She wandered again, picking things up, putting them down, and opening drawers I'd long since emptied of anything meaningful.
"You know what he said about me? He said I was captivating. Said my poetry moved him. Said he'd never met anyone like me."
My jaw ached from clenching. Those were my words. My poems. My pain turned into pretty lines for her to steal.
"It’s going to be a big wedding." She said it like a victory lap.
I leaned forward, rocking back and forth, humming.
"Ugh, stop that," she snapped. She reached down, her manicured hand grabbing a handful of my hair. She yanked my head back, forcing me to look at her smug, beautiful face. “This is why Daddy hates you. That’s why everything that was supposed to be yours—the money, the mansion, the husband, the fame—is all mine. Because I'm better than you. Prettier. Smarter. Sane."
She let go. My head dropped forward.
"Daddy gave it all to me. Because I'm the one who matters. You don’t. Your mother didn’t."
I let my eyes rise to meet hers.
“I’m improving your life by living it. You should thank me.” She patted my head like I was a dog. A pet. A thing. "Enjoy your dinner."
She turned on her heel, the door slamming shut behind her. The lock turned.Click.
I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.
I tried to stand, but my legs gave out. I hit the floor hard, knees cracking against the wood, but I didn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything except the pressure building in my chest—a wildfire trapped behind glass, searching for air, for escape, for something to burn.
The plate was still there. The chewed steak. The hard bread. I picked it up and threw it against the wall. No sound. I’d learned how to destroy without being heard.
But I needed more. My hands found the broken porcelain doll. I squeezed until the shards bit into my palm, blood welling between my fingers. The pain helped. It focused something. It gave the rage a place to go.
Everything that was supposed to be yours.
I grabbed the edge of my mattress and flipped it. It was so light and thin; the frame barely creaked.
The money. The mansion. The husband.
I punched the wall. Once. I couldn't think past the roaring in my ears.
The fame.
My poems. My grief. My mother's death poured onto pages and she'd just... taken them. Published them. Let the world call her a genius while I rotted in an attic.
I slid down the wall, landing in the corner. My chest heaved. My hands shook. Blood dripped from my knuckles onto the floorboards, and I watched it fall like I was watching someone else's life.
The tears came then. Not pretty tears. Ugly tears. I was gasping. I screamed in my head. I hated them. I pressed both hands over my mouth and rocked—back and forth, back and forth—while my whole body shook with the force of everything I couldn't say.
You stole my life.
She has my mother's name. She has my mother's money.
You stole my mother's face from my memory—I can barely see her anymore, do you know that? Fourteen years, and her smile is fading, and all I have left is Mary's stories and a locket I can't wear. You stole my voice. My words. My grief turned into your profit.
"I'm going to kill them, Momma," I whispered, the sound of my own voice cracking after hours of disuse. "I'm going to takethe needle and I'm going to sew their mouths shut with their own lies."
I brushed away the tears and closed my eyes tight. Killian’s face swam behind them. The way he'd looked at me in the moonlight. The way his hands had felt on my waist—strong, sure, like he was afraid I'd break but couldn't bear to let go. The way he'd stopped, even when I'd given him every reason not to.
"You don't owe me anything. And nobody gets to tell you how to repay kindness."
He wouldn’t take from me. I could see that in his words.
