###2

I looked desperately toward my brother.

Julian stood just a few meters away. I thought—hoped—he’d rush over and protect me.

But when our eyes met, he remained motionless.

Unmoved.

Indifferent.

He watched as reporters spat cruel words in my face, their microphones nearly pressed to my skin.

Suddenly, one of them tugged open the collar of my clothes, revealing a patchwork of scars—faded, fresh, brutal.

Gasps rang out.

“Oh god. That’s disgusting.”

“She must’ve been disobedient in prison. Looks like the guards gave her a lesson. Get some close-ups!”

Their jeers sliced through me like knives. I couldn’t even lift my arms to cover myself. I stood paralyzed, every breath a fresh stab of shame. Their contempt rained down on me like acid.

“Miss Wren, are you refusing to answer because everything we’re saying is true? Is this sociopathy just in your blood?”

Flashes from their cameras blinded me. One of them shouted, “We’re live, folks! This is Ava, the infamous daughter of the Wren family—once a socialite, now a convicted criminal. Look at her now!”

I felt like a stripped puppet under the spotlight, paraded in front of the world at my lowest.

“Enough!” someone finally barked. “Stop filming! This is my sister’s premiere, not a circus!”

When most of the footage was already taken and the damage done, Julian finally strode forward. He shoved the reporters aside and crouched down next to me—but not to comfort me.

I collapsed to the floor, clinging to the rags that covered my mutilated body, sobbing uncontrollably.

Just then, Daniel stormed in. He pulled me into his arms with a jolt of panic.

“Where the hell are the bodyguards? Are they all dead? How did reporters even get in here?!”

He was furious—on the surface. As if this were all a tragic accident.

But to me, their concern felt revoltingly performative.

So kind. So gentle.

So hollow it made me want to vomit.

The reporters scattered like flies. Julian stood tall again, voice cool.

“You’ve suffered enough. You’ve learned your lesson. Now leave. Delilah’s been waiting.”

So that was it.

He let me be humiliated like an animal—torn apart, exposed, ruined—just to discipline me. For her.

I curled up on the floor, shaking violently.

I remembered the first day I was brought to the Wren family—how my brother cupped my face and said with guilt in his eyes, “Ava, as long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you again.”

But today, that same brother handed me over to a public stoning.

All for Delilah.

My sobs were raw and ugly. Still, he sneered and snapped, “Stop pretending. Don’t ruin Delilah’s moment.”

---

Half an hour later, the microfilm ended.

Delilah took the stage, bathed in golden light, the epitome of grace. The audience applauded wildly as she gave her speech, radiant and confident, thanking her “family” with watery eyes.

They stood behind her—my family. Protecting her.

Once, being an actress was my greatest dream.

Now, stripped and shamed, I could barely stand under the weight of that dream’s corpse.

My parents soon took the stage with smiles and applause, handing Delilah the keys to a limited-edition supercar. My father’s voice trembled with pride as he kissed her forehead.

My brother followed, taking the mic. “I’ll be investing hundreds of millions to produce a film just for Delilah,” he announced. “And rumor has it that renowned international director, Jake Monroe Easton, is attending today’s festival. If he sees Delilah’s talent, we might be sending her to Hollywood.”

Delilah blushed and looked bashfully at the crowd. “But I can’t bear to leave Mom, Dad, Brother, and Daniel...”

Daniel strode toward her, chuckling. He affectionately ruffled her hair.

“Don’t worry, little idiot. If Director Jake takes you to Hollywood, we’ll all fly over to visit you.”

Then his eyes sparkled. “And I have a gift for you too. Tonight’s celebration dinner is already set—at the Skyline Hotel. Seven stars, just like you like it.”

They laughed. They praised her. They adored her.

And I stood at the edge of it all, invisible. A stain they’d rather scrub out of Wren family photo.

She took his hand, smiling sweetly. Then, as if noticing me for the first time, she ran over in her flowing gown.

“Ava,” she said with mock concern. “It’s been so long. You’ve lost so much weight.”

I jerked my hand away, the only thing I could still control. “Hmm,” I muttered coldly.

My parents followed her gaze. Instead of tenderness, my father scowled. “Behave yourself at home. And don’t you dare lay a finger on Delilah again.”

They swept her away, holding her like she was something precious.

And I—just a ghost.

---

At the banquet, dishes were laid out in extravagant rows. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. My hand trembled as I reached for my fork, only to drop it with a clang.

I bent to pick it up—and my collar slipped.

In the harsh lighting, the jagged scars on my shoulders and neck were stark and undeniable.

Daniel's gaze snapped to me. His pupils contracted sharply.

“Ava,” he said, voice low and tight. “Who did that to you?”

###3

My brother and parents turned as well, surprise flickering across their faces.

Who could it be?

Weren’t they the ones who told the prison guards to "keep an eye on" me?

I said nothing, forcing down the bitterness rising in my throat. Daniel reached for my collar, clearly trying to confirm something for himself.

Before he could, Delilah suddenly shrieked from across the table.

"My hand! It’s burning!"

She held up her finger, a faint red mark where the edge of the hotpot had touched her. Tears welled in her eyes.

The entire family sprang into action.

Her mother rushed to her side, cradling her hand like porcelain. Without hesitation, Daniel scooped her up into his arms.

“I’ll take her to the hospital,” he barked, already halfway out the door.

I turned my head away, expressionless. I’d seen enough. I was just about to leave when a voice called out behind me.

"Are you Ava?"

I turned.

A bearded, middle-aged man approached with familiarity in his eyes.

"Director Jake? You... know me?"

It was Jake Easton—the internationally acclaimed director. He laughed, stroking his beard. "Of course I do. I saw a short film you directed and starred in. You left a lasting impression. I thought—here’s someone with real talent. Real presence. I had to find you."

My breath caught. Joy surged through me, but I looked down, voice hoarse with shame.

"But... I don’t think you know—I just got out of prison..."

He looked me in the eye, calm and assured. "I know. That’s why I came today. Ava, how would you like to come to Hollywood and become a star? You’ve got what it takes."

I stared at him, stunned. For the first time in years, I felt my heart flutter back to life.

"I—I’d love to, Director Jake."

"Good!" he beamed. "We’ll leave in a week. Rest up."

A week. Just seven days until I start over.

With that faint spark of hope, I returned to what used to be home. I punched in the passcode I’d memorized long ago, but the cold, mechanical voice repeated:

“Incorrect password.”

Again and again. Still wrong.

I waited in the blistering heat, sweat soaking my back, my head swimming as the sun began to set. Just as I was starting to feel faint, they returned—carrying Delilah.

I watched as my brother stepped forward and entered a new code.

The door clicked open.

He’d changed it... to Delilah’s birthday. My birthday, too—but no one seemed to remember that.

I bit down the sting in my nose and quietly followed him inside, heading straight for my old room.

"Wait," he called after me.

"Delilah’s dog really likes your room. We’ve turned it into a pet space now. But don’t worry—Delilah picked out a new room just for you."

I stopped in my tracks.

"She decorated it herself to welcome you back. She’s even forgiven us all. You should learn from her—try being more kind."

He said it without turning around, as if even facing me for another second was too much.

He led me down the hall to the far end of the house.

The “new room” was the old utility closet. Tiny, with barely a window—more like a vent. The walls reeked of mold, and the air was damp and stale.

So this... this was what they called kindness?

Never mind. I just have to survive seven more days.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door—only to be greeted by a room full of flowers.

My throat closed up.

Pollen.

I was severely allergic.

Within seconds, I was on the floor, struggling to breathe, my skin prickling, my vision blurring. I crawled, trembling, searching desperately for my bag.

That’s when I saw a pair of designer heels stop in front of me.

"Sister, oh my—what are you doing on the floor?"

Delilah’s sweet, mocking voice rang out.

"Please... allergy medicine..." I gasped.

She followed my desperate gaze to the bag.

Then she smiled.

With a kick, she sent it skidding across the room.

She squatted beside me, leaning in close. Her breath was sugary sweet and venomous.

"Bitch, you dare come back? After everything? If I were you, I’d have smashed my head into a wall from the shame."

I tried to shove her away, wanting to scream, to ask why she’d done this.

But the moment my hand brushed her leg, she shrieked and collapsed to the ground.

Holding her leg, she burst into tears.

"Hey, why would you hit me? I tried so hard to make you feel welcome—why are you so cruel?"

That was the moment my parents arrived in the doorway.

###4

Disappointment instantly clouded my father’s face.

“Ava, you just got home and you’re already bullying Delilah again? You’re hopeless!”

“Ava, why would you do this?” My mother looked at me with a mix of hurt and disbelief. “You and Delilah are both my daughters. I’ve always cared deeply for you…”

She shook her head, gently pulling Delilah away from me with a pained expression. Delilah leaned against her, but her eyes gleamed with triumph. She mouthed silently at me: “You’re getting kicked out today.”

But what she said aloud was very different.

“Mom, Dad, please don’t blame my sister,” she said softly, her voice trembling with carefully measured sorrow. “We used our connections to make sure she had decent food and drink in prison, but she still wasn’t free. It’s only natural that she feels… bitter.”

She choked back a sob as if heartbroken on my behalf.

With each word she spoke, my father’s expression darkened further.

“Ava, you’ve learned nothing! I knew it—prison life was too easy on you!”

I could barely breathe, the allergic reaction tightening my chest like a vice. I reached out desperately. “Please… medicine…”

But my father waved me off with an impatient bark. “Enough! Since when do you have allergies? Don’t make up more lies to gain sympathy!”

My mother gave a weary sigh. “Forget it. If Ava is willing to admit her mistake, let’s just eat dinner.”

Daniel happened to be walking down the stairs. His eyes paused on me, filled with disappointment.

“Why do you always have to cause trouble for Delilah?” he muttered before continuing on.

They led the sniffling Delilah downstairs like she was the victim.

I collapsed to the floor, frantically searching for the allergy medicine through blurred vision. Finally, I found it, fumbling to unscrew the cap and shove a pill into my mouth before the suffocating pain could consume me.

It took forever for my breathing to return to normal.

I never wanted to go through that again.

I still remember the first time they discovered I was allergic to pollen—how the entire family had stayed up all night in my room, watching over me.

My brother even ordered the gardener to replace every flower in the garden with grass and shade trees. There was always allergy medicine in the house—just in case.

But now, they’d forgotten. Worse—they accused me of faking it.

A servant came to guide me to the table. The smell of rich food hit me, but all I could do was stare at the bowl of rice in front of me. I didn’t dare touch the vibrant dishes piled on the table.

Two years in prison had trained my stomach to survive on stale rice.

On bad days, when the guards were in a foul mood, we got nothing at all.

One time, they threw a hamburger into a corner.

I hadn’t eaten in two days. I crawled to the corner like an animal—but before I could reach it, a pair of steel-like hands shoved me back.

From then on, I never dared touch anything that looked “delicious” again.

Seeing me curled over my rice, my mother looked at me with concern.

“Ava, why are you so thin? Here—eat more.” She placed a hamburger on my plate, her tone soft. “This was your favorite, remember? I had it made especially for you.”

The moment I saw it, my body locked up. My breath caught in my throat. My hands began to tremble uncontrollably.

Then, I threw up violently.

“Ava!” my mother cried out, rushing to my side.

A doctor was called.

After a quick exam, he removed his stethoscope, concern etched deep into his features. “She’s exhibiting symptoms of severe trauma—either psychological or physical. Her body is rejecting even familiar stimuli.”

He paused, then added grimly, “I strongly suggest you bring in a psychiatrist. If left untreated, this could have long-term consequences.”

My mother covered her mouth, eyes wide with horror. “What… What happened to my daughter?!”