I wrapped my arms around my knees and kept my eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding Father's burning gaze like it might strip me bare. Every step he took toward me seemed to thicken the air, pressing down on my chest until breathing felt like a punishment.
The silence between his footsteps was worse than the sound itself ,heavy, expectant, like the moment before a blade falls.
His hand closed around my ankle without warning, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and he dragged me across the marble like I weighed nothing.
My back scraped painfully against the floor, each jolt sending sharp bursts of pain up my spine, but I didn't fight him. something inside me had simply gone still. He hauled me up the stairs, relentless, unyielding, and flung me onto my bed with such force that the breath was knocked clean out of my lungs.
"Tomorrow you face the clan over your humiliating video," he roared, looming over me like a storm about to break. "And instead of focusing on that, you throw a fit over a stupid human?!"
The word human echoed strangely in my head. Not small. Not meaningless. Just final. I said nothing. I couldn't. The anger I had clung to earlier had burned itself out, leaving behind something hollow and numb, like ashes after a fire.
"You should be grateful I still have you alive and in this house after embarrassing me!" His voice rose, filling the room, shaking the walls. "Do you have any idea what it means for me to face my own people after that?!"
Still, I didn't respond. My silence seemed to anger him more, but I had nothing left to give him. not fear, not defiance, not even tears.
The door slammed shut behind him with a violent crack that echoed through the room like a verdict. For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at nothing, his words replaying in my head over and over again, cutting deeper each time.
That one video. If it hadn't happened, none of this would have followed. I would still be in school. Maria would still be alive.
A shaky breath slipped out of me. "I guess I'm bad luck…" I whispered into the emptiness, my voice fragile, barely there. "Anyone who comes close to me… dies."
My throat tightened painfully as fresh tears blurred my vision. I had wanted something so small just to be seen. I thought Darius saw me. I thought the attention meant something. I clung to it like it mattered… and it had led me here. It had led Maria to that gate. To that house. To her death.
"I wanted to be seen…" My voice cracked completely. "And it killed her."
The tears came silently then, slipping down my temples as I curled into myself on the bed, folding inward as if I could disappear into my own body. The weight of it all pressed down from the inside, crushing, suffocating, inescapable.
[The day of the full moon]
The next morning, sunlight spilled across my face in soft, golden streaks, but it felt wrong, too warm, too alive for the emptiness sitting in my chest. My eyes were open, but nothing inside me was.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, unmoving, wishing I could sink into the mattress and never surface again at the realization that it was today, the full moon night. "By nightfall, they would all be watching."
Downstairs, Layla's voice cut sharply through the quiet, shattering the fragile stillness.
"Father, give me a duty just like you gave Marcus!" she demanded, her tone loud, insistent. "I am practically useless to the clan. And if you can't do that, at least make me the woman of this house!"
"You are the woman of this house," Father replied, his voice steady, though edged with fatigue.
"I don't feel that way!" Layla snapped. "Not when that woman is still here!"
A pause followed—heavy, dangerous.
"That woman," Father said slowly, "is going to be my wife, Layla. Be careful."
"Good gracious!" Layla shrieked, her frustration boiling over. A second later, her footsteps thundered across the marble floor, each step sharp and deliberate, heading straight toward me.
I didn't move. I didn't prepare. I simply pulled the covers tighter around myself, bracing for impact.
The door slammed open with a deafening bang.
"Wake up now, princess," Layla snapped, her voice dripping with venom. "I need you to clean my room. It's a mess, and I'm heading out."
I said nothing. I didn't even turn to look at her. Looking meant reacting. Reacting meant feeling. I couldn't afford that.
"Father must have knocked your ears out because you seem deaf," she sneered, irritation sharpening her tone.
"Fine. I'll clean it. Just… go," I muttered, my voice flat, distant, barely mine.
There was a beat of stunned silence before her anger flared.
"Oh my God, this is how you talk to me now?" she snapped, her voice climbing toward hysteria. "Get up. Now."
Her hand shot out, grabbing my arm roughly, fingers tightening like she needed to remind herself I was still beneath her. She yanked me out of bed, dragging me forward. My bare feet stumbled against the cold floor as I followed, my body slow to respond, my mind even slower.
As we reached the staircase, I caught sight of Seraphina below, standing near the dining area, quietly helping the maids arrange the breakfast table. She moved with calm precision, unbothered, untouched by the tension crackling through the house.
Then she stopped.
Her head lifted slightly, her gaze finding us instantly.
"Layla," she called.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Something in the air shifted the moment she spoke.
Layla froze mid-step, her grip tightening on my arm before loosening just slightly. "And now that bitch even calls my name," she muttered under her breath, though there was a flicker of something else beneath the anger.
Seraphina turned fully and began ascending the stairs, her steps slow, deliberate, unhurried. With each step, the space seemed to bend subtly around her, as if the house itself acknowledged her presence. By the time she reached us, the tension had shifted entirely.
She stopped in front of Layla, her expression calm, almost pleasant.
"How old are you again?" she asked.
Layla blinked, thrown off. "What kind of question is that?"
"I asked," Seraphina repeated, her voice steady, "how old are you?"
"You think you're my mother?" Layla snapped, anger returning quickly, though it felt thinner now.
Seraphina smiled then, a small, controlled smile that never reached her eyes.
"No, darling," she said softly. "I am worse. I am your stepmother." She let the words settle before continuing, her tone unchanged. "Now go inside and fix your room."
Layla's grip on me tightened reflexively. "What makes you think you can order me around?" she hissed.
Seraphina stepped closer, close enough to invade her space without appearing aggressive. She lifted her hands and rested them lightly on Layla's shoulders, her touch gentle, almost affectionate. Then she patted her cheek softly, like soothing a child.
"Who is Patrick?" she asked.
Everything stopped.
Layla's face drained of color instantly, her fingers slipping from my arm as if burned. "W… what?" she stammered, her voice suddenly small, fragile.
For the first time, I saw it clearly, real fear. Not anger. Not arrogance. Fear.
Seraphina's expression didn't change. "If you don't go in now and fix your room," she said calmly, "Ivy won't be the only one getting punished tonight under the full moon."
The threat lingered in the air, quiet but suffocating.
Layla released me completely, her composure shattered. Without another word, she turned and stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her, though the force lacked its earlier confidence.
Seraphina watched the door for a moment, then turned to me.
Up close, her gaze softened just slightly not enough to be comforting, but enough to feel intentional.
"You," she said. "Come with me."
It wasn't a command. It wasn't a request. It was something in between—and somehow, that made it impossible to refuse.
Without a word, I followed her.
"What was your childhood like?" she asked softly.
I stared at her.
Of all the things she could ask… why that?
The sun was already shifting.
Night was coming.