chapter 11

While Kara was away, Alden quietly made a decision—one that had been lingering in his mind long before her last outburst. The house, once buzzing with gossip, silent judgment, and the kind of chatter that made healing feel impossible, needed to change. He called in the house manager and gave a simple instruction: "Clean slate."

Within days, every incapable or idle househelp was let go. It wasn't out of cruelty—Alden offered each of them generous compensation—but the environment at home had become too unstable, and Kara deserved a different kind of peace when she returned. He didn't want curious eyes or whispering tongues following her every move. What she needed was a fresh start, even within her own home.

When hiring the new staff, Alden was deliberate. No young girls, no sly mouths. He selected middle-aged women, mature and composed, the kind who carried themselves with quiet dignity. Women who wouldn't pry or provoke. He personally oversaw each interview, asking not just about their qualifications, but also their tolerance, their patience, and their understanding of mental and emotional fragility. This wasn't just about managing a household—it was about protecting Kara's fragile recovery.

So when the gates opened one sunny afternoon and the black SUV pulled into the driveway, Kara stepped out not into a crowd of familiar, judgmental stares, but into the calm presence of warm, unknown faces.

A soft-spoken woman with greying hair and a kind smile opened the front door. "Welcome home, Miss Kara," she said, bowing slightly. "We've been expecting you."

Kara blinked, surprised. "Who are you?"

"I'm Beatrice. The housekeeper. Mr. Alden said you liked your towels warm and your tea not too strong." She smiled again, not intrusively, just warmly. "Your room is ready."

As Kara entered the house, everything felt… quieter. Not empty. Just serene. She glanced around. The familiar furniture was there, but something was different. The energy had shifted. No watchful eyes. No whispered judgments. Just... space.

In the hallway, another lady greeted her politely but without lingering. A third was dusting quietly and offered a gentle nod.

Kara paused midway up the stairs. "They don't know anything, do they?" she asked Beatrice, who was following at a respectful distance.

Beatrice replied, "Only what they need to. That you're Mr. Alden's daughter. That you've been away. And that this house should be a home—not a court."

Kara let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel on edge inside her own house.

Upstairs, in her room, everything was just the way she liked it. Her sheets had been changed. Fresh flowers stood by the window. Her favorite throw blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

She sank into the bed and whispered, "Maybe this won't be so hard after all."

But deep down, Kara knew that the real battle wasn't the gossip or the whispers—it was herself. And even with new faces around her, she'd still have to face the old ghosts within.

A week after settling back home, with therapy sessions making her feel lighter and the new peaceful environment beginning to wrap around her like a warm blanket, Kara made a decision that surprised even herself.

She was ready to reconnect.

It started with a message to her old group chat—a thread that had long gone silent, with her name now synonymous with drama in many of their circles. Still, she typed with trembling fingers, vulnerability pushing her forward:

Kara:

Hey, I'm back. I know I don't deserve much, but… I'd love to have you all over. Just a small get-together. No drama. Just… me trying again.Saturday. My place. 3 PM.

She stared at the screen, expecting silence—or worse, cruel laughter. But slowly, one by one, replies came in.

Maya:

I'll come. Let's see how awkward we can make it .Sasha:Okay. I'll come, Kara. Thanks for inviting me.Tasha:I'm proud of you for reaching out. Count me in.

That Saturday, Kara stood by the wide windows of the living room, nervously peeking outside as the long driveway welcomed the sleek cars of her friends. She had dressed simply—a soft pastel dress, hair tied back in a loose bun, no extravagant makeup or drama. Just herself.

The new staff, efficient and calm, served drinks and light snacks. Beatrice made sure everything was running smoothly without hovering too much.

When the girls finally entered, the atmosphere was... tentative.

There were stiff hugs, uncertain glances, and polite smiles. Kara felt her heart hammering. She cleared her throat and stood up to welcome them.

"I just want to say thank you," she began. "For coming. I know I've been… a lot. I've hurt people. I've lashed out. And I let my pain make me unbearable. But I'm trying now. I'm not perfect, but I'm in therapy. And I just wanted to share a little joy with people who once mattered to me."

Silence. Then Sasha stepped forward.

"You've changed," she said softly. "I can feel it. The old Kara would never say all this."

Kara smiled through the prickle of tears. "Yeah… the old me wasn't really happy."

Laughter trickled into the room. The tension began to melt. Stories flowed. Memories were recalled. They even danced a little to throwback songs, and for the first time in what felt like years, Kara's house echoed with genuine laughter.

She still saw the cautiousness in some of their eyes, the way they hesitated a little before getting too close. She didn't blame them.

Kara had been laughing—really laughing—for the first time in a long while. The soft tunes playing in the background, the clink of glasses, and the light chatter had wrapped her in a sense of normalcy she had longed for. It felt almost like healing.

Then, in a split second, it all shattered.

One of the older housekeepers, a quiet, gentle woman in her late fifties, stepped forward with a tray of chilled juice glasses. Her steps were careful but her eyes tired. As she moved past the edge of the sitting area, Kara, distracted by a story Maya was telling, turned quickly—bumping into her.

The tray wobbled. A glass tipped.

The cool juice spilled down the front of Kara's dress—a pale pink designer piece she had chosen so carefully to mark her "new self."

Time slowed for a moment.

The old woman gasped. "Oh no, I'm so sorry—"

Kara's expression twisted as she stared down at the spreading stain. "Are you blind?" she snapped, voice sharp and biting. "Do you know how expensive this is?"

The woman bowed her head, already trembling. "It was an accident, Miss Kara. I didn't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant!" Kara shrieked, grabbing a napkin and tossing it aside. "You shouldn't even be serving if you can't walk straight!"

The room froze. No one moved.

And then—crack—Kara's palm flew through the air and landed hard on the woman's cheek.

A stunned silence swept over the room. The tray hit the floor with a metallic clatter, juice splashing over the tiles. The woman, too shocked to even cry, took a step back and looked at Kara with eyes wide with pain and humiliation.

"Kara, stop this!" Sasha stood abruptly, eyes blazing. "I thought you had changed!"

"I thought so too," Maya echoed in disbelief. "She's old enough to be your mother!"

That word.

Mother.

Kara's entire body stiffened. Her hands balled into fists. The room seemed to blur at the edges as something dark cracked open inside her.

"Don't—don't say that!" she shouted, her voice hoarse. "She is not my mother! Don't ever say that word around me!"

"Kara," Tasha whispered, cautiously stepping forward, "no one meant to hurt you. But this? This is not okay."

Kara's breath came in harsh gasps. Her eyes darted wildly. All she could see was that word circling in her head, unraveling years of pain she hadn't yet managed to silence.

Her guests watched in horror and heartbreak as she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, heels clacking furiously against the tiles.

The old woman still stood there, one hand pressed to her cheek, tears brimming but refusing to fall.

Ethan, who had just entered the hall, froze at the sight, then turned his gaze toward the trail Kara had left.

He knew this outburst wasn't just about spilled juice.

It was about the pieces of her that therapy hadn't reached yet—the ghosts she still hadn't faced.