I stood there a moment longer, absorbing the atmosphere—the joy, the noise, the spectacle. None of it meant for me. Not a single seat empty at the table.
Clover rubbed against my leg, and I turned without a word.
Back in my room, the silence wrapped around me like frost. I paced once. Twice. My jaw locked tight.
I knew I wasn't supposed to have my phone during these months of "rehabilitation," but June had slipped one into my pillowcase the week before. I pulled it out, the metal cool in my hand. The first thing I did was type a message I would never send.
Why didn't you ask me to come?
Then I deleted it.
Instead, I paced again. Then opened my sketchpad. But my hand hovered over the page, shaking.
I couldn't draw.
That made it worse.
So I sat on the floor with Clover in my lap and counted the seconds.
By nine, the party was still going. I heard footsteps and the muffled sound of someone vomiting in the hallway. Drunk. Rich. Beautiful. Rewarded.
There was a knock at my door. I stood quickly, hoping—but it wasn't Cassandra. Or mother.
It was June.
She peeked in, holding a covered tray.
"Hey, I brought you something. Took it from the kitchen before they locked it down."
"You're an angel."
She smiled, stepping in and closing the door behind her. "More like a thief with a heart of gold. You didn't miss much downstairs. Just fake laughs and too much perfume. But... I saw how they looked at you. That wasn't fair."
I sat down cross-legged on the floor as she opened the tray. Pasta. Warm rolls. Even a sliver of chocolate cake.
Clover meowed softly, as if in approval.
"I didn't even know she was throwing anything," I admitted.
June shook her head, sitting beside me. "She made sure of that. Trust me."
I swallowed a forkful of pasta and blinked hard. "Why does it still get to me?"
"Because you care. Because they're your family."
"Are they?"
We sat in silence. The sound of laughter filtered up again.
Then June nudged me. "Come with me. Just for a walk."
"It's past curfew."
"I know. That's what makes it fun."
I hesitated, but then stood. Clover darted under the bed as we opened the door.
We crept down the hall like fugitives. Past the guest rooms, through the back staircase, into the moonlit conservatory. June held my hand once, when we passed a corridor lit faintly by a guard's flashlight.
We didn't say much. But that night, for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel invisible.
The rest of the house could drown in glitter and champagne. I had the stars, the night air, and June's quiet defiance.
Some hours later, June had left and I was back in my room. Hunger bit me hard,I decided to go find myself something to eat.
The smell of leftover roast still clung to the air as I crept out of my room. It was late—too late for anyone to be awake—but silence in this house was never a promise. The walls no longer echoed with laughter, but they remembered how. They carried whispers—low, sharp ones that sliced through the dark like knives.
Clover followed close, her dainty paws tapping lightly against the tile. Her tail brushed my ankle, a quiet comfort in a house that offered none. My stomach ached with emptiness. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Mother—had knocked on my door earlier, not to invite me to dinner, but to remind me that Clover wasn't allowed in the main kitchen. That was all she said.
The hum of the refrigerator seemed to roar as I stepped inside. On the counter sat the remnants of the evening's feast—a glass dish of untouched potatoes, half a bottle of wine, the crusty ends of garlic bread. Someone had taken care to foil the lamb, as if preserving it made the absence less cruel. Delicate slices, pink and precise, lined a silver tray. They'd even used the good cutlery.
Cassandra's laughter echoed in my head—shrill, performative, chiming like windchimes in a hurricane. I hadn't been invited. Not even as an afterthought. Not even when I passed the dining room and caught father—lifting his glass in a toast.
He saw me.
He didn't look away.
He didn't call me in.
I reached for a plate, and Clover jumped onto a chair, peering over the counter with wide, watchful eyes. "They really went all out," I whispered. She blinked up at me, and I tried for a smile. "Shall we crash the afterparty?"
There was no warmth in my voice. Just weariness. Hunger. Maybe a little bitterness I hadn't had time to bury.
I was halfway through scraping potatoes onto my plate when the kitchen lights flicked on.
Clover froze. So did I.
Footsteps. Then the soft clink of a ring against glass.
Father stepped into view.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood there in a white shirt with rolled sleeves, a tumbler of something amber in his hand. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd just stepped away from laughter, from a warmth I'd never been invited to share.
"What are you doing?" His voice wasn't sharp, but it wasn't curious either. Just flat. Cold.
"I was hungry," I said, lifting my chin. The plate in my hands suddenly felt heavy. "No one told me there'd be dinner."
"There wasn't a dinner for you," he replied, brushing past me to the counter. He refilled his glass. "You know why."
I swallowed. "Do I?"
He turned back, eyes scanning me like I was a stranger trespassing in his house. Not his daughter. Not anything close.
"You make things difficult for your mother," he said, sipping his drink.
I nearly laughed. "She makes things difficult for me."
He didn't react. "Your sister hosted an important event tonight. She's building connections. Gaining influence. Your presence would have complicated that."