Through the haze of fever, I heard laughter outside my room. Nadine’s shrill giggle, Leandro’s low chuckle. Sometimes there was more than laughter—moans that cut through the night and stabbed at me like knives. I buried my head into the pillow, forcing myself to sleep, forcing myself to let go of the sounds of betrayal. My body needed to heal. My mind needed silence.
But peace never stayed long in this house.
I was jolted awake one afternoon by the sharp, acrid smell of smoke. My heart jumped to my throat. I forced myself out of bed, leaning on the wall for balance, and stumbled toward the hallway. When I reached the back garden, my world stopped.
Flames licked through piles of fabric—my dresses, my books, even Gwen’s tiny toys. All of it burning.
“What are you doing?!” My voice cracked as I ran forward, heat slapping against my skin. “Stop it! Those are mine!”
The maid avoided my eyes, her hands trembling as she fed another box into the fire.
“Miss… I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It wasn’t my order. Miss Nadine… she told us to throw your things. She said she didn’t want to see them anymore.”