My sister stole my fiancé. My family cheered. And the wedding invitation came addressed to me—as the maid of honor. I read it three times before I laughed. Everyone thought I was shattered. Poor Aria, jilted at twenty-six, watching her gorgeous younger sister marry the man she'd loved for six years. They whispered it at family dinners. They posted about it online. Such a tragedy. But Vivian and Daniel are simply meant to be. What none of them knew was this: I was raised by liars. And I had spent my entire life learning to spot one. Let me back up. Six years ago, I met Daniel Cole in my first week of law school. He was the kind of man who made rooms go quiet—tall, sharp-jawed, the type who finished your sentences and remembered your coffee order. We weren't officially engaged, not with a ring, but we had a plan. A house in Brooklyn. A wedding in the fall. A life. Then I made the mistake of introducing him to my sister Vivian. Vivian is what my mother proudly calls "a girl who knows how to get what she wants." Translation: a master manipulator who has been stealing from me since we were children. My toys. My friends. My boyfriends. Always with that wide, innocent smile that made everyone believe I was the jealous one. She didn't ask Daniel out. That's not how Vivian works. Instead, she cried to him about how lonely she felt. She accidentally-on-purpose let him find her crying after a "terrible breakup." She told him, in confidence, that I had only ever dated him to win a bet with my college friends. A bet. I should have seen it coming. It was the same trick she'd pulled in high school. The same lie, recycled. By the time I understood what was happening, Daniel had stopped answering my calls. He'd blocked me on everything. And Vivian was wearing his grandmother's ring—the one he'd shown me in a velvet box, eight months earlier, his hands trembling. "He proposed so suddenly," Vivian sighed to our relatives, dabbing fake tears. "I told him to think of Aria's feelings, but he said his heart had already chosen. I feel terrible." She always feels terrible. She has built an entire empire on feeling terrible while ruining other people's lives. So when the cream-colored invitation slid through my mail slot—Vivian & Daniel request the honor of your presence—and I saw my own name penciled in as maid of honor, I didn't cry. I poured myself a glass of wine. Because Vivian had made one fatal error. She thought I was the heartbroken sister, too weak to fight, too proud to grovel. She forgot who taught me to spot a liar. And she had no idea that three days ago, Daniel had sent me a single text from a number I didn't recognize. I opened my phone and read it again. "Aria. I know everything was a lie. I need to talk to you before the wedding. Please." I smiled, set down my wine, and started typing. The wedding was in six weeks. That was more than enough time to burn it all down.
