The sunlight streamed into the kitchen, catching the faint red marks on my cheek. The sting of yesterday's slap lingered, a dull ache that refused to fade. I touched it instinctively, wincing, then looked at the clock. Nine in the morning, yet no one had come to wake me. The house was eerily quiet—a rare occurrence.
I sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair behind my ear. Breakfast was already prepared. The maid, polite yet firm, gestured toward the table. "Go on, Miss Fiona. Everyone is waiting for you."
I stepped into the dining room, my movements careful, almost mechanical. The smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee mixed with tension in the air. For the first time, I was to eat with the family as a "guest," not a servant. My stomach churned—not from hunger, but from anticipation.
Grace, my younger sister by birth yet an enigma in the household, sat primly at the table. Her eyes immediately locked on mine. She smiled, a calculated, almost predatory smile. I braced myself.
"I saved you some soup," she said sweetly, reaching for a ladle. Before I could move, she suddenly yelped, bringing her hand to her cheek as if she had scalded herself—and then pointed at me. "Ah! Fiona! You burned me! You did this!"
Gasps filled the room. The maid and other family members rushed forward. John, seated next to Grace, sprang up and grabbed my wrist.
"Fiona! What's going on?" he demanded, his face a storm of confusion and frustration.
I opened my mouth, but no words came. I had seen Grace do this before—slap herself, scream, and point blame at me. She played the victim, and everyone swallowed it like gospel.
Before I could explain, John's patience cracked. His hand came down sharply across my face, a sting that matched the one from Grace's theatrics. The sound echoed, but Liam, standing silently in the background, didn't utter a single word. His gaze was dark, unreadable, yet his presence alone made the room feel smaller, heavier.
Grace's mother finally spoke, her voice trembling. "I… I am sorry, Fiona. Truly, I didn't see what she was doing…"
My adopted father shook his head, calm and measured. "It's alright. No harm done."
I slid my chair back slightly, washed my hand under cold water, and returned to my seat. My breakfast waited, and I ate silently, refusing to give Grace the satisfaction of tears.
Once the initial chaos subsided, Grace smirked, leaning toward me. "By the way, Fiona," she said sweetly, "I want you to be my bridesmaid for my wedding. And I'll need you to accompany me for shopping. You'll make it fun!"
I froze. Bridesmaid? Shopping? My chest tightened with a mix of dread and resignation. I nodded quietly. "Of course," I said, my voice controlled, betraying nothing.
John cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. He met my eyes, his expression softening. "Fiona," he said, his voice low but clear, "I… forgive you for earlier. Whatever happened with Grace, it's behind us. No hard feelings."
Relief washed over me in a warm, bittersweet wave. I nodded again, softly. "Thank you, John."
Liam's gaze swept across the room, dark and smoldering, as if warning everyone silently. He didn't speak, but the intensity of his stare sent a chill down my spine. I kept my head low, my hands resting lightly on my plate.
Grace, oblivious to the tension, continued to chatter about dresses, colors, and floral arrangements. I smiled politely, nodding at her suggestions, all while my mind was elsewhere—replaying the events of the last week, the violence, the subtle warnings, and Liam's ever-present shadow.
Breakfast ended in an uneasy silence. Grace and her mother left to begin preparations for the wedding shopping, while John lingered a moment longer.
"You'll be alright," he said softly, brushing a hand over my hair. "Just… try to keep your distance from her antics. Don't let it get to you."
I nodded, swallowing hard. "I'll be fine," I whispered.
Once they departed, Liam finally spoke, his voice low, almost a growl. "She better not try that stunt again," he said, his eyes flicking to the door through which Grace had exited. "Next time, there will be consequences."
I shivered slightly, both at his words and the heat of his gaze. Liam's presence was suffocating, intoxicating, and terrifying all at once.
I finished my breakfast, collecting my plate quietly. The kitchen now felt less like a place to eat and more like a battlefield of emotions—anger, jealousy, subtle power plays, and unspoken warnings.
As I moved toward the door, I felt a pang of unease. This wedding, this family gathering—it wasn't just about celebration. It was about power, observation, and subtle manipulation. And I was right at the center of it, a pawn in games I had no choice in.
Yet even amid the tension, a strange clarity emerged. I had survived worse. I had endured punishments, betrayals, and cruel manipulations. I could navigate this—if only carefully, silently, like I always had.
The day stretched ahead, filled with shopping trips, bridal fittings, and orchestrated interactions with Grace and the William family. But I moved forward with quiet determination, knowing that each smile I gave, each word I spoke, was measured. Observed. Not my own entirely.
Liam watched, John watched, Grace schemed, and the rest of the world remained oblivious. And in the quiet moments, I reminded myself—my heart and mind were my own, even if the rest of me belonged to someone else.