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It started with her smile.
Michaela smiled like a woman who never had to worry about a thing her whole life.
Francesca knew that wasn’t necessarily true. For all that John’s cousin was unapologetic and boisterous, she was indispensable help for him when it came to running the family estate.
Still. That stupid, pearly, perfect smile drove her crazy.
Every time it emerged on Michaela’s equally perfect face, it felt like a mockery of Francesca’s constant state of uneasiness.
Living in a new home, being part of another, smaller but equally tight-knit family, managing a household—all those changes had Francesca at a loss for how to handle this bright, loud presence that seemed to face life as a playground rather than a chore.
Francesca wasn’t proud to admit how jealous she was of Michaela’s easy-going nature that she would never be able to replicate.
Besides, her annoyance wasn’t helped by the way that mischievous smile of hers haunted each one of Francesca’s dreams.
Nightmares, actually. Yes, that’s what she should call them.
So what if Michaela's smile was as iridescent as the sun itself? So what if it made Francesca forget her own name and stumble over her words?
It mattered not. It meant nothing.
It started with her bloody smile, but it would end by Francesca’s own hands.
She would make sure of it.