Chapter One
Elara learned early that silence was safer than truth.
The kitchen smelled of burned sugar and old bitterness. The pot on the stove had boiled over, caramelized residue blackening the rim, smoke still curling faintly toward the ceiling. Elara stood perfectly still beside the counter, hands folded in front of her, eyes lowered—not in guilt, but in calculation. Marianne hated eye contact when she was angry. Serena loved it.
"You ruin everything you touch," Marianne said, her voice calm in the way storms were calm before tearing roofs from houses.
Elara said nothing. She never did.
The slap came anyway.
It wasn't hard enough to knock her down. Marianne never left marks where they could be seen. The pain bloomed warm across Elara's cheek, then settled into something dull and familiar. She absorbed it without reaction, eyes still lowered, breathing even. That always unsettled them more.
Serena leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her silk sleeve. She smiled like this was entertainment rather than ritual.
"Honestly," Serena said, "how hard is it to follow instructions? The syrup was supposed to be ready an hour ago."
Elara knew that was a lie. The syrup had been fine. Serena had turned the heat up when she thought Elara wasn't looking. But truth was irrelevant in this house. Only blame mattered.
"I'm sorry," Elara said quietly. Her voice was soft, carefully controlled. Apologies were currency here—never enough to buy mercy, but necessary to survive the day.
Marianne sighed theatrically. "Sorry doesn't fix waste. Or debt."
That word made Elara's spine tighten.
Debt.
Marianne wiped her hands on a towel and turned away, already dismissing her. "Clean this mess. And don't forget—you're not eating tonight."
Serena laughed softly as Marianne left the room. The sound followed Elara like a knife sliding from its sheath.
When they were alone, Serena stepped closer. She always did. Elara could feel her presence before she spoke—expensive perfume, entitlement, cruelty sharpened by boredom.
"You know," Serena said lightly, "Mother had an interesting phone call today."
Elara scrubbed the pot without looking up. Burnt sugar resisted, clinging stubbornly. She applied pressure, slow and steady.
"Oh?" she murmured.
Serena circled her like a cat. "Someone asked about you. Said you were… available."
Elara's hand didn't pause. Inside, something cold clicked into place.
"Available for what?" she asked.
Serena leaned in close, her lips brushing Elara's ear. "Does it matter?"
Elara finished scrubbing, rinsed the pot, and set it carefully on the rack. Only then did she turn.
Serena flinched—just a little. Elara noticed. She always noticed.
"I suppose not," Elara said calmly.
That seemed to take the fun out of it. Serena scoffed and left, heels echoing down the hall.
Elara stood alone in the quiet kitchen, the clock ticking loudly on the wall. She touched her cheek where the slap had landed. The pain was already fading.
Through the narrow window above the sink, she saw a black car parked across the street. It hadn't been there this morning.
Too clean. Too still.
Elara watched it for a long moment, her reflection faint in the glass—dark eyes, composed face, a girl who looked breakable if you didn't know where to look.
A slow breath in.
A slower breath out.
Whatever Marianne had planned, whatever Serena was gloating over—it was coming.
And Elara was ready.
She always was.