Aria’s POV
Sophia propped her chin on her hand, looking at with that gleeful anticipation, knowing exactly how this would affect . I paused in my tracks, my body frozen, as my feet seed to be nailed to the floor.
The spare room was a cluttered ss, filled with junk. It was more like a storage space than anything that could be considered a room. It was impossible not to feel the sting of it, not to feel the heat rise in my chest, my blood burning with anger.
Margaret cast a sidelong glance at , but the unease flickering in her eyes was short-lived. She quickly dismissed it with a shrug. "It’s just a place to sleep. It’s just a few days. You’re not that delicate."
Not that delicate.
I clenched my teeth, my grip tightening on the handle of my suitcase. The weight of it felt too much, a taphor for everything I was carrying, but it wasn’t the weight that bothered , it was the pattern.
It was happening again.
I was Margaret’s daughter, yet it was always Sophia who got what she wanted, no matter how much I fought for it.
When I was a child, I would cry and beg, clutching onto Margaret’s hem, my hands trembling and my heart full of confusion, wondering why Sophia always got what I wanted. Why everything I touched was snatched away.
But I never got an answer. Just cold, condescending words. "Sophia wants it, so give it to her. You’re older, Aria. How did I raise such a selfish child like you?"
It hit like it always did, a stab in the chest that never quite went away. The bitterness burned, but I was too tired to let it fully consu .
My limbs felt drained, empty in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t have the fire to fight anymore, not even the spark I had as a child. My wolf howled within , but it was faint and weak, even it was worn out. I had nothing left to give.
Without a word, I turned and made my way toward the storage room.
Margaretnwatched retreat in silence, her eyes lost in thought. She didn’t speak as I disappeared down the hall. But just as the door to the storage room clicked shut, I heard Sophia’s voice, light but with a hint of fake worry.
"Mom, is Aria mad at ?" she asked, the false pout in her voice only adding to the sweetness she wore like armor.
My sharp ears picked Margaret’s response. "Mad at you? I’d say she’s getting too big for her britches," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. It was exactly the kind of remark that always made my blood simr, that forced my wolf to stir with frustration.
"You’re always thinking of others, sweetheart. That’s going to get you hurt one day," she added.
The words weren’t a warning; they were a complint, a twisted reassurance that Sophia was doing everything right, everything that would keep her in Margaret’s good graces.
"With you here, Mom, I’ll never get hurt," Sophia cooed, her voice dripping with a coy affection that made sick.
They laughed together, that warm, fake sound filling the living room like a strange, suffocating cloud. It was all so easy for them. A perfect little mother-daughter bond, like nothing had ever changed, like nothing had ever been torn apart.
anwhile, in the storage room, everything felt suffocating and stifling. The air was heavy, thick with dust and mories I had long buried. The room was worse than I’d imagined. In the years I’d been gone, the clutter had only multiplied, the ss spilling out from every corner, leaving barely enough space to stand.
The bed sagged in the middle, its fra split down the center, as though even the furniture couldn’t take the weight of everything that had been dumped on it.
The room hadn’t been aired out in ages. Without sunlight, the stale, musty odor hung thick in the air, clinging to the walls like it was part of the house itself.
A bitter laugh escaped , sharp and cold. I almost didn’t recognize the sound, it was as though I was laughing at a stranger’s misery, not my own.
In the past I used to wonder why I was subjected to this kind of mistreatnt, but now?...I didn’t care anymore.
I didn’t care to ask why Margaret always favored Sophia. I didn’t care about the unfairness of it all anymore. The questions that used to plague , the childish need to understand, had faded into the background, buried by years of neglect and hurt. It didn’t matter.
A sharp, fleeting pain pierced my chest like a fresh wound reopening. I thought my heart, cracked and parched like a dry riverbed, had already run out of room for pain. But it still stung. It still hurt. Even after all this ti, the ache never fully faded.
I guess I still care.
But caring changed nothing. After my grandmother’s death, the well of family love had run dry. I had nothing left to grasp onto, no anchor in the storm. Now, I was just a lone fish, swimming against a current that never stopped.
I bit back the sadness and set to work. I didn’t have the energy to feel sorry for myself. I started clearing the bed, pushing aside the piles of old fabric and junk with chanical precision. The room was mine now, even if it was a reminder of everything I didn’t have.
As the night settled in, a low fever crept over . Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the weight of the day, but my skin grew hot and uncomfortable.
My thoughts swirled, slipping in and out of clarity. Images of my grandmother floated into my mind, soft and fleeting, like mories wrapped in fog. I could almost hear her calling my na, her voice gentle, soothing, whispering in the dark.
"Grandma... it hurts..." The words slipped from my lips without thought, a small plea to the ghost of a woman who had once been my world.
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