“Now you have two choices,” Ivy said, her voice already thickening. “Let me die, and spend the rest of your life in prison for my murder. Or…” She swayed, clutching the banister. “Call an ambulance. Save me. And spend the rest of your life knowing I own you.”

She was the prey.

Sara looked up the spiral staircase. At the top, bathed in the blue glow of a chandelier, stood a girl of about fourteen. Same sharp cheekbones. Same cold, green eyes. But not Chloe.

Sara’s blood chilled. Richard, her current husband, had mentioned a niece. An orphan. Coming to stay for “a few weeks.” He hadn’t mentioned she looked like Chloe’s vengeful twin.

But as the paramedics rushed in and Ivy was carried away on a stretcher, the girl reached up and grabbed Sara’s wrist. Her grip was iron.

Not by Sara’s hand—not this time. The papers called it a “tragic swimming pool accident.” The police called it “inconclusive.” But Sara, who had survived two husbands and three stepchildren, called it what it was: a warning.

“Wait,” Sara said, her mind racing. “If you drink that, you’ll die. And I’ll be blamed.”

“My name is Ivy,” the girl said. “My mother married your husband’s brother. Then she died. Funny how that happens around you, isn’t it?”

She dropped the bottle. It shattered on the marble.

The Stepmother 3 Sara Stone -

“Now you have two choices,” Ivy said, her voice already thickening. “Let me die, and spend the rest of your life in prison for my murder. Or…” She swayed, clutching the banister. “Call an ambulance. Save me. And spend the rest of your life knowing I own you.”

She was the prey.

Sara looked up the spiral staircase. At the top, bathed in the blue glow of a chandelier, stood a girl of about fourteen. Same sharp cheekbones. Same cold, green eyes. But not Chloe. The stepmother 3 sara stone

Sara’s blood chilled. Richard, her current husband, had mentioned a niece. An orphan. Coming to stay for “a few weeks.” He hadn’t mentioned she looked like Chloe’s vengeful twin.

But as the paramedics rushed in and Ivy was carried away on a stretcher, the girl reached up and grabbed Sara’s wrist. Her grip was iron. “Now you have two choices,” Ivy said, her

Not by Sara’s hand—not this time. The papers called it a “tragic swimming pool accident.” The police called it “inconclusive.” But Sara, who had survived two husbands and three stepchildren, called it what it was: a warning.

“Wait,” Sara said, her mind racing. “If you drink that, you’ll die. And I’ll be blamed.” “Call an ambulance

“My name is Ivy,” the girl said. “My mother married your husband’s brother. Then she died. Funny how that happens around you, isn’t it?”

She dropped the bottle. It shattered on the marble.