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Chapter One

Mirella

The sound of my mother’s voice was undoubtedly one of the most annoying things in my life.

“Mirella, for God’s sake, sit up straight. You look like a slouching peasant. Fix your posture”

I hadn’t even touched my breakfast yet, and already she had ruined my morning and my appetite with it.

I lifted my eyes from the plate of scrambled eggs, perfectly seasoned by the cook, not her by the way, and tried not to roll them. Across the polished oak table, my father rustled the newspaper, pretending not to hear.

He never interfered with her 'corrections'. Never defended me. Just let her words cut deeper into me.

“I’m sitting just fine Mother,” I muttered, straightening my back until it ached.

Her eyes narrowed into slits, sharp as the diamonds she flaunted on her wrists. “Don’t talk back at me young lady. How many times must I tell you? A young woman with your… limitations should be grateful she has a family name to carry her on.”

There it was.

Another reminder that I wasn’t enough.

Not beautiful enough, not perfect enough, not the kind of daughter they wanted to display at their endless charity galas and social club dinners.

“I got an A in literature yesterday,” I said quickly, stupidly reaching for some scrap of approval. “Mrs. Harlow said my essay was one of the best she’s ever read.”

My mother’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. More like a cruel laugh she hadn’t let out yet. “An essay won’t make you desirable, Mirella. Boys don’t fall in love with essays or know it alls.”

The words hurt worse than a slap. I dropped my fork with a clatter, the sound echoing in the silent dining room.

“Enough,” my father muttered behind the paper, though he still didn’t look at me.

“Of course,” my mother said sweetly, “but you should tell your daughter the truth instead of letting her live in some fantasy.” She leaned toward me, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. “When are you going to start caring about your appearance? You look like you’ve given up already. Your hair is  messy, your skin dull, there's just no effort at all. Do you think people at school don’t notice?”

“I don’t care what they notice,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

Her hand twitched, sharp movement, and for a terrifying second I thought she might actually slap me across the face.

It wouldn't be the first time.

My breath caught, body frozen. She didn’t hit me. Not this time. But her glare said it all. She wanted to.

I shoved back my chair so fast it screeched across the marble floor. “I’m done,” I choked, my throat burning.

“Mirella!” her voice rang behind me as I bolted. “Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m speaking to you!”

But I was already running up the grand staircase, tears blurring as I zoomed past the  perfect family portraits hanging on the walls. The ones where my parents looked like royalty and I looked like a placeholder they couldn’t edit out.

By the time I slammed my bedroom door shut, my chest felt like it might explode.

I slid down against the wood, burying my face in my knees.

It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But no matter how many times she said it, the words still cut deep.

I was too plain, too loud, too stubborn.

I was too much and never enough at the same time.

I bit down on my sleeve to muffle the sound of my sobs.

I hated crying. I despised it.

It felt like weakness, like handing her victory on a silver platter. But sometimes the weight of silence, the silence at this table, in this house, in my father’s refusal to even look at me, was too heavy to carry.

My  chest rose and fell too quickly, the air slicing through my throat like it was too sharp to breathe. I clutched at the fabric of my sleeve, trying to stop the sobs, but the harder I fought them, the more they came, breaking out of me in harsh, ragged bursts.

I curled tighter into myself, head pounding, lungs screaming for air.

The walls seemed to close in, spinning, tilting, swallowing me whole.

Not again.

Not now.

I pressed my palms to the sides of my head, nails digging into my scalp. The sound of my mother’s voice played on repeat inside me, every insult was sharper than the last.

Not pretty enough. Not enough effort. Not enough.

A thin whimper slipped out of me. My chest seized.

I gasped, choking on air, tears stinging until I couldn’t see anything but blurred light. My hands trembled. My heart was racing too fast, too loud, like it might break free.

It was too much.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the spinning, the sobs, the gasping, everything went dark.

★

The next morning, I woke with the taste of salt on my lips and the stiff ache of having cried myself into exhaustion. My eyes burned, heavy from the crying marathon I did last night. This was why I hated crying.

Dragging myself off the floor, I stumbled toward the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, swollen hollow eyes, tangled hair, skin blotchy and pale.

I almost laughed out loud. I was the picture-perfect of disappointment.

With a groan, I turned away. I didn’t even remember changing into my pajamas.

Somehow, I forced myself into my uniform... plaid skirt, stiff white shirt, blazer that always felt a size too small. I didn't know if they were running a strip club or am educational institution.

My fingers fumbled over the buttons. Everything felt harder than it should have, like I was going through the motions.

Great. I was numb again. But what did I care.

By the time I made it downstairs, the dining room was empty.

Only the scent of fresh coffee lingered. The cook poked her head out from the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Mirella,” she said softly, as if afraid I might shatter.

"Good morning. Where are my parents please?" I asked.

“Your parents left early. Business trip.” She answered.

Of course. Well, that was about two weeks of freedom from my mother's consistent nagging about how useless I was.

"And my sister? Did she go with them?"

“No little Miss. Your sister was called into the company early this morning. She won’t be back until late.”

So they were all gone.

A hollow laugh bubbled up in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or just the usual sting of being forgotten.

Ohh well, I would take it as relief.

"Don't worry about breakfast. I'm not hungry." I told the cook.

"But you didn't eat dinner last night Miss. It's not a—." I cut her off before she could finish.

"It's okay. I'll get something in the cafeteria to eat later in the day. Thank you." I said walking out of the house and into the car waiting for me as soon as I came out.

"Good morning young Miss." My driver greeted.

"Good morning Gabriel." He was a nice older man with two kids who were in middle school this year.

He gave me a kind smile in the rearview mirror before pulling us out of the driveway. His presence was steady, reliable. Almost comforting.

Almost.

I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the city blur by.

Two weeks without my parents.

Two weeks without me trying to beg for their approval.

It should have felt like freedom.

Instead, I just felt empty.

Because no matter where they went, they never really left me.

Their words lived in my head rent free, sinking teeth into every quiet moment. I carried them like chains no one else could see.

And sometimes, on mornings like this, I wondered if there would ever be a day when I wasn’t haunted by them.

Or if the only way to be free was to disappear entirely.