Hands trembling, I pull it free and flip open the clasp. A soft, mechanical whirring fills the air. And then—music.
A crackling, broken version of Clair de Lune lilts into the empty room, so distorted it sounds like it’s playing underwater. A tiny, cracked prima ballerina pops upright, spinning stiffly on one worn slipper, her porcelain face frozen in a blissful, eerie smile.
The sound hits me like a punch. Suddenly, I'm not in the servants’ quarters anymore.
I'm five years old, peeking out from behind the heavy velvet drapes in the penthouse living room. The sunlight catches the gleaming marble, casting long shadows across the floor. The music box is open on the side table, playing the same broken melody. I remember clutching my stuffed rabbit, thumb tucked between my teeth, heart pounding against my tiny chest.
And then—chaos.
Men in white coats storm into the room, moving too fast, too loud. I hear my mother scream—a raw, panicked sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up even now.
They grab her roughly by the arms. She thrashes, kicking over a vase, sending shards skittering across the floor. I remember the sickening crash. The way she twisted and fought like a trapped animal.
And my father standing by the fireplace, stone-faced. Watching.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t stop them.
Helets it happen.
My mother turns her head sharply, wild-eyed, hair loose around her face. She finds me—my small, hidden form behind the curtains—and our eyes lock.
“Don’t believe him!”she screams.
The words are so sharp, so loud, they cut through everything—the men’s shouts, the shattered glass, the music box's haunting, broken song.
And then she’s gone, dragged out the front door. The lock clicks shut behind them.
I stand frozen, the music box playing its last, desperate notes. My father kneels beside me, calm and steady, brushing my hair back from my face. His voice smooth and warm.
“She’s sick, Ellie,” he whispers. “She had to go away. But don’t worry. Daddy’s here. I’ll take care of you.”
He pulls me into a hug, wrapping me up in his arms. I remember his suit smelled like cold air and cologne. I remember wanting to pull away but being too afraid. Because even at five years old, I knew my mother was right: he was lying.
The music box sputters to silence in the present. I sit there on the dusty floor, shaking, the velvet box still open in my lap, the little ballerina slowly winding down, her dance jerky and incomplete. My skin is clammy. My stomach churns. I wasn’t wrong about my mother. I wasn’t wrong about any of it.
He made me forget. Hetrainedme to forget. Rewrote my memories with bedtime stories and empty promises and polished smiles. He buried my mother alive in some psychiatric facility.
And then he buried the truth.
I slam the jewelry box shut. It feels violent. I need to get out of here before he comes back. I push to my feet, dizzy, my legs cramping from sitting so long. I tuck the box into my bag next to the journal, zip the bag shut, and sling it over my shoulder.
As I move toward the door, I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror hanging next to the door.
I barely recognize myself. My hair is wild, face flushed, eyeswide with something between terror and rage. I vow then to stop doubting myself. No more listening to their lies.
Jack. Aubrey. My father. All of them.
They think they’re playing me. They think I’m still the girl they gaslit into silence. But they forgot something. They forgot whose blood runs in my veins.
My mother’s.
Like mother, like daughter.Kat’s words ring in my mind.
And she fought tooth and nail.
Now it’s my turn.
Forty
