CHAPTER 1
The first time the system appeared, I thought it was a scam.
One wish per day, it said. Anything I wanted.
So I tested it with a hundred dollars.
That night, my mother handed me one bill. Then she smiled and told me she had bought my stepsister Mia a jacket worth two hundred.
That was when fifteen years of “coincidences” turned into math.
Every wish I had ever made came true.
And every time, Mia got double.
Toys. Shoes. Rooms. Phones. Love.
For years, I thought I was the daughter who was harder to love.
Then I realized the universe had been listening to me all along.
And for the first time, I wondered what would happen if I wished for something cruel.
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he first time the system appeared, I thought it was an ad.
A white line of text sat at the top of my phone screen, plain and stubborn.
System activated. Host may make one wish per day.
I stared at it for three seconds, locked the screen, and rolled over in bed. I had seen enough scam pop-ups in my life to know better than to tap strange things at midnight.
The next morning, the line was still there.
No close button. No link. No app icon. I took a screenshot, but the words did not show up. I used my old backup phone to take a photo of the screen. In the photo, the top of my phone was blank.
That woke me up.
I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time, then typed the smallest thing I could think of.
I want one hundred dollars.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
I wish for one hundred dollars.
The text changed.
Wish accepted.
I waited all day. No lottery ticket. No stranger handing me cash. No miracle envelope under my door.
That night, when I came home from work, my mother slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the dining table.
"For you," she said without looking up from her phone. "Buy yourself a decent shirt. You dress like you lost a bet."
I picked up the bill.
Before it even warmed in my hand, Mom added, "Oh, and I bought Mia a jacket. Two hundred. It looked good on her."
My fingers froze around the money.
Two hundred.
One hundred for me. Two hundred for Mia.
Mom finally glanced at me. "Don't make that face. Hers was on sale. It used to be over three hundred."
I did not make a face.
I was remembering.
When I was seven, I wished for a Barbie doll on my birthday. The next day, Mom brought me one.
Mia got two.
"Her aunt sent them," Mom had said. "What does that have to do with you?"
When I was nine, I got first place on a test and wished for new sneakers. Mom bought me one pair. Mia pointed at another pair, then another, and Mom bought both for her.
Two pairs.
When I was twelve, I wished for my own room. We moved that year. I got the small bedroom by the laundry closet. Mia got the big room next to the master bedroom and the little study across from it.
"She's starting middle school," my stepfather Martin said. "She needs space to study."
I was starting middle school too.
Every single incident had an explanation if you looked at it alone. A sale. An aunt. A school raffle. A need. A coincidence.
But lined up together, they became math.
I got one. Mia got two.
Every time.
I opened my phone again. The line waited at the top of the screen.
System activated. Host may make one wish per day.
When had it started listening?
I remembered birthday candles. New Year's wishes. Exam wishes. Little private hopes whispered in my head while Mom told me to be quick because the wax was dripping.
Every wish had come true.
And every time, Mia had received double.
For years, I had thought I was the problem. I was too quiet. Too stiff. Not sweet enough. Not easy enough to love.
Mia was younger by a year, soft-voiced, pretty, and good at saying exactly what adults wanted to hear. Of course Mom liked her. Of course Martin put her first.
Of course I should learn to be grateful for what I got.
Now the line on my screen told me something else.
The rule had always been rigged.
And now the rule listened to me.
