The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 1

I buried my best friend this morning. The dirt feels heavy as it thuds against the casket, each shovelful a dull ache in my chest. I grew up with dogs in Edinburgh, but Biscuit was the first one I truly owned. He's been with me since I was three, when my mother rescued him as a scruffy, neglected puppy left in an abandoned beach house in Cramond. Now, at seventeen, I feel a piece of the very fabric of my existence leaving this earthly plane. I can't breathe. I want to scream into the void. This is just heart-wrenching.

"George, are you listening to me?"

My father's voice cuts through the fog of my grief, sharp and demanding as always. I turn to face him in the living room, his finger jammed in my direction.

"You haven't been eating for days, and your grades are in the gutter. One more slip-up and you'll be out of the running for head of the class, you little git." He steps closer, looming over me. "You're a Midways, for heaven's sake! We don't fail, do you understand?"

I stare at him, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from lashing out. How can he stand there and lecture me about grades when all I can think about is the unbearable reality that my precious companion is forever beyond my reach? The cruel finality of it—the paws, the warmth, the unconditional love, all six feet below the ground—leaves me teetering on the edge of an abyss of sorrow so deep, I fear I may never find my way out of it. Oh, of course, how dare I, to even forget he only cares for himself, or does he ever? The unfairness of it all threatens to boil over.

"I want to go home," I utter, barely above a whisper. "I want to return to London." I'm well aware he wouldn't want to hear anything that has something to do with Scotland, let alone my hometown, Edinburgh.

In an instant, his palm cracks to my face, the sting of it making my eyes water. I refuse to flinch to give him the satisfaction. This is nothing new.

"Home?" he spits. "This is your home now, you ungrateful brat. You'll shape up and do whatever it takes to keep this family's legacy intact, or so help me—"

I tune him out, the familiar tirade fading to white noise. As I stand there, cheek burning, I'm certain of one thing: I will never be free of this place until I make them all pay.

"George!" Charlotte, my father's second wife, rushes down the stairs and runs in my direction. "What did you do, Philip?" She caresses the part of my cheek that he hit and kisses it while crying.

Philip hisses, "All of you are just making that girl as stubborn as she already is. Don't wait until even you are not allowed to see her, Charlotte. Keep your nose out of this and focus on the baby inside your belly!" He storms out, slamming the door hard enough to nearly knock the painting off the wall.

Father never seems to learn; his forgetfulness is a constant source of pain.

"Ouch," I wince as Charlotte gently presses the cold compress onto my bruised cheek and swollen lips. I turn my face away, trying to hide the discomfort.

"I'm sorry, hun," she murmurs, her words trembling.

I take her hand briefly, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Come on, Charlotte, this isn't the end of the world. You can't keep crying over every little thing." She's been this emotional every time Philip has hurt me lately, which is why I insisted she take a pregnancy test last Sunday. As I suspected, she's pregnant—hormones can make everything seem more daunting. "May I just remind you it's not good for the baby?"

But don't mistake her for the evil stepmother you read about in books or see in movies. Charlotte is far from that. She genuinely cares for me, treats me as her own, and isn't afraid to scold me when I need it. This helpless, tearful version of her isn't who she really is.