Celina didn't sleep. Not really.
She lay awake in bed long after the house returned to silence, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, the phantom image of that chained hand burning into her memory. Even blinking felt like a betrayal and every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again. The way the fingers twitched. The cold gleam of the shackle. The quiet horror of not knowing who or what was down there.
By the time morning arrived, her pillow was still untouched by sleep. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of her bedroom, casting long golden streaks across the marble floor and her tangled sheets. The warmth of the light made the room feel deceptively calm. Normal. As if the night hadn't whispered its secrets to her.
There was a soft knock at her door.
"Miss Celina, breakfast is served," one of the maids called gently.
Celina murmured something close to a reply and rose. She moved slowly, gathering herself as though preparing for a performance. She wrapped herself in something elegant and loose soft cashmere, ivory-colored, barely belted. It made her look effortlessly refined. Which, of course, was the point.
Downstairs, the dining room buzzed with its usual quiet rhythm. Silverware clinked softly. The morning news hummed from the mounted television on mute. A fresh bouquet of lilies sat in a cut-glass vase at the center of the massive dining table.
The Strander family had always been the picture of power. They are billionaire old money with decades of influence built on a foundation no one dared examine too closely. Their business interests were vast, their holdings untraceable, and their reputation... unsettling. Whispers of questionable deals, silenced rivals, and disappearing names followed them like shadows that never faded in the light.
She greeted her parents first, kissing each of them on the cheek. Her mother, ever poised in a pearl-studded robe, her hair swept into a glossy chignon, smelled faintly of white gardenias. Her father was, as always, sharp in a tailored gray suit, already scanning the day's paper as if he hadn't just woken up.
Both of them carried the kind of gravity that silenced rooms. People lowered their eyes around them, out of respect, fear, or both. And yet with her, they softened.
"Good morning, darling," her mother said, reaching to tuck a strand of Celina's hair behind her ear, her eyes warm. "You were exquisite. Everyone's still talking about your performance."
"You've made this family proud again," her father added, folding the paper neatly. "You are the sunshine of this house."
"Thank you," Celina said, giving a small, gracious smile. She took her seat beside them, folding her hands in her lap for a moment before lifting her coffee cup.
Her mother leaned over to brush her knuckles over Celina's cheek with delicate affection. "You can do anything you want, you know that. Ballet. Fashion. Film, if you choose it. You've earned the right to live freely."
"Do you want to go shopping later?" her father asked, setting aside his paper and taking a sip from his espresso. "You must need a treat after last night. Pick anything you like."
Celina smiled, this one more genuine. "Maybe. I might need a little distraction."
Just then, arms slid around her from behind, and she instinctively stiffened.
"Some of us don't get to play forever," a voice whispered near her ear, rich and velvety with just a hint of mockery.
Cassia.
Her sister moved like a shadow wrapped in silk. Today, it was black—fitted, bold, with a neckline that dared and heels that clicked like punctuation marks. Her red lips were already flawless, her nails glossy as she tapped at her phone, likely closing some deal most wouldn't dare speak of aloud.
She slid into her seat, eyes already on Celina.
"Join the family business, Celina," Cassia said smoothly, crossing her legs. "No more ballet. No more playing dress-up. It's time you stopped pretending."
Celina's smile faded, her back stiffening as she set her coffee cup down. "I don't care about the family business."
Cassia's gaze darkened, sharpening like a blade. "Then where do you think everything you enjoy comes from? Your shows, your tours, your wardrobe, your freedom... It's paid for by this family. It's bought with things you don't want to know."
"Cassia," their father said, voice low but firm. A warning.
But Cassia didn't look away. She stared at Celina like she was daring her to flinch.
Celina lowered her eyes to her plate, her appetite vanished. She let her fingers linger on the edge of the silverware, grounding herself in the cool metal. Her mind echoed with last night's memory. The hand. The chain. The fear.
Her gaze drifted, catching something unusual.
A strip of bandage wrapped tight around Cassia's knuckles—white gauze tucked just beneath the edge of her sleeve. Celina frowned.
"What happened to your hand?"
Cassia didn't even glance down. "Routine cleanup. Just work."
Then she smirked. "You should come next time. Could be educational."
Their father placed his fork down with a metallic click, the movement precise. His jaw was tight. "She's still too young."
Cassia leaned back in her chair, lifting her coffee with her unbandaged hand. "I started at ten."
The words landed like a slap.
Celina's throat tightened. She stared down into her untouched food, her hands in her lap, her shoulders stiff. She didn't respond. Couldn't.
Their mother set her napkin beside her plate and gave a clipped sigh.
"Enough. We're having breakfast."
Silence settled again, but it wasn't peaceful. It was loaded.
Celina took a small sip of her coffee, the bitterness blooming on her tongue.
She wasn't ready for the world Cassia lived in.
But that world was already bleeding into hers.
She didn't want to think about the hand in the basement. Didn't want to remember how it moved. How real it looked. But her mind returned to it anyway.
She rose from the table slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm done."
Her mother glanced up, eyebrows lifting slightly. "You've barely touched your food, sweetheart."
"I'm full," Celina said quickly, trying to keep her tone even.
Her father studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable. But he didn't press. He simply nodded once and returned to his paper.
Cassia's chair scraped softly against the marble—a sharp, deliberate sound that cut through the room's tension like a knife. Without a word, she rose with catlike grace and followed Celina, her heels echoing off the polished floor with every step, as if chasing her sister's retreat with intent.
In the hallway, Celina heard her heels clicking behind her, getting closer.
"Poor thing," Cassia said, voice all sweetness wrapped around thorns. "The world's a bit darker when you stop pretending, isn't it?"
Celina turned, lips pressed tight.
Cassia held up her bandaged hand with a flourish. "You should've come. The operation was beautiful. Controlled. Efficient. You'd have learned so much."
Celina shook her head, covering her ears with both hands.
Cassia only laughed.
"I have a gift for you, apét," she said, using the old nickname like it was a dagger.
Celina didn't ask what it was.
She didn't want to know.
Cassia stepped closer, amusement curling her lips. "You can do anything you want, right? That's what they tell you. That's what they let you believe."
Celina said nothing, still tense, still shaken.
Celina's eyes flicked to a hard edge beneath her sister's coat—long and narrow. Her stomach dropped.
Cassia smiled, reached inside, and pulled out a knife. A slender thing. Clean. Beautiful. Deadly.
She placed it gently into Celina's hand, fingers brushing hers.
"Go visit the basement," Cassia whispered. "Take this. I'll come with you later. Check my gift—you can do anything you want with it. Maybe I'll even let you kill it."
And with a final smirk, she turned and strode back toward the breakfast room, heels clicking like a metronome of menace.
Celina stood frozen.
The knife felt wrong in her hands—too real, too sharp, too willing. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her skin crawling with a sick twist of dread. She looked down at the blade, then toward the hallway that led to the basement, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat.
No one had ever handed her something like this.
She wasn't supposed to hold it. She wasn't supposed to be part of this world.
And yet—
Here she was.
With a gift.
And the worst part wasn't the blade in her hand.
It was knowing someone is in the dark for her.