My father shoved my face into mashed potatoes before thirty-seven relatives. “She finally contributed something to dinner!” he announced, raising his wineglass. Warm gravy streamed down my chin, potatoes tangled in my hair, and the plate stung beneath my mouth. My sister filmed. My mother calmly sipped Chardonnay. Everyone laughed. They had no idea what those cameras had really captured....

Madison was not evil; she was merely hollow, and like all hollow objects, she made the most pleasant sound when struck by praise. Two days after my father's call, she texted me from the salon: Can we get lunch? Dad is losing his mind and Mom is taking it out on me. I can’t deal with their stress.

She picked an overpriced sushi bar in Radnor where the lighting was designed for influencers and the portions were microscopic. When she arrived, thirty minutes late, she looked immaculate: cashmere camel coat, flawless blowout, diamond studs catching the recessed light. She threw her bag onto the leather banquette and collapsed with an exaggerated sigh.

"Lauren, seriously, you need to just send Dad a text," she began before even glancing at the menu. "He’s screaming at his assistants, Mom is stress-cleaning the guest rooms, and Brandon is getting annoyed because I’m spending all my time mediating."

"Brandon is your husband, Madison. Why would he care if Dad is screaming at his assistants?"

"Because Dad is helping us with the down payment on the Hamptons property!" she blurted out, leaning across the table. "Look, we all know how Dad is. He gets loud, he drinks too much wine, he does something stupid, and then we move on. That’s how this family functions. Why are you suddenly making this your hill to die on?"

"Did you watch the video you took?" I asked softly.

Madison blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "What video?"

"The one you took while my mouth was full of gravy. The one where you laughed."

Her gaze shifted to her water glass. A faint blush rose beneath her bronzer. "I was just filming the table, Lauren. I didn't know he was going to do that."

"You laughed, Madison. And then you told me not to sulk because I was ruining the mood."

"Because you were!" she hissed, her frustration breaking through the polished veneer. "You always sit there with that look on your face! Like you’re superior to everyone else because you work sixty hours a week and drive a Honda! Dad built an empire, Lauren! He pays for everything! He paid for my wedding, he pays for the vacations, he paid for your college—"

"I had a full academic scholarship, Madison. He paid for my textbooks during my freshman year, and then he made me sign a promissory note with five percent interest to pay him back."

Madison frowned. "That’s... that was just him teaching you financial responsibility."

"Did Brandon sign a promissory note for the eighty thousand dollars Dad gave you for your kitchen remodel?"

She went dead silent. She reached for her napkin, shredding the corner between her manicured nails.

"I need that video, Madison," I said quietly.

"I deleted it," she lied instantly.

"You didn't delete it. You don't delete anything until you've posted it or saved it to your private cloud. Send it to me."

"Why? So you can brood over it? So you can show your therapist?"

"Send it to me, or I call Brandon’s brokerage firm and ask their compliance department why their senior adviser’s domestic renovation was funded by an undeclared cash loan from a supplier under federal trade investigation."

Madison’s jaw went slack. The sushi chef behind the bar glanced toward us. "You wouldn't."

"Try me. You have thirty seconds to AirDrop the original file."

Her hands shook as she unlocked her phone. Her polished, radiant ease vanished, replaced by the terrified panic of a child who realizes the nursery floor is made of rotten glass. Three seconds later, my phone pinged: IMG_8820.MOV.

Forty-two seconds. The highest resolution yet. In Madison's clip, you could hear my father's low whisper right before the shove: "Watch this, Maddie. Time to put your sister in her place."