I step inside my marvelous mansion, but the grandeur is nothing more than a hollow shell. The opulent decor, the crystal chandeliers, the priceless artwork—it’s all a testament to the emptiness that gnaws at my soul. This place, with all its luxury, feels more like a prison than a home.
I’ve been avoiding everyone here, including my father—or should I even call him that? The man who shares my blood is nothing more than a monster. My mother, the only person who ever truly loved me, gave her heart to him, and he shattered it into a million pieces. She died every day, bit by bit, watching him flaunt his mistress around the house. And now that woman has the audacity to call herself my stepmother.
I still remember the day when everything changed. I was just fifteen, but the memories are etched into my mind like scars.
It was a stormy night, the kind that makes you feel like something terrible is about to happen. I had just gotten home from school, drenched from the rain, and I could hear shouting coming from the living room. My mother’s voice was breaking, pleading, while my father’s was cold and dismissive.
I hesitated outside the door, my heart pounding in my chest. Then, I heard it—a sound that sent chills down my spine. A slap. My mother’s sobs followed, and something inside me snapped.
I rushed into the room, only to find my father standing over her, his hand still raised. My mother was on the floor, her face red and swollen, tears streaming down her cheeks. And then there was her, the witch—his mistress—standing beside him with a smug smile on her face.
“You’re nothing but a pathetic excuse for a woman,” my father sneered at my mother, his voice dripping with contempt. “You should be grateful I even let you stay here.”
