A floorboard creaked above her. Not the settling of old wood. The careful, deliberate step of someone who knew exactly where to press.

She descended slowly, her bare feet silent on the steps. She wore a white nightgown—the same brand Sara bought for Chloe three Christmases ago. The girl stopped one step above Sara, so they were eye to eye.

She found the letter on the marble foyer floor, tucked beneath a vase of wilting lilies. The handwriting was hers. Or rather, a perfect copy of hers.

Her stepdaughter, Chloe, was dead.

“Good choice,” Ivy whispered. “Now the real game begins.”

Here is the story based on your prompt: The Stepmother 3: Sara Stone .

Ivy collapsed into Sara’s arms, her lips turning blue. Her green eyes stayed open, watching, triumphant.