The interior of the Sterling home was a cathedral of brushed steel and designer lighting. It was a "smart" home, designed to anticipate every need, but for Dafne, it was just another cage with more reflective surfaces.
Her mother, Sarah, was already in the kitchen. She looked elegant even in her casual wear, but there was a fragility to her movements, a constant, low-level anxiety that she tried to mask with domestic activity. Since the move, she had been obsessed with the idea of a "perfect family" dinner.
Dafne dropped her backpack by the door and walked into the kitchen, her body still vibrating from the day's encounters.
"Oh, hi honey! You're just in time," Sarah said, gesturing to a spread of organic vegetables and raw chicken on the marble island. She was struggling to balance a glass of wine while looking at a complicated recipe on her tablet. "I thought I could handle this, but the instructions are a mess and your father will be home in an hour."
Sarah let out a weary, melodic laugh. It was the kind of laugh people use when they are close to a breaking point.
"I'm so exhausted I can barely stand. Dafne, be a doll and prep the dinner for me. Just do the whole thing while I go lie down for twenty minutes."
Sarah meant it as a playful exaggeration—a maternal joke about her own tiredness. But she had used the two most dangerous words in Dafne's world: "Do" and "Just."
The Echo didn't recognize humor. It didn't recognize sarcasm.
Dafne's backpack hadn't even hit the floor before her body was in motion. She didn't say a word. She didn't even look at her mother. She walked to the island, her hands reaching for the heavy chef's knife with a terrifying, mechanical speed.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
The knife hit the wooden board with rhythmic, violent precision. Dafne's face was a mask of pale stone. She began peeling potatoes, her fingers moving so fast they were a blur. She moved from the sink to the stove to the cutting board like a machine programmed for one task.
"Dafne? Honey, I was just kidding," Sarah said, her smile faltering as she watched her daughter.
Dafne didn't stop. She couldn't. Her brain was screaming Stop, I'm tired, my hands hurt, but her body was searing the chicken in the hot pan. The oil hissed and popped, a bead of burning fat landing on Dafne's wrist, but she didn't even flinch. She just kept cooking.
Finally, Sarah saw the look in Dafne's eyes. They weren't the eyes of a helpful daughter. They were wide, brimming with unshed tears, and filled with a cold, paralyzing terror.
"Dafne! Stop cooking right now! Put the knife down!" Sarah finally shrieked, the panic in her voice accidentally providing the necessary authority.
The knife hit the marble with a sharp clang.
Dafne stood perfectly still over the half-prepped meal, her chest heaving, her burnt wrist beginning to throb. Sarah rushed forward, her face crumbling. She grabbed Dafne's hands, seeing the red mark of the oil burn.
"Oh, God. Oh, Dafne, I'm so sorry," Sarah whispered, her voice breaking into a sob. She pulled Dafne into her arms. "Please, forgive me. I didn't mean to force you. I forgot... I keep forgetting."
"It's okay, Mom," Dafne whispered, her voice hollow.
"Go to your room," Sarah said quietly, her head bowed in shame. "I'll finish this. I'm so, so sorry."
The ConversationLater that night, after the dinner had been eaten in a suffocating, brittle silence, Dafne retreated to her room. Downstairs, in the shadowed mahogany of the study, her parents sat across from each other. The only light came from the fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls.
"She did it again today," Sarah whispered, her voice trembling as she clutched a glass of water. "I made a joke about her making dinner, and she just... she turned into a robot, David. She burned herself and didn't even cry."
David Sterling sighed, a heavy, weary sound. He rubbed his temples, the lines of his "new beginning" promotion weighing on his face. "We knew the transition would be hard, Sarah. The doctors said the compliance is a trauma response. It's her way of feeling safe."
"Safe?" Sarah's voice rose to a sharp, pained pitch. "She isn't safe! She's a ghost in our house. We moved here to get away from Henderson and the investigation, but she brought the chains with her. She can't even say 'no' to her own mother."
"Because she's terrified that 'no' leads to what happened before," David said, his voice dropping to a low, clinical tone. "This move... this job... it was supposed to give her a world where nobody asks anything of her. Where she can just exist until she heals."
"But they are asking," Sarah cried softly. "I see the way people look at her at the school gates. I see that Vane boy watching her. David, what if someone realizes? What if someone understands that she can't resist a direct order?"
David stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the quiet, expensive street. "Nobody will realize. We keep her close. We keep her quiet. The Vanes gave us this life because they value discretion. As long as we follow the rules, she's protected."
"You sound like you're talking about a secret, not a daughter," Sarah said, looking at her husband's back.
"I'm talking about survival," David snapped, turning around. His eyes were filled with a desperate, crushing pity. "If the world finds out she's like this, they'll destroy her. We are the only ones who can keep her whole, Sarah. Even if 'whole' looks like this for a while."
He walked over and placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. "We just have to be careful with our words. No more jokes. No more suggestions. From now on, we only give her the space to breathe."
Upstairs, pressed against her bedroom door, Dafne heard every word. She looked at the red welt on her wrist. Her parents weren't waiting for her to get better; they were waiting for her to disappear so the secret would be safe.