95
Miranda/Laila’s POV
After the fiery confrontation with my stepmother, I returned to my room, my heart still pounding with satisfaction. The tension of standing toe-to-toe with her, the woman who had tormented me for years, lingered in the air like a storm about to break. My room, dimly lit by the soft glow of my bedside lamp, offered a semblance of peace—though peace was the last thing I felt.
From my window, I could see Mara's locked room, just adjacent to mine. The faint light leaking from beneath her door cast a shadow of unease. I had deliberately chosen that room for her—close enough to hear every word she screamed, every desperate cry for help. Call me cruel, but this was justice. She was feeling a fraction of the agony I endured when she pushed me into that ocean, leaving me to die.
I sat on the edge of my bed, surfing the web on my phone, feigning indifference. But my ears were sharp, tuned to her every sound. It wasn’t long before the wails began.
“Get me out of here!” Mara screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. “Anybody! Somebody, please help me! I don’t want to stay here anymore! Please, Mother, are you there? Help me! Lila, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for trying to kill you! Please, just let me out! It’s so dark in here!”
Her cries echoed through the hall like a haunting melody. My lips curled into a cold smile as I listened, leaning back against my headboard. I knew the darkness would get to her eventually. Mara had always been terrified of the dark—a fact I had filed away long ago. Now, it was my weapon.
Just as I expected, I heard hurried footsteps approaching her door. My stepmother’s voice, panicked and filled with maternal anguish, followed soon after.
“Mara! My child, how are you? Mara, are you hurt? Is there anywhere you’re in pain?” Her words were laced with worry, and I could hear the tremor in her voice.
From my room, I chuckled softly. The melodrama was almost entertaining.
“Mom, I’m scared!” Mara sobbed, her fists pounding against the door. “It’s so dark in here! The worst part is Lila hasn’t given me any food or water! I don’t want to stay here another second! Please, release me now! Open the door!”
My stepmother leaned against the door, her sobs joining her daughter’s. “Mara, my love, my precious daughter, please be patient. I’ll think of a way to get you out of there. Just hold on and stay strong.”
I scoffed under my breath. They were pathetic.
“No, Mom! I can’t stay here! You’re here now! Just open the door! I want to get out!” Mara cried, her voice rising to a shrill pitch.
“Mara, I don’t have the key,” my stepmother said helplessly, her voice breaking. “But I brought you some buns. Eat these first so you don’t starve. Please, just hang in there.”
The absurdity of it all made me laugh outright. They were unraveling so easily. But as I listened to the exchange, I realized it was time to intervene. If left unchecked, my stepmother would surely escalate the situation. I slipped my feet into my flip-flops and headed toward the door.
When I stepped out, I found my stepmother crouched near the locked door, clutching a bag of food. Her face was etched with despair, tears streaking her cheeks. At the sight of me, her expression hardened, transforming into a mask of barely contained rage.
“You!” she snapped, rising to her feet. “Open this door right now! I need to give her food!”
I folded my arms, a smirk playing on my lips. “Oh, stepmother, I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice dripping with mock sincerity. “But nobody can release your precious Mara without my permission.”
Her face twisted with fury. “You stupid girl!” she spat. “She’s your sister! This revenge of yours has gone too far! I just want to give her food, that’s all!”
“Sister?” I shot back, my voice icy. “You dare call her my sister now? Was she my sister when she pushed me into the ocean, stepmother? Was she my sister when she left me to die?”
The words hung in the air like a blade, cutting deep. She flinched, but quickly recovered.
“Lila, I raised you!” she shouted. “I cared for you! And this is how you repay me? You’ve become heartless!”
I stepped closer, my gaze locked onto hers. “You raised me? Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? Because I remember hiding in my own father’s house to eat food, to drink water. I remember starving while you and your daughter feasted. Do you?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but I wasn’t done. “And now, suddenly, I’m her sister? Tell me, stepmother, when Mara was plotting to kill me, did she remember I was her sister? When she left me for dead, did she cry out for me like she’s crying for you now?”
Her defiance crumbled, and she softened, her voice trembling. “Please,” she said, her hands clasped together. “It’s my fault. Let me just give her something to eat. Please.”
Her pitiful display almost amused me. “Fine,” I said coldly, turning to the guard standing nearby. “Give her the food.”
The guard nodded, taking the bag from my stepmother’s trembling hands. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and handed Mara the buns.
But, of course, Mara couldn’t simply accept her fate. She lunged at him, trying to push past. He caught her effortlessly and delivered a sharp slap to her cheek. She stumbled back, wailing, as he locked the door once more.
“You stupid idiot!” Mara screamed, her fists pounding against the door. “You call yourself my sister? I should have made sure you died in that ocean! I wish God had never sent you back to this family! You threw food into this room like I’m a dog!”
Her words were venomous, but they only fueled my satisfaction.
“Mara, don’t eat the ones on the floor,” my stepmother pleaded through her tears. “I’ll get you new ones, my love.”
I smirked, shaking my head. “Stepmother,” I said, my tone sharp, “nobody in this house is allowed to waste food. If she doesn’t want to eat what’s already there, she can starve. It’s that simple.”
My stepmother looked at me, horrified. “You’re a bully, Lila,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I took a step closer, towering over her. “No, stepmother,” I said, my voice low and cold. “I’m your karma. You don’t want to be bullied? Then pack your bags and leave this house. Have your free life with your precious daughter. But let me make one thing clear: Mara stays. She’ll remain my hostage until I decide otherwise. You can leave, or you can stay and watch her suffer. The choice is yours.”
I turned and walked away, ignoring their cries and pleas. As I reached my room, I could still hear the faint rustling of the bag as Mara reluctantly ate the buns.
Justice was being served. Piece by agonizing piece.