Ursula Northwoode's POV
The rain came down hard that night, drenching the narrow alleyway as I trudged home. My shoes were soaked, my uniform clung to my skin, and the cold bit straight through me.
My shift at the café had run late again, followed by two more hours of cleaning offices downtown—one of three miserable, underpaid jobs I juggled just to keep breathing. My palms were raw from scrubbing floors, my feet screamed in protest from standing all day, and my stomach had seen a proper meal since morning. But complaining didn't pay bills, so I kept walking.
The bus had long stopped running, so I walked the last mile home through the rain, clutching her worn-out bag close to my chest. My paycheck from the restaurant—barely enough to buy groceries—was already gone, snatched by Aunt Janice Northwoode under the excuse of "rent money." I'd stopped arguing about it months ago out of respect to the elder. It only made things worse.
When I finally reached the Northwoode residence—a crumbling old house on the outskirts of the city—I paused at the gate. My heart sank the second I heard Aunt Janice's voice through the window, sharp and shrill through the thin walls, barking at her daughters.
The moment I stepped inside, her eyes locked on me like a hawk spotting prey.
"Well, look who finally decided to come home," Janice sneered, her arms crossed over her chest. "Working late again, huh? Or should I say, pretending to?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but Tiffany—her second daughter—snorted from the couch while scrolling through her phone. "She's probably been out begging for extra tips. You know how desperate she gets."
Delilah laughed from beside her. "Maybe she should try something that actually pays. I mean, who works hard and still can't afford her own place? Maybe you're just bad at it, Ursula."
I gritted my teeth, holding my bag tighter. "I just got home from work. I'm tired. Can we not do this tonight?"
Janice slammed her hand on the table so hard that I flinched. "Don't talk back to me, girl. You live under my roof. You eat my food. You'll do as I say. And you better start paying full rent next week—or you can pack your things and leave!"
Her words cut like broken glass. I didn't reply. I just stood there, swallowing everything—the humiliation, the anger, the exhaustion.
But Janice wasn't finished. She leaned closer, her voice was poisonous. "Don't stand there looking at me like some poor orphan waiting for pity. You think the world owes you something because your parents are gone? Newsflash, Ursula—it doesn't. You're an adult now. Time to stop hiding behind their names and start pulling your own weight."
She pointed toward the stairs, her glare sharp as a blade. "If you can't do that, then get out. I've had enough of your sulking and excuses. I'm not running a charity for lost causes."
Her cruel words just hung there, like she deliberately wanted them to hurt and leave a scar.
I remained silent. My throat burned, but no words came out. I just stood there, swallowing the storm inside me, the hollow ache that came from being unwanted in the only place that was supposed to feel like home.
This house wasn't a home. It was a prison built out of debts and grudges I didn't owe.
My father, Andrew Northwoode, had trusted his sister to take care of me after he and my mother, Linda, died in that car accident. But Janice had turned that responsibility into punishment. She took everything—my inheritance, my wages, even my dignity—and made me believe I should be grateful for it. I felt like an ungrateful burden in the very house my father had left.
Worn out and close to breaking, I went up the creaky stairs to my tiny attic room. The walls were damp, the roof leaked when it rained, and the cold seeped into my bones.
I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, pressing my hands against my face to keep the tears from spilling.
Then my phone buzzed, lighting up the dark room.
The message came from a number I knew well.
"This is Mrs. Whitmore. I don't know how to say this… but Sally's gone. They found her dead this evening."
My heart stopped.
For a second, I just stared at the screen, blinking, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made sense.
Sally Whitmore. My best friend since high school. My sister in everything but blood. The only person who treated me like family. The one who'd been there when everyone else turned their backs. The one who always said, "Ursula, someday, we'll both get out of this miserable world."
I read the message again, my breath catching in my throat.
Dead.
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft thud. My vision blurred as my chest tightened. I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come. Then tears broke free—quiet at first, then breaking into racking sobs so deep they tore through me.
Sally had been my only light, the one person who reminded me that I still mattered.
And now, she was gone.
Downstairs, laughter echoed from the living room—Tiffany and Delilah gossiping about fashion shows, Janice shouting about the bills. The world went on cruelly and indifferently, while Ursula sat alone in the dark, my world collapsing in silence.
The rain outside didn't stop. It hammered against the roof like the sky itself was mourning. And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to have nothing.
My body trembled as I picked up my phone again. Through tears, I tapped on Mrs. Whitmore's contact and hit the call button. It took three tries before I finally heard her weak voice on the other end.
The line crackled, and a broken voice answered. "Ursula…"
"Mrs. Whitmore," I choked out. "Please—please tell me it's not true. What happened to Sally?"
There was a pause, then the sound of her quiet sobs. "They said… she took her own life."
I froze. My blood ran cold. "What? No. No, that's not possible."
"She left a note," she whispered. "They found it in a hotel room. I don't understand either… she never told us anything was wrong."
I shook my head, the tears falling harder. "She wouldn't do that. Sally wasn't like that—she was full of life, she was fine. She was just talking about her next shoot last week!"
But deep down, the more I tried to convince myself, a terrible feeling crept in. Because if Sally hadn't done it… then someone else must have taken her away.
The woman on the other end sobbed softly before speaking again, her voice rough and completely trembling as she did. "Ursula… please, child, you have to accept it. The police said there was no sign of foul play. They found her in her hotel room. The funeral will be held tomorrow afternoon at St. Augustine Chapel. I—" Her voice cracked, "I can't say more right now. Please… just come if you can."
The line went dead, leaving a hollow silence that pressed against my chest. I stared at my cracked phone screen, my reflection blurred by tears, then I numbly opened the browser. My trembling fingers typed: Sally Whitmore death.
Within seconds, headlines flooded the screen.
"Rising Model Sally Whitmore Found Dead in Her Hotel Room—Authorities Suspect Suicide."
"Tragedy in the Fashion World: Young Actress Sally Whitmore's Sudden Death Shocks Fans."
"Beauty and Mystery: The Untold Story Behind the Death of Promising Star Sally Whitmore."
My vision blurred as I scrolled further. One article caught my attention—different from the others.
"Sally Whitmore's Final Project Tied to Prestigious Marcellus Corporation Campaign."
I froze, staring at the glowing words. Something inside me twisted. Nothing about this felt right. And no matter what it took, I was going to find out the truth.
I was about to stand up and clean myself with my legs wobbling from exhaustion, when a soft knock echoed against the door. I wiped my face quickly with the back of my hand, forcing myself to look halfway decent before pulling it open.
There, leaning lazily against the doorframe, was my eldest cousin, Gavin. He gave me that usual smug look where he tried to act nice that always made my stomach tighten.
"Hey, Ursula," he drawled, peeking past me into the cramped room. "Got a minute? I… kinda need your help again."
I already knew what that meant.
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's for my tuition, you know? I'm a bit short this month. Thought maybe you could spare some cash—just until next week."
I let out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the door to steady myself. Tuition, right. The same "tuition" he'd mentioned last time before I caught him flashing wads of bills at his girlfriend during their shopping spree downtown.
"Gavin," I said quietly, my voice rough from crying, "you already borrowed from me last week. And the weeks before that."
He gave me that practiced grin, the one that always worked on Aunt Janice. "Come on, Ursula. You know I'll pay you back. We're family, right?"
Family. The word felt bitter in my mouth. I wanted to laugh at the irony of it, but all I could do was stare at him, wondering how much lower I could possibly fall before someone decided I didn't even deserve the roof over my head.
"Gavin," I said softly, but with a determination that surprised even me, "I don't have anything left."
His smirk faltered. He straightened up, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, nothing? You just got paid."
I shook my head. "Aunt Janice took it. Rent. You know that."
He scoffed, stepping closer until I had to fight the urge to step back. "You're lying. You always say that. I saw you hiding some cash in your sock drawer last month."
My breath hitched. That cash had been from a secret night shift I'd taken—money I'd saved for Sally's birthday gift, a necklace she'd loved but could never afford. I'd planned to surprise her next week.
But now she was gone. And the money felt meaningless.
"Gavin, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I can't. Not today."
For a second, I thought he might actually back off. But then his face darkened, and he slammed his palm against the doorframe, making me jump. "Don't play games with me, Ursula. You owe me. Remember who kept your secret from Mom when you skipped school to go to that concert?"
I flinched at the memory. That secret had cost me a week's worth of meals and a beating from Aunt Janice when she found out later anyway.
I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes again. "I'm not lying. I really don't have anything. And… and I just got some terrible news."
He stared at me, unimpressed. "What kind of news?"
I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. "My friend… she's dead."
For a moment, Gavin's expression softened. But then he rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Don't try to guilt-trip me. One of your little cafe buddies OD'd? Boo-hoo."
My chest tightened. "Her name was Sally," I snapped, surprising myself with my loud voice. "And she didn't OD. She's dead."
He let out an exaggerated sigh, his patience clearly worn thin. "Look, Ursula, I don't have time for your drama. Either you give me what I owe, or I'm telling Mom you've been lying about your shifts again."
I stared at him, the unfairness of it all choking me. Here I was, grieving the only person who truly cared about me, and he was threatening to twist the knife even deeper.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, looking away. "I can't help you."
Gavin's face twisted in anger. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "You're going to regret this," he hissed. "You think you can keep hiding things from us? From me?"
I pulled away, stumbling back into the room. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You know, for someone who pretends to be so innocent, you've got a lot of secrets. And I'm not afraid to dig them up."
I froze. Secrets? What secrets could I possibly have?
He must have seen the confusion on my face, because he smirked. "Oh, you think I don't know? About that night at the club? The one you told Sally you'd take to your grave? What do you think Mom would do if she found out her precious little niece wasn't so perfect after all?"
My blood ran cold. That night… it was a stupid mistake, a single reckless moment after Sally had convinced me to live a little. Something happened, and the fact that I'd been there, that I lied about it… it would be enough for Aunt Janice to finally have the excuse she needed to throw me out.