Chapter 2: The House That Was Never a Home

The London air was sharp against Amelia's skin as she stumbled out of the bar. The weight in her chest hadn't eased; if anything, it had only grown heavier. The man at the bar—the stranger with quiet eyes and a firm, steady voice—hadn't asked for her name. He'd simply sat with her, offered a listening ear, and left her with words that wouldn't stop echoing.

"Sometimes it's the betrayal closest to your heart that breaks you into something stronger."

But she didn't feel stronger. She felt hollow.

She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders as the taxi pulled to a stop in front of a familiar brick house tucked in a shadowed neighborhood—her childhood home. Her hands trembled as she paid the driver, her eyes locked on the doorway that had once meant safety. Now, it was just another cage.

The porch light flickered above her, a haunting glow in the early morning dark. The door creaked open with a push, revealing the same foyer rug she used to race across as a child, the same faint scent of lavender polish, the same ticking clock on the wall.

But the warmth she once associated with home was long gone.

She took off her shoes slowly, every movement careful, like if she moved too fast, she'd fall apart.

From the living room came the voice she'd been dreading.

"Well, look who the storm dragged in," Patricia's voice oozed with smugness.

Amelia walked in slowly, her eyes landing on the woman reclining with a wine glass in one hand and a silk robe clinging perfectly to her body. Her makeup was immaculate, like she'd been waiting up just for this.

"You're home earlier than expected. I assumed you'd be crying on Nicholas's doorstep by now."

Amelia didn't respond. Her lips stayed pressed in a tight line. Her eyes, though bloodshot, burned with exhaustion and restrained rage.

Patricia cocked her head. "Not even going to ask how your dear stepsister is? She and Nicholas make quite the pair, don't they? She always did have better taste in men."

Amelia felt something inside her crack. "You knew."

Patricia smiled over her glass. "Of course I knew. I helped arrange it. Serena's younger, prettier, and far more ambitious than you ever were. Nicholas was bound to realize that sooner or later."

Amelia's jaw clenched. Her voice shook. "You're vile."

"Oh, darling." Patricia stood, sauntering toward her. "I'm a realist. You, on the other hand, were always chasing fairy tales."

Amelia took a shaky breath. "I'm not staying long."

"Where will you go?" Patricia asked sweetly. "Back to your imaginary dreams? Or to your mother—oh wait, that ghost vanished years ago, didn't she?"

The mention of her mother was a slap across the face. That cold silence. The day she left without goodbye. The unanswered questions. Amelia didn't even know if she was dead.

Patricia leaned closer. "No job, no fiancé, no real family. I'd say you're right where you belong. Back under this roof. Back where the unwanted things go."

"I'm still your husband's daughter," Amelia hissed.

"Barely," Patricia whispered, brushing past her.

Amelia didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat was tight, her chest aching like her heart was being wrung out.

A quiet shuffling on the staircase made her turn. Her father stood there, robe loose around his frame, his eyes tired. "Amelia…"

She stared at him. For a moment, she saw the man who used to braid her hair before school. Who taught her how to ride a bike. Who read her bedtime stories when her mom was too tired.

But that man had changed.

"Why didn't you stop it?" she whispered.

He looked away, guilt etched into every line of his face. "You don't understand the situation—"

"She's my sister."

"No," Patricia said from behind, "She's your competition. And you lost."

Amelia blinked rapidly, holding back tears. She turned and walked past both of them, heading up the stairs.

Her room was exactly how she'd left it. Frozen in time. The posters were faded, the curtains drawn. Dust covered the desk where she once studied late into the night.

She dropped her purse, sat on the edge of the bed, and finally let herself fall apart.

Tears came in waves—silent, violent waves that shook her shoulders and left her gasping. She cried until her throat hurt, until the ache in her chest became numb.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling. Her hands rested over her stomach, the weight of the night pressing down on her.

She had nothing.

No one.

But somehow… in that nothingness, a whisper of defiance stirred.

She wouldn't stay here forever.