Chapter 2

Seraphina's POV

The next morning, Natalie kicked open my bedroom door, her face dripping with sheer arrogance.

Draped in the latest season's silk designer slip, she crossed her arms over her chest, scanning my tiny room with open disgust.

"Are you really leaving?"

I was folding the last few shirts, not even bothering to look up. "Yeah."

Natalie strolled in and casually yanked open my wardrobe. Inside hung only a pathetic handful of faded, outdated clothes.

"This junk is all you have?" Natalie sneered. "Whatever. It's not like you're taking any of it anyway."

My hands paused slightly.

Natalie was already rummaging through my vanity drawer. She pulled out a small jewelry box, popped it open, glanced at the trinkets, and tossed it carelessly back onto the dresser.

"Everything here was paid for by the Vance family," she stated, her tone dripping with entitlement. "When you get out of here, you leave every single scrap behind."

I finally raised my head to look at her.

Her face was meticulously made up, every line and contour highlighting her inherent snobbery. Natalie had inherited all of our mother's best traits—flawless features, a slim figure, and the effortless, pampered elegance of someone who had never been told no.

And what about me?

I took after my father. When I was younger, I had been pretty in a delicate way, but years of neglect, endless chores, and emotional starvation had withered it away. I was painfully thin, like a dried branch battered by the elements. My skin was pale and bloodless—not from beauty, but from routine transfusions, losing hundreds of milliliters of blood every few months just to keep her safe.

"Natalie," I said quietly, my voice flat. "Out of all that jewelry, did you personally buy a single piece for me?"

Natalie's expression shifted violently. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." I lowered my gaze and resumed folding. "If you say leave it, I'll leave it."

My lack of reaction clearly infuriated her. Marching forward, she swept her arm across the dresser, violently smashing everything onto the floor.

"Seraphina! Who the hell do you think you are?!" Natalie shrieked. "You're nothing but a walking blood bag Mom and Dad made for me! If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have been born!"

Heavy footsteps echoed from the hall. Father and Mother rushed in, taking in the shattered mess across the floor. Mother frowned, stepping between us and facing me.

"Phina, Natalie is just looking out for you. You're moving overseas alone; lugging around so much baggage will only weigh you down," Mother said, her tone feigning gentle reason, though her eyes were devoid of any real warmth. "Besides, all of this belonged to Natalie in the first place. It makes sense for her to take it back. Don't fight with your sister."

I looked at my mother. Deep down, I felt nothing. Not a single ripple.

Three specific memories flashed through my mind.

The first was when I was five. It was Natalie's birthday, and the house was packed with neighborhood kids. The parents chatted in the living room while I hid alone in the hallway corner. The cook felt bad for me and slipped me a small cupcake. I held it like a treasure, but right before I took a bite, Natalie rushed over and slapped it out of my hands.

The cupcake smashed against the floor, frosting smearing across the tiles.

Mother marched over and backhanded me across the face.

"It's Natalie's birthday! Why are you always so selfish?!"

That was when I was five, and it was the first time I learned what injustice felt like.

The second memory was when I was ten. I ran home with a straight-A report card, desperate for my parents to see. Father took it, barely glanced at the paper, and tossed it straight into the trash can.

"What's the point of this? Even if Natalie fails every class, she's still the sole heir to the Vance estate. What about you? Even with straight A's, you'll never measure up to her. You're nobody."

That was when I was ten, and it was the first time I realized I had no future in this house.

The third memory was when I was fifteen. Natalie had gotten into a fight with someone at school and came home in a foul mood, taking it out on me. She pressed a burning cigarette butt against the back of my hand, leaving a permanent round scar.

I screamed in agony. When our parents rushed in, they only had one thing to say: "Natalie is upset, Phina. Stop provoking her."

That was when I was fifteen, and it was the moment I completely abandoned any hope of ever being loved by them.

From that day on, I stopped crying, stopped screaming, and stopped defending myself. I learned silence. I learned endurance. I learned to mask every open wound beneath a blanket of pure numbness.

Because nobody cared about my tears.

Just like right now. Mother stood before me, her gaze dripping with favoritism toward Natalie and disgust toward me, as if I were merely an eyesore taking up space, not her flesh and blood.

"Fine," I nodded. "Whatever Natalie says goes."

Natalie hesitated, thrown off. She had fully expected me to cry, beg, and fall to my knees apologizing like I used to. Instead, I just nodded and quietly returned to folding my pitifully few shirts.

"You better drill this into your head, Seraphina—" Natalie pointed a manicured finger at me. "Once you're out of the country, stay the hell away from Ethan. He's mine. Do you hear me?"

I didn't turn around.

"Understood."

Natalie scoffed and strutted out of the room.

Once the door clicked shut, absolute silence reclaimed the space.

I crouched down, picking up the scattered debris piece by piece.

There wasn't much worth salvaging anyway. A couple of cheap drugstore lipsticks, an expired bottle of lotion, and a heavily faded photograph.

In the picture were three people: me, Ethan, and Natalie. It had been taken ten years ago, three days after I dragged Ethan out of the rubble.

Natalie had shoved her way into the frame, clinging to Ethan, while Mother aggressively pushed me to the side.

Mother had hissed: "With the way you look, standing next to Ethan is just an embarrassment."

In that photo, Ethan was confined to a wheelchair, and Natalie stood behind him with a dazzling smile. Nobody remembered the girl who had actually pulled him from the dirt.

I flipped the photo over. Scrawled on the back in Ethan's handwriting were the words: May I remember you forever.

I stared at those words for a very long time. Then, slowly, I tore the photo in half, tearing it again and again until it was shredded into tiny confetti.

I let the scraps slip through my fingers, watching them flutter to the floor like a belated fall of snow.