Ophelia found herself leaning against the cool iron of the balcony railing after Darren left the dining room, the desert wind tugging strands of her dark hair free. Below, Darren's empire sprawled in glittering silence, but her eyes didn't see Vegas. It saw the icy clarity of a memory she hadn't allowed herself to revisit in full for years—the precise moment her life shattered, not with a bang, but with the soft, calculated cruelty of her stepmother.
Back to the day the earth was still fresh on her father's grave.
---
She had woken the morning after the funeral with swollen eyes, her body moving in a daze. The house felt hollow without her father's voice calling her "my princess." For a moment, when she pulled on her uniform, she almost believed things would return to normal—that she would catch the bus, sit next to her friends, as always.
But when she walked into the kitchen, her stepmother's eyes followed her like a hawk's. Claudia sat at the table already in uniform, a glossy ribbon tied neatly in her hair. Her stepmother's lips curled.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Ophelia clutched her bag tighter. "School." Her voice wavered, but she forced it steady.
"School?" Her stepmother let out a cold laugh. "Do you think I'm made of money? Tuition doesn't pay itself. There is only enough for one girl. And that girl is Claudia."
The words sank like stones in her chest. "But—Dad said—"
"Your father is dead." The words cut sharper than any blade. "And I won't waste his meager savings on you. Claudia has a future. You will be useful here. Change out of those clothes and make breakfast."
Ophelia froze. Her throat tightened until no sound came out. The uniform suddenly felt like a costume, a lie. She wanted to scream, to fight, to remind this woman that her father had loved her, too. But her stepmother's gaze was iron, daring her to resist.
Claudia smirked as she bit into buttered toast. "Hurry up, Ophelia. I don't want to be late."
That was the first time Ophelia felt something inside her break. Her bag slipped from her shoulder. She turned, walking back to her room in silence because silence was safer. On the bed, she pressed her face into her pillow, muffling the sobs until they burned her throat raw.
No one came to comfort her.
---
The months that followed blurred together. Ophelia scrubbed dishes, washed clothes, cooked meals, her stepmother's sharp voice cutting at her whenever she slowed. She watched Claudia come home in her crisp uniform, waving test papers, talking about dances, new shoes, boys who smiled at her.
And every night, when the house fell quiet, Ophelia traced the cover of her old textbooks with her fingertips, whispering formulas and lines of poetry so she wouldn't forget. Her mind refused to wither, no matter how starved her body felt.
It might have stayed that way—if not for Mrs. Alana Perez.
---
One humid afternoon, her stepmother sent her to buy flour from the corner convenience shop. Ophelia carried the heavy bag with both arms, sweat running down her temples. She stumbled, nearly dropping it, and Mrs. Perez, the shop's owner, hurried over.
"Careful, child," the older woman said, steadying her. Her eyes, kind and lined with age, lingered on Ophelia's face. "You're the Smith girl, aren't you? You look tired."
Ophelia ducked her head, ashamed. "I'm fine."
Mrs. Perez frowned, glancing toward the house she knew too well. Then she leaned closer. "Come by tomorrow. I could use help in the shop. I'll pay you a little. Don't tell your stepmother until you want to."
For the first time in months, Ophelia felt a flicker of warmth that wasn't cruel.
---
The shop became her refuge.
She stocked shelves, swept floors, counted change with trembling hands that grew steadier with practice. Mrs. Perez always pressed money into her palm at the end of the day, whispering, "Save it. For you."
Ophelia saved every penny, hiding it in an old shoe beneath her bed. Slowly, the pile grew. Each dollar was a promise—that she would not stay caged forever.
At night, while Claudia slept in the next room, Ophelia would spread her notes across the floor and study by the glow of a small lamp. Mrs. Perez sometimes slipped her son's old textbooks, dog-eared and full of scribbles. "Dream bigger, child," she urged.
By the time she turned seventeen, Ophelia had saved enough for tuition at a government high school in San Francisco. It wasn't glamorous, but it was hers. Every dollar represented hours of sweeping, counting, smiling at customers while her heart ached.
Leaving for school was the hardest and easiest decision she had ever made.
On the morning she left, her stepmother barely looked up from her newspaper. Claudia sneered, muttering something about "running to a public school like a beggar." But Ophelia walked out with her head high, clutching her worn bag, her hidden savings pressed to her chest.
The bus ride to the school smelled of gasoline and dust, but to her it smelled like freedom.
---
On the balcony now, four years later, Ophelia's chest tightened at the memory. She gripped the railing harder.
She had clawed her way out once. Out of grief, out of cruelty, out of poverty. She had built a life with her own hands, every step earned.
And now?
Now she was back in another cage. Silk sheets instead of thin blankets. Gold-plated bars instead of iron. A man named Darren Delgado instead of her stepmother. Different walls, same suffocation.
Her lips pressed into a hard line. No.
She wouldn't break this time.
Because if there was one lesson she had carried from those years, it was this: no one was coming to save her.
If she wanted freedom, she would claw it out with her own hands again.
And she would.