The mansion was too quiet at night.
Leah sat on the edge of her bed, the curtains half-drawn, silver moonlight stretching across the floor like something cold and watchful. The air felt heavier here than in the hospital wing. Still. Undisturbed.
Her fingers hovered over her shoulder.
Not touching.
Just hovering.
He saw.
The thought replayed in her mind like a whisper she couldn't silence.
He saw them.
The scars she had never allowed anyone to see. Not the servants. Not the doctors. Not even herself for long.
Her jaw tightened faintly.
It wasn't anger that twisted in her chest anymore.
It was something worse.
Exposure.
She lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't looked at her with disgust.
He hadn't recoiled.
He hadn't said anything cruel.
And somehow that unsettled her more.
Her eyes drifted closed despite herself.
Exhaustion always won eventually.
And sleep came quietly.
—
The first thing she noticed was the chandelier.
Crystal.
Golden light spilling across polished marble floors.
A long dining table stretched endlessly beneath it.
Her fingers curled instinctively.
She knew this place.
The house she grew up in.
She looked down at herself.
Smaller hands.
Thin wrists.
A plain dress.
No jewelry.
No shoes.
She was standing.
They were seated.
Her family.
Perfectly composed.
Her stepmother's posture straight and unmoving. Her father's gaze cold and distant. Her siblings whispering softly between themselves.
No one looked at her.
"Why are you still standing there?"
The voice cut cleanly through the air.
Her father didn't raise his volume.
He never had to.
"I told you to refill the glasses."
She moved immediately.
No hesitation.
No reply.
The tray felt too heavy in her hands.
She walked carefully around the table, pouring water, eyes lowered.
One of her siblings snickered softly.
"She walks like she's afraid of the floor."
"She should be," another replied lightly.
Leah said nothing.
She finished pouring.
Stepped back.
And stood again.
Waiting.
Because she had learned early that sitting without permission was worse than exhaustion.
Her stepmother finally looked at her.
Not warmly.
Not even critically.
Just assessing.
"You're blocking the light."
Leah moved.
Immediately.
"Honestly," her stepmother sighed, lifting her napkin delicately. "You would think she'd learn."
Her father's gaze finally shifted to her.
It was enough to make her stomach twist.
"Did you polish the silver?"
"Yes, sir," she answered softly.
"Every piece?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Too long.
Her heart began to beat faster.
One of the guests lifted a spoon.
A faint smudge.
Barely visible.
Her father's expression didn't change.
But the room went quiet.
The kind of quiet that meant something was about to happen.
"Girl."
She stiffened.
"Yes, sir."
"Come here."
She stepped forward slowly.
The tray was removed from her hands.
Set aside.
Her father stood.
The sound of his chair scraping against marble echoed in the room.
"Hands behind your back."
The words were calm.
Measured.
She obeyed immediately.
Fingers lacing together behind her.
Eyes fixed on the floor.
Her breathing slowed.
Because reacting made it worse.
The first strike stole her breath.
A sharp sound more than a sensation.
The second made her knees weaken.
By the third, she had stopped responding.
She stared at the polished floor instead.
Counted the tiles.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
She would not cry.
Crying made it longer.
"Stand straight," her father instructed evenly.
She straightened.
Back burning.
But her face remained blank.
Her stepmother took a sip of tea.
"Perhaps now she'll learn."
A sibling leaned closer to another.
"She's lucky we bother correcting her."
Lucky.
The word echoed in her ears.
The strikes stopped.
Her father stepped back.
"You are in this house because we allow it," he said quietly.
"You will behave accordingly."
She nodded once.
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
He returned to his seat.
Dinner resumed.
As if nothing had happened.
She remained standing.
Back aching and bleeding.
Hands clasped.
Invisible.
—
The scene shifted.
The dining hall darkened.
The table stretched longer.
Voices blurred together.
"Don't forget your place."
"No one wants something flawed."
"You should be grateful."
"You are not a daughter."
The words overlapped.
Echoing.
Louder.
She was kneeling now.
Marble pressing into her knees.
The chandelier light flickering violently above her.
Her hands were behind her back again.
She tried to move them.
She couldn't.
Footsteps approached.
Slow.
Measured.
She didn't look up.
She already knew what came next.
"Let me see."
The voice was different.
Lower.
Familiar.
Her heart stopped.
That wasn't her father's voice.
It was—
"Izana."
The name left her lips in a whisper.
The silhouette before her shifted.
Tall.
Black hair catching the chandelier light.
He was holding something in his hand.
At first it was the small jar of ointment.
Then it wasn't.
The glass twisted.
Darkened.
Lengthened.
Leather.
Her breath quickened.
"No," she whispered.
He stepped closer.
"Let me see."
But it sounded wrong.
It sounded like—
"Hands behind your back."
Her body obeyed without thinking.
Her wrists moved.
Locked behind her.
The marble beneath her knees turned cold.
"I didn't mean to," she tried to say.
But her voice wouldn't come out.
He reached toward her.
The belt lifted.
"I just wanted to help," his voice overlapped with her father's.
The room fractured.
The chandelier shattered.
Glass rained down in slow motion.
And she flinched—
—
Leah jolted upright in bed.
Her breath tore from her chest in a sharp gasp.
The room was dark.
Quiet.
Moonlight pooled faintly on the floor.
Her heart pounded violently.
Her hands were gripping the sheets.
Not restrained.
Not bound.
She was alone.
Her back didn't burn.
But her hand flew to it anyway.
Fingers pressing against fabric.
Real.
Present.
Safe.
Her breathing was uneven.
Shallow.
She forced herself to inhale slowly.
Once.
Twice.
"I'm not there," she whispered hoarsely.
Her voice shook.
"I'm not there anymore."
The silence of the mansion pressed around her.
No footsteps.
No commands.
No chandelier light.
Just the faint rustle of curtains.
She swallowed hard.
Her eyes drifted toward the door.
For a moment — just one brief, fragile moment — she almost stood.
Almost walked out.
Almost went to him.
But her hand tightened into the sheets instead.
He saw.
And even though he hadn't judged her…
Even though he hadn't said anything cruel…
The feeling of being seen still burned.
Slowly, she drew her knees to her chest.
Wrapped her arms around herself.
Rested her forehead against her knees.
She didn't cry.
She had learned long ago how to endure quietly.
The moonlight shifted across the floor.
And the night remained silent.