WE WERE LIARS meets SALTBURN. The Seymour girls are beautiful and blessed: skin like porcelain, hair kissed by fire's breath and privilege without recompense. They were named fir their parents' mothers. Juliette for their mother's and Josephine for their father's. I am the last Seymour girl. But I am a bullet shell. A complete outrage of a human being. My entire existence reads like a Shakespearean insult -- clod of wayward marl. You could say lust is what got me in this mess in the first place. The thrill of wanting something off-limits. And then I burned everything to the ground. If I'm being honest, you shouldn't read any of this. I'm serious. Don't. ➤ Open Novella Contest 2024: Prompts #95 and #60