Forsaken Petals

Chapter 4: Shadows of a Mother's Touch

Damian leaned back in his chair, the weight of the meeting pressing on his shoulders. His men had just delivered reports about rival activities—new threats arising, shipments intercepted, and alliances wavering. Even for someone as ruthlessly efficient as Damian, the constant power plays of the underworld required vigilance.

Leon, his second-in-command, sat across from him, running a hand through his hair. "We'll need to hit back harder this time," Leon said, his voice calm but firm. "They're testing the waters."

"I'm not interested in being tested," Damian replied coldly. His tone silenced the room. "Make sure the next message they receive is loud and clear. No one underestimates me and lives to tell the tale."

Leon nodded. "Understood."

The meeting dispersed, and Damian lingered in his study, staring at the surveillance monitors. It wasn't an obsession, he told himself. Evelyn was part of his strategy—a piece of the puzzle he hadn't figured out yet.

Suddenly, a scream tore through the silence. It was raw, primal, and unmistakably hers. Damian's head snapped toward the monitor, his body tensing as he saw Evelyn writhing on the bed, her cries echoing in his ears even through the thick walls.

Within moments, he was at her door, shoving it open to find her trembling form. Her small, fragile figure was drenched in sweat, her cries cutting through the cold stillness of the night.

"Evelyn!" he barked, crossing the room in swift strides.

But she didn't respond. Her eyes were shut tight, her head thrashing against the pillow.

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In her dreams, Evelyn was back in the Hart mansion, standing outside her mother's door. Her small fist hesitated before knocking, the weight of hope and fear heavy on her tiny shoulders.

"Come in, Emilia," her mother called out, her voice soft and warm.

Evelyn swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed the door open. "Mama. I—I couldn't sleep."

Her mother's face shifted, her smile faltering. For a brief moment, Evelyn thought she might turn her away. But instead, her mother sighed and opened her arms. "Come here, then."

Evelyn climbed into her mother's embrace, her heart pounding. It was always like this—pretending, lying, stealing moments that weren't hers. But it was worth it.

"Sing to me, Mama," Evelyn whispered.

Her mother hummed a lullaby, her hand stroking Evelyn's hair. Evelyn closed her eyes, soaking in the warmth, pretending it was meant for her.

***
Evelyn had always watched her mother from afar, like a shadow on the periphery of someone else's happiness. From her small, desolate attic room, she would peek through the crack in the door, watching as her mother tucked Emilia into bed.

Emilia's giggles would echo down the hall, mingling with her mother's soft lullaby. The warmth, the touch, the affection—all of it was reserved for Emilia, the perfect daughter.

Evelyn, the unwanted one, knew better than to ask for what wasn't hers. But the ache in her chest became unbearable. Her younger self believed that by pretending to be Emilia, she could finally feel the warmth of her mother's touch—a fleeting connection she longed for with every fiber of her being. It became her nightly ritual: slipping into the role of her twin, knocking softly on her mother's door, and hoping the facade would grant her the love and comfort she was starved of.

The day her mother discovered the deception was etched into Evelyn's memory like a scar. She had fallen asleep in her mother's bed, and when the sunlight filtered through the curtains, it was Emilia who walked into the room.