new
I was twelve when my lungs first betrayed me.
One moment, I was running through the villa garden, chasing Stella's laughter as the orange blossoms rained down like confetti. The next, I was on the ground, air clawing at my throat like a thief. I still remember my father's face—white with terror, a man who could order executions without blinking suddenly begging me to breathe.
That was the first time my illness claimed me.
But it was not the first time my life broke.
That happened one year earlier, on a night still burned into my memory.
The night I watched my mother die.
---
Even now, if I close my eyes, I see it:
Her scream echoing through the courtyard.
The sharp crack of gunfire slicing through the air.
Her white dress blooming with scarlet as she collapsed in my father's arms.
I was eleven, frozen in the shadows, clutching the railing as I watched the only gentle part of this world disappear before me. Her blood stained the marble, and so did my lungs. That was the first night I couldn't breathe, the first night air itself seemed like an enemy.
My father never forgave himself. And I… I never escaped it.
---
At dinner, silence stretches across the long oak table. Father sits at the head, his shoulders rigid, his presence dark and untouchable. His black suit blends into the shadows of the room, but his eyes gleam like steel—cold, merciless.
He is a man feared by kings and killers alike, yet the only battles he cannot win are the ones fought inside his home.
Stella sits beside me, her hand brushing mine beneath the table. She looks poised, but I feel the tension in her fingers, the tremor she hides from Father's watchful gaze.
"Rosalia fainted again," she says quietly, breaking the stillness.
Father's fork stills, his jaw hardening. The air around him sharpens, as if even the walls are waiting for his anger.
"This cannot continue," he says flatly, his voice carrying the weight of command. "I will not tolerate weakness in this house."
"Papa—" Stella begins, but he cuts her off with a glance that could kill.
"You will not die," he says to me instead, as if issuing an order to fate itself. "I buried one wife. I will not bury a daughter."
My chest aches at his words, both merciless and desperate. I lower my eyes, ashamed of the frailty that chains me to this fate.
---
Later, in my room, Stella paces by the window. Her travel trunk lies open, half-packed, its silk dresses spilling over like stolen secrets.
"I don't want to leave you," she whispers, her voice trembling for once. "Every time I step out of this house, I feel like I'm abandoning you to ghosts."
"You're not," I whisper back, though my heart says otherwise.
Her eyes glisten, but she forces strength into them. "Papa's arranged for someone. A personal doctor, to stay with you daily. He thinks it's the only
"I will be fine Stella don't worry trust your young sister I am stronger than you think"I cut her off .
Because tonight, it isn't strangers who frighten me. It's the thought of Stella leaving, of my father's coldness pressing heavier on my fragile lungs, of this house tightening around me like a noose.
Stella takes my hand, squeezing it with a fierceness that feels like goodbye. "Promise me, Rosalia." Promise me you'll let her help you. I need to know you'll be safe while I'm gone."
I want to lie, to promise what she wants to hear. But all I can do is look at her, my throat tight, and wonder if safety is even possible in a house built on blood.