Aurora's Realm
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As soon as I got home, I ran upstairs with my phone clutched in my trembling hands. My chest felt tight, each breath uneven. I shut the door behind me, twisting the lock with shaking fingers, before collapsing onto my bed.
At first, the tears slipped out quietly, like they were trying to hide — silent, steady trails running down my face. But then the tremors hit. My body shook with each sob I tried to muffle, and the silence I lived in every day made the pain louder inside my head. The humiliation, the laughter, the weight of their words — it all crashed over me at once, drowning me.
I curled into myself, clutching the phone tighter, as though it could anchor me against the storm tearing through my chest.
My eyes burned from too much crying, swollen and raw. After a while I stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and lifted my gaze to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at me was pitiful. My makeup was smeared, my hair messy, my eyes red. So much for confidence. I had told myself I could walk into that hall with my head held high, and instead I'd fallen—literally—into their laughter. A mockery. That's all I was.
Anger ripped through me. I tore at the gown, dragging it off my body as if shedding the shame with it, and let it fall crumpled to the floor. My chest still ached, but now it was burning too.
Then I heard it—Grandpa's voice thundering from downstairs. He was yelling at someone. I froze, pressing myself against the door, desperate to catch his words. All I could make out was "online" and "news."
Dread surged through me. My hands trembled as I snatched up my phone, my mind already knowing what I would find before the screen lit up.
And there it was.
MUTE SINCLAIR HEIRESS STUMBLES AND CRASHES OVER TABLES AT THE FAMILY DINNER PARTY
The headline screamed at me. Beneath it, the video played — my body tripping, crashing into the tables, the gasps, the laughter, Alex lifting me like a broken thing. My humiliation replayed in high definition, framed for the world's entertainment.
I dropped the phone onto the bed, staring at it like it was something poisonous. My chest tightened, each breath shallow, my pulse a wild, uneven rhythm. The whole world knew now. My silence wasn't just whispered gossip anymore. It was a headline, a spectacle, a curse stamped on my name.
And I couldn't even scream.
The next morning came far too quickly.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, the sound of laughter echoed in my head, the image of me sprawled across that table replaying again and again. When the light finally crept through my curtains, it felt cruel—too bright for the heaviness pressing down on me.
My phone lay on the nightstand where I'd abandoned it, still buzzing occasionally with notifications I didn't dare check. I couldn't bring myself to touch it. I already knew what was waiting: headlines, cruel comments, strangers dissecting me as if I weren't even human.
Dragging myself out of bed, I moved to the mirror again. My face was pale, my eyes swollen, dark circles shadowing them. I looked nothing like the girl who had tried so hard to be confident the night before. That version of me had been shattered.
A knock came at my door. Gentle at first, then firmer. Alex's voice filtered through.
"Aurora… open up. Please."
I froze, my hands gripping the fabric of my nightdress. I couldn't. I couldn't face him—not when I knew the pity would be in his eyes, the same pity I hated.
Silence stretched, but I knew he hadn't left. His shadow lingered on the other side of the door, waiting. My throat tightened. If only I could speak, if only I had a voice to tell him to go away, to leave me in peace. But all I had was silence. Silence and shame.
I pressed my forehead to the door, my chest aching. I wanted to cry again, but the tears wouldn't come this time. Only emptiness.
Then another voice joined his. Deeper. Firmer. Grandpa.
"Aurora," he said, tone sharp but not unkind. "You cannot hide in there forever. Open this door."
My hands shook. I stepped back, but before I could move further, the handle turned. The lock clicked—Grandpa must have had a spare key—and the door swung open.
They both stood there. Alex looked stricken, worry etched all over his face. Grandpa's expression was harder, more controlled, but his eyes softened when they met mine.
I wanted to vanish. I wanted to sink into the floorboards. Instead, I just stood there, silent as always, my tears threatening to return.
Alex crossed the room quickly and wrapped his arms around me before I could stop him. "I'm sorry, Rory," he whispered against my hair. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
I stayed rigid in his hold, caught between the comfort I craved and the humiliation I couldn't shake. My shoulders trembled anyway, giving me away. Grandpa stepped closer, laying a firm hand on my back.
"You are not a mockery, Aurora," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Do you understand me? They may laugh, the world may write its nonsense—but you are a Sinclair. And you will not let them break you."
The words hit me like a blow. Strong, unyielding, almost too heavy to carry. My lips parted as if to answer, but—as always—no sound came. Only silence. Only me.
Why do they have to encourage me like they understand my pain? I'd heard the name Sinclair so many times—an echo of legacy and expectation—but it never fit me. I could never wear the elegance stitched into it; it felt like someone else's coat.
Alex let go of me slowly, his fingers lingering on my shoulder. I caught the pain in his eyes—real, sharp, and helpless. He stepped back a little, searching my face as if he could name what I felt and make it better.
"Your eyes are really swollen," he said, voice soft and careful. He moved to the bedside drawer and came back with a tissue, offering it without a word. I took it with the same numbness that had settled into my limbs.
Grandpa stood by the doorway, arms folded but not unkind. He watched me for a moment, then cleared his throat. "We'll manage this, Aurora. Together," he said, but his words sounded like orders dressed as comfort. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to feel the strength of the name he kept repeating. Instead, all I felt was the hollowness where my voice should be and the constant, aching awareness of everyone else's expectations.
I gave a small nod, avoiding their gazes. I didn't want them to see the storm still raging inside me. My throat tightened, and though no sound would ever come out, I wished they could somehow hear the words I couldn't speak: I'm tired of being everyone's shame.
Alex sighed and brushed his hand over his face. He was frustrated, but not with me—I could tell. He hated that he couldn't protect me from the world's cruelty.
I turned away, pulling the blanket tighter around me, as if it could shield me from the memory of last night. From the laughter. From the flashing cameras. From the word "mute" echoing in every corner of the internet.