94
Miranda/Laila's's POV
I was stunned when my stepmother started ranting about the law, as if she had the moral high ground. The audacity of it all left me momentarily speechless. She stood there, her lips pursed, her hands clutched into fists at her sides, while spouting nonsense about her daughter’s supposed innocence.
This was the same woman who had joined forces with her precious Mara to ruin my life and even tried to kill me in my first life. That memory alone was enough to make my blood boil, but I refused to let it show. Not this time. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me lose my composure.
“Stepmother,” I said calmly, though my voice carried an unmistakable edge. “It’s interesting to hear you speak so confidently about the law. Since you’re such an expert, I wonder… Are you aware that both attempted murder and actual murder are punishable by prison sentences? Did you know that?”
She glared at me, her eyes narrowing into slits, but she said nothing.
“I asked you a question,” I pressed, my voice cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.
Her nostrils flared, but she finally answered, her tone dripping with venom. “I know that perfectly well. But that’s not the case here, is it? You didn’t die, did you? And you have no evidence—none—to prove that Mara tried to kill you. So no, you cannot have her arrested, let alone imprisoned.”
Her words hung in the air, the challenge in her voice daring me to contradict her. I smiled—cold, sharp, and unyielding. She was dancing dangerously close to the lion’s tail, and I wouldn’t hesitate to bite.
“Fine,” I said, leaning forward slightly, my gaze locked onto hers. “You claim it’s false imprisonment, that I’m somehow being unjust toward your daughter. Let me ask you something, then. If I were to let her go, would you and your daughter leave this house?”
She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “Why should I do that?” she snapped. “Why should I leave the house when my daughter is also your father’s daughter? Oh, wait…” She smirked, a cruel glint in her eyes. “Let me be honest here. Mara isn’t your father’s daughter. She’s mine—and mine alone. But that doesn’t change the fact that I brought her into this house when I married your father. She was in my womb back then, you know. So, no, I’m not leaving. This is our home, too.”
Her confession hit me like a slap, but I quickly masked my shock. So, Mara wasn’t even my father’s child? That explained a lot—too much, really. My grip on the wine glass tightened, and for a fleeting moment, I entertained the idea of throwing it at her smug face. But I resisted. Losing my temper wouldn’t serve me now.
“Is that so?” I said, my voice low and measured. “Well, let me make this clear for you, stepmother. You claim you’re staying because this is your home, yet you forget one simple fact: This mansion is in my name. It belongs to me. So if you and your daughter insist on staying here, it will be considered trespassing. And as you’ve so eloquently pointed out, trespassing is illegal. Right?”
Her face turned a deep shade of red. “How dare you—”
“How dare I?” I interrupted, rising from my seat. I took slow, deliberate steps toward her, my eyes never leaving hers. “How dare you stand there and lecture me about respect? You, who used my father’s love as a weapon? You, who treated me like trash the moment I turned five? Do you even remember that, or have you conveniently forgotten?”
She stumbled back a step, but her glare didn’t waver. “Miranda, I raised you. I cared for you after your mother died. I was the one who—”
“Stop,” I snapped, my voice sharp enough to make her flinch. “Don’t you dare use that as an excuse. You didn’t care for me. You tolerated me—barely. And only because you had to. The moment you didn’t need to anymore, you and your precious daughter made it your mission to destroy me. Don’t stand there and pretend to be the loving stepmother. It’s insulting.”
Her lips trembled, but she quickly composed herself. “You’re ungrateful,” she hissed. “I am like a mother to you, and this is how you repay me?”
I laughed—loud and bitter. “A mother? You? Don’t make me laugh. A real mother doesn’t conspire with her daughter to ruin someone’s life. A real mother doesn’t plot to kill. That’s what you are—murderers. And you have the nerve to demand respect?”
Her jaw dropped, and for a moment, she was silent. Then, as if regaining her footing, she straightened her shoulders and glared at me with renewed defiance. “You can’t prove anything. You’re nothing but a bitter, vindictive child. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
I stepped closer, close enough that she could see the fire in my eyes. “I don’t need proof to know the truth. And let me tell you something, stepmother. My patience is wearing thin. Either you tell your daughter to jump off a cliff or pack your bags and get out of my house. The choice is yours.”
Her face contorted with rage, but I didn’t care. This was my house. My rules. My life. And I would no longer bow to the likes of her.
I turned on my heel and walked toward the staircase, my heels clicking against the marble floor. Halfway up, I paused and looked back at her. “One more thing,” I said, my voice cold and final. “This isn’t a warning. It’s a promise. Push me any further, and you’ll regret it.”
With that, I ascended the stairs, leaving her to stew in her fury. I sipped my wine, savoring the taste of victory. The war wasn’t over yet, but I’d won this battle. And I intended to win them all.