She scoffed. “Liar. Patricia said she saw you. You’ve always been jealous of what isn’t yours. And now you’re breaking things?”
“I didn’t—” My breath caught in my throat. “I swear I didn’t do it.”
That was all it took.
A sharp crack filled the room. My head snapped to the side.
She had slapped me.
Hard.
The sting bloomed across my cheek, my skin burning, my ears ringing—not from the pain, but from the words that followed.
“I should’ve left you with those peasants who raised you!” she shouted. “You think you’re our blood? You’ll never be one of us. I regret ever claiming you as my daughter. Patricia is my only child.”
My body froze. Her words settled like lead in my chest.
Then she turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.
A soft knock.
Then Patricia stepped inside.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, reaching for me.
I pulled back instinctively, but she came closer—offering me that same false comfort she always wore like perfume.