now?”
“I’m sorry,” Harper whispered. Blood dotted her fingers. “It was an accident. I’ll clean it—please don’t be mad.”
Miranda grabbed her arm, scattering glass further. “Everything you touch is a mess. Useless girl.” She shoved Mason toward Harper. “Take that noisy brat!”
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