The scars stayed with Astrid long after Natalie had pulled her sleeve back down. They seemed etched not just into the girl's skin, but into the air between them, lingering like smoke in her lungs.
The laundry room smelled faintly of detergent and damp cotton, but underneath it was something sharper—fear. Natalie's breathing was unsteady, her movements jerky as she scrambled to gather fallen clothes. Each crumpled shirt seemed like a shield she tried to build against Astrid.
Astrid bent down, the cold of the tiled floor biting through the thin fabric of her dress. She reached for a garment, folding it with careful precision, smoothing the wrinkles as though gentleness could undo cruelty.
"Let me help you."
Natalie's hands stilled. Suspicion flickered in her tear-swollen eyes, but Astrid kept folding, kept her voice soft. "I'm sorry," she whispered. The words scraped her throat raw. "For what happened. For how you were treated. I know I can't erase it, but… I want you to know it wasn't right. You didn't deserve that."
For a long moment, only the sound of fabric moving filled the space. Then Natalie exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction.
Astrid touched her arm lightly. The skin was fragile, almost papery, the bones sharp beneath, and the faint tremor in her hand traveled into Astrid's own chest. "Come," Astrid murmured. "Let's not stay here."
They carried the laundry into the grand living room. It smelled faintly of lemon polish and money, the musk of leather and the cold sterility of marble floors. The chandeliers glittered overhead, but the light felt harsh for a moment this raw.
Astrid poured a glass of water and pressed it into Natalie's hands. The girl sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her shoulders rigid.
"I started here when I was sixteen," Natalie said finally, her voice a fragile thread. She stared into the glass as if it held the memory. A long pause. Her finger traced a nervous circle into the sofa's upholstery before her voice cracked again. "I thought working in a mansion would be like those stories in magazines. Dresses. Chandeliers. But it wasn't like that."
Astrid stayed quiet, her own breath caught in her chest.
Natalie's eyes glossed again. "She belittled me. Every mistake was punished. Sometimes shouting, sometimes worse. She said I was clumsy. Worthless. That no one else would hire me. And after a while, I believed her."
Astrid swallowed hard. She wanted to cry, to scream that it wasn't her, that Emberly's cruelty wasn't hers to own—but Natalie's scars made denial meaningless.
She leaned forward, her hand hovering for a moment before resting gently on Natalie's. The girl's skin was cool and trembling, calloused from years of scrubbing and carrying burdens too heavy for her frame.
"You're not worthless," Astrid said, each word slow, deliberate. "Not then. Not now. And I swear to you—I'll never be that person to you. Not ever."
For the first time, Natalie's gaze rose to meet hers. Wariness still clung to her expression, but the sharp hostility had dulled. Not trust yet, but something closer to neutral ground.
They spoke a little longer, about safer things. Kayden's mischievous habit of sneaking cookies. The strange quiet of the mansion at night. It wasn't friendship, not yet—but the thread between them held.
When Natalie excused herself to finish her chores, Astrid sat back, drained but lighter. For the first time since stepping into Emberly's world, she didn't feel completely alone.
That night, sleep turned treacherous.
The dream came jagged, splintered.
A dark room. Shadows pressing in. The scent of wine, cloying and sour. Perfume thick in the air like suffocation.
Emberly's voice—broken, desperate. A phone clutched too tightly against trembling lips.
"Matthew, please."
Her sobs cracked the silence, spilling like broken glass.
"I'm getting married. To Kyle. Because I'm pregnant with his child."
Her voice fractured further. "But it's not what I want. I still love you. I always—"
Click. The line went dead.
"Matthew?"
A silence so sharp it hurt. Then her scream—raw, feral—splitting the dark. It didn't echo outward; it echoed inward, reverberating inside Astrid's own chest until she woke with a gasp.
She sat up, her nightdress clinging damp to her skin, her lungs clawing for air. The room smelled faintly of lavender from the sheets, but all she could taste was the bitterness of Emberly's grief.
"Mommy?"
Kayden's small voice pulled her back. He stood at the edge of the bed, his eyes wide and full of worry.
"What's wrong?" he whispered.
Astrid forced a smile, though her hands still shook. "Just a bad dream, sweetheart."
He climbed onto the bed, placing his warm palm on her forehead. "No more bad dreams," he said firmly, as though it were a spell he could cast.
Astrid let out a shaky laugh, the sound catching before it softened. "Thank you."
Only then did she notice his uniform, still crisp from earlier. She frowned. "Why are you still dressed?"
"I had to finish my project," Kayden explained, brightening. "It's a model of our house. But it's only ten percent done."
Curiosity tugged at her chest. "Show me."
At the table, cardboard and glue were spread in glorious chaos. Kayden pointed out each part with pride. Astrid guided his little hands with hers, steadying the scissors, folding edges into place. His skin was warm against her own, his trust an anchor she didn't know she needed.
Something stirred inside her, something maternal and frighteningly sweet. She began to hum without realizing it, a soft melody that rose and fell with their movements.
Kayden stopped, looking up at her with wide eyes. "Songbird," he whispered, a smile tugging at his lips. "That's you."
The word landed in her chest like sunlight through cloud, warming places she thought too broken.
Then the sound of a door. Heavy footsteps.
Kyle's voice, deep and steady: "Ember. A word."
She turned, startled. "You're home early."
"Not staying," he said, his tone clipped. "Just dropping Kayden before I head back."
He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space, quiet authority radiating from him like heat. He reached into his pocket and laid an envelope on the desk in front of her.
An invitation card, thick with embossed lettering.
Astrid's stomach dropped as her eyes traced the name.
Matthew Sterling — Engagement.
The room tilted.
The card glared up at her from the mahogany desk, its edges sharp as glass. Matthew's name pulsed in her skull, cruelly familiar.
It wasn't just paper. It was a reminder. That Emberly's life, the one Astrid now carried, was built on lies stitched together with silk and betrayal. And those lies weren't done with her yet