Chapter 4
Abigail's POV
The hatred that surged through me was so intense it almost took physical form. My hands gripped the sheets tightly, nails digging into the silk, and in that terrible moment, I wanted nothing more than to leap from the bed, rush over, and tear that false smile to shreds.
Just then, I felt a slight movement at the bedside—Orchid nervously shifting her stance, as if weighing whether to step forward and calm me down. This subtle motion was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head, yanking me forcibly back from the edge of hatred.
I wasn't the only one in danger.
If I showed any abnormality now, if I let my hatred for Evelyn show, she would suspect. Once she suspected, she would eliminate all potential threats.
Not this time.
I forced myself to release the sheets I'd been clutching, slowly smoothing the creases between my fingers, letting my expression shift from twisted anger back to shaken vulnerability. This time, I would be smarter than all of them.
"Mother," I began. "I—"
I deliberately let my voice break a little, "I had a terrible dream."
Evelyn set the basket on the dressing table and walked gracefully to the bed, sitting where Orchid had just left. She reached out, her fingertips gently brushing aside a strand of disheveled hair from my face.
"Oh, my poor darling," she murmured, her voice dripping with perfectly measured concern and pity. "What kind of dream frightened you so badly?"
I looked up, meeting those cold, calculating eyes hidden behind the shell of maternal love, making my expression as helpless and frightened as possible.
"I dreamed I was burning," I said in a low voice, "I was tied to a stake, and there was fire everywhere. I couldn't escape. The pain... it was so real, Mother. Real enough that it felt like more than just a dream."
"How terrifying," she sighed, her palm moving to my cheek, gently caressing. "But it was only a dream, darling. No matter how frightening things are in dreams, once you wake up, they're nothing. You're safe here, in your own room, understand? Nothing bad is going to happen to you."
Liar.
The word exploded in my mind, but I only leaned into her touch as I'd done countless times before, letting myself appear softened and soothed by her comfort.
"You're right," I answered softly. "I'm sorry for worrying you. I'm just... not quite out of the nightmare yet."
"Of course I don't blame you," she said, her smile settling firmly back on her face, flawless. "That's why I brought you something sweet. Come, have a pastry. With something in your stomach, you'll feel much better."
She stood and walked to the dressing table, lifting the white cloth from the basket. A small basket of golden honey cakes lay there quietly, almost identical in size and shape, still steaming slightly. The aroma of honey and butter immediately filled the room, sweet enough to almost envelop a person completely.
I stared at that basket of seemingly innocent cakes, my stomach churning. How many had I eaten over the years? How many times had I said "thank you, Mother" while slowly feeding poison into my own body under her gentle gaze?
"Actually..." I began, making my voice sound weak and hesitant. "I'm not very hungry right now. My stomach feels uncomfortable. Maybe it's from being frightened by the nightmare. I don't think I can... eat anything."
Evelyn's hand paused mid-air, her fingertips hovering above the basket. When she looked back at me, the edges of her smile had tightened ever so slightly.
"Don't be silly," she said, her tone still gentle but with an added note of finality. "You need to eat, Abigail. You're already too thin. Just one cake—for me, won't you?"
The pressure was subtle but unmistakable: obey, don't question, be the good daughter you've always been so good at being.
But I was no longer that girl being slowly weakened, boiled alive like a frog in warm water.
"Mother," a bright, clear voice called from the doorway, interrupting this invisible tug-of-war. "Are you bothering Abigail again?"
Olivia glided into the room as if entering a ballroom, her movements so graceful she seemed to step out of a painting. She looked between us, a warm, slightly teasing smile on her lips.
"Olivia," I said her name, finding my voice unexpectedly calm. "Good morning."
"Good morning, sister." She walked to Evelyn's side, leaning over to peek into the basket, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, honey cakes! Mother, you shouldn't favor Abigail so much. She'll get fat."
"Don't talk nonsense," Evelyn chided her, but when speaking to Olivia, her voice held a softness that was genuine, a warmth that had never been and would never be used on me. "Your sister needs to build up her strength. She's been looking pale lately."
"That's because she always locks herself in her room," Olivia replied lightly, casually picking up a honey cake from the basket.
Just as she was about to bring it to her lips, Evelyn's hand suddenly reached out, pressing down on her wrist. "Don't eat this one. These are prepared for Abigail. She hasn't had much appetite lately, so I made them specially according to her favorite recipe from when she was little. Don't compete with her for them."
Olivia froze for half a second, clearly not expecting to be stopped. In that instant, a trace of surprise and displeasure flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly covered by her usual obedient smile.
"Can I just steal a tiny piece from the edge? Just to taste it?"
This time, Evelyn didn't stop her. Instead, she picked out a slightly less perfectly shaped small cake from the basket and handed it to her personally: "Just this one. If you eat more, don't blame me for reducing your desserts tonight."
"Deal." Olivia smiled as she took it, biting off a small piece. "Mm, it's the same taste as always. I remember you used to say Abigail couldn't stop smiling when she saw these as a child."
I watched her eat that piece of pastry, watched her chew and swallow without the slightest hesitation.
The poison clearly wasn't in the piece she'd gotten, nor in any piece she could casually reach for. Evelyn had always been cautious and methodical. She would never risk letting her actual precious daughter accidentally consume even the tiniest bit of something "unexpected."
This meant—the cakes in the basket weren't all the same thing. Some could be used for Olivia to taste on the spot, to publicly prove their safety; while the ones truly meant for me were the specific pieces she'd personally designated, the ones she'd watch me eat with her own eyes.
How clever. I thought coldly. Clever enough to make me sick.
"Poor Abigail, always so sensitive," she said brightly. "Don't worry, sister. I'm sure whatever you dreamed about was just your imagination running wild."
I returned a somewhat timid smile, like a girl still caught in the shadow of nightmares, dependent on family comfort for everything. Let them think I was still that Abigail they could manipulate at will. Let them believe their plans were still proceeding smoothly.