Chapter 2
I stared at the phone, memories flooding back-of that time Isabella was trapped in an elevator.
She had begged me for help, and I had ignored her, walking away without a second glance in my stiletto heels.
That same night, the young master of the Hawthorne family had me locked in a dark room.
For three days and three nights, I was left without food or water, consumed by hunger, cold, and the suffocating terror of
the dark.
Nathaniel had my location tracked on his phone. He was the only one who could have found me immediately.
I called him again and again, pleading for help.
But all he said was, “Apologize to Isabella properly, and I’ll come get you right away.”
Of course I refused to back down. I called the police, but somehow-whether through bribes or some underhanded trick-
they claimed they couldn’t locate me.
When the officers came to investigate, my father Richard Sinclair, my brother Benjamin Sinclair, and Nathaniel all claimed
nothing had happened. I was even blacklisted for filing a false report.
In the end, I endured those three days, pushed to the absolute limit of my endurance.
I was utterly broken. Sobbing, I apologized to Isabella.
It was the first time in ten years I had bowed my head to that venomous mother and daughter.
And it was the first time in ten years Isabella had crushed me beneath her heel.
She smiled sweetly and said she was glad her “big sister finally understood her mistakes.”
Richard and Benjamin were overjoyed, praising me for finally “behaving” and “growing up,” urging me to “keep it up.”
After I was released, I developed claustrophobia.
I became terrified of the dark, of enclosed spaces-but right now, I felt no fear at all.
Perhaps fear was just a meaningless emotion that only existed when one still clung to life.
I didn’t touch the phone.
I lay in that warehouse for three days, thinking.
I thought of my childhood, back when my mother, Catherine Sinclair was still alive-when our family of four was happy. and I was the most beloved little princess.
I remembered Catherine’s illness, the ravages of chemotherapy, how she withered away while Richard grew more and
more reluctant to come home.
I remembered her screams of despair, the intimate photos that Victoria Montgomery sent her during her most agonizing
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moments-photos of her with Richard.
I remembered how Victoria and Isabella had shamelessly shown up at Catherine’s last birthday celebration.
Catherine had trembled with rage.
That day, she had just returned from chemotherapy, already in unbearable pain, when her heart suddenly failed. She never
woke up.
That day, Benjamin held me as he wept for hours.
Gently stroking my back, he whispered, “Emily, don’t be afraid. You still have me. I won’t let those monsters hurt you.”
Less than a month after Catherine’s death, Richard eagerly moved his mistress and Isabella into our home.
At first, Benjamin and I stood together against them, united in our hatred.
But when did that change?
Maybe it was when Isabella, with trembling hands, offered him her only piece of candy.
Or maybe it was when she was bullied at school-how she stubbornly refused to cry in front of others, only to “coincidentally” sit sniffling in Benjamin’s path afterward….
She was always the fragile, pitiful victim, just like her scheming mother.
And I? I was always the unrestrained villain.
At some point, the way Benjamin looked at me changed.
Whenever Isabella and I clashed, he took her side.
It was as if he had forgotten our mother’s suffering-forgotten how she had died.
When I confronted him, he only sighed impatiently. “Mom had cancer. There was no saving her anyway…”
How familiar. How cold.
Those were the exact words Richard had used, over and over, to justify himself and protect his mistress. Now, Benjamin could say them just as easily.
From that moment on, I no longer had a family.
And now, the person I had brought into my life, the one I had treated as family-for the sake of those two poisonous women, he had plunged the knife into me again and again without hesitation.
I looked at my broken limbs, then at the filthy phone, and finally, I laughed.
A life like this-filled with nothing but hatred and betrayal-was truly meaningless.
I didn’t touch the phone.
I just lay there, for three days, until the very end.
Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.