Chapter 2

Vivian’s POV

The first thing I did when I woke up was reach for my phone, even though I had barely slept the previous night.

I lay beneath my covers, staring at the ceiling as memories of Nathan flooded my mind.

I had walked away from the only person who made me feel loved, and now that he was gone, I couldn't stop wondering whether I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.

My fingers tightened around my phone as I opened our conversation history.

I'd read our messages so many times that I could almost hear his voice, and the thought of never hearing from him again made my chest ache.

Would he be angry? Would he think I'd used him? Would he try to contact me from another number?

I dropped my phone onto the bed and covered my face, wishing there was a way to fix everything without having to face the truth about myself.

A loud bang against my bedroom door made me jump.

"Vivian! Are you planning to sleep all day?"

Before I could answer, Rosalie barged into my room, looking immaculate in a fitted cream top and a short skirt.

Her long hair fell in neat waves around her shoulders, and the expensive perfume she wore filled the room.

Her gaze travelled from my unmade bed to my face before settling on my swollen eyes.

"Goodness, what happened to you? You look terrible."

"Can you knock before entering my room?"

She ignored me, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

"Have you been crying? Wait, let me guess. Your online boyfriend finally got tired of talking to you without even knowing what you look like?"

My stomach tightened. Rosalie knew nothing about Nathan, and I intended to keep it that way.

"What are you talking about?"

"Please, don't insult my intelligence. You've been hiding in this room with that phone for months, smiling like a fool. I always wondered what kind of man would waste his time talking to you without even seeing your face."

She glanced at my phone and laughed.

"Poor guy must have been desperate to spend so much time talking to a girl who won't even show him what she looks like."

"Get out of my room, Rosalie."

Her smile widened, clearly pleased that she'd found a way to upset me.

"With your face and that body, you probably have to hide behind a phone just to get a man to pay attention to you. Stop chasing love, Vivian. No guy wants a girl as disgusting as you."

She walked out, leaving the door open behind her.

I stared after her, fighting the tears burning behind my eyes.

Rosalie had always known exactly where to hurt me, and she never missed an opportunity to remind me that, in her eyes, I was less deserving of love than anyone else.

Her cruelty wasn't limited to private insults, either.

She often invited her friends over, turning our home into an audience for her favourite pastime.

They would exchange mocking glances, comment on my appearance, and laugh at jokes designed to humiliate me.

Rosalie enjoyed being the centre of attention, and making me feel small only seemed to make her more popular.

Sometimes, I wondered whether things would have been different if my mother had lived long enough to raise me.

She died when I was barely a month old, leaving my father to raise me alone.

He remarried while I was still a baby, hoping to give me a mother and our family some stability.

Ten months after I was born, Rosalie arrived, and for a while, I believed we could all be happy together.

As a child, I followed my stepmother around, desperate for the affection I imagined mothers gave their daughters.

I wanted her to braid my hair, praise my achievements, and look at me with the same warmth she showed Rosalie.

Instead, I slowly learned that I could spend an entire day trying to please her and still fall short of what she expected from me.

Rosalie was beautiful, and her mother never let her forget it.

Every pretty dress belonged to Rosalie first, and every achievement earned her praise.

When she misbehaved, she was playful. When I made the smallest mistake, I was troublesome and ungrateful.

As we grew older, the comparisons became more personal.

"Look at your sister," my stepmother would say whenever Rosalie appeared in a new outfit. "A girl should learn to take care of herself. You cannot expect people to treat you like a princess when you don't even care about your appearance."

Rosalie quickly learned that tears could excuse her mistakes and mocking me earned her mother's approval.

Before long, she no longer needed encouragement to make my life miserable.

I complained to my father countless times, but although he loved me, he always asked me to be patient whenever defending me threatened the peace in his marriage.

He never seemed to understand that his silence hurt almost as much as their cruelty.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

"Vivian, can I come in?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He entered with bread and tea, his expression softening when he noticed my swollen eyes.

"My girl, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Daddy. I'm fine."

He placed the food on my desk and gently lifted my chin. "Talk to me."

I hesitated before telling him how Rosalie had mocked my appearance and suggested no man would ever want me.

His jaw tightened. "She said that to you? That girl needs to learn how to speak to people. I'll talk to her mother."

For the first time that morning, I felt a little hopeful. Perhaps he would finally stand up for me.

Then my stepmother's voice rang out from the hallway.

"Talk to me about what?"

She appeared in the doorway, looking between us with immediate suspicion.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," my father replied.

"Really? Because I heard my name. Why are you two having a private meeting behind my back?"

"Nobody is having a meeting behind your back," he explained with a weary sigh. "Vivian says Rosalie has been bothering her again, and I told her I'd speak to you about it."

My stepmother's expression hardened.

"Of course. Another complaint about Rosalie. Does this girl ever get tired of playing the victim?"

"I didn't say anything about playing the victim," my father replied.

"You didn't have to. Every time those two have a disagreement, Vivian runs to you, and somehow Rosalie is always the villain. Have you ever considered that your daughter might be jealous of her sister?"

I stared at her, stunned by how easily she could turn a complaint about cruelty into an accusation against me.

"I only told Daddy what happened," I protested.

"Oh, be quiet. You never tell him what you say to Rosalie, do you? You never mention how you answer her or spoil her mood whenever she's happy about something."

"That's enough," my father said quietly.

She turned to him in disbelief. "Enough? You're defending her again. Sometimes I wonder whether you'll ever stop treating Vivian like a helpless child simply because she lost her mother. Rosalie has feelings too, but apparently they don't matter as much as hers."

I watched my father's expression change, recognizing the familiar struggle in his eyes.

He wanted to defend me, but he also wanted to avoid another argument with his wife.

"Nobody said Rosalie's feelings don't matter," he replied. "I only want the girls to get along."

"Then perhaps you should teach Vivian to stop taking everything personally."

My father rubbed his forehead, looking suddenly exhausted.

"Can we please discuss this later?"

"Of course. That's always your answer whenever I point out a problem with your daughter."

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

For a few seconds, my father remained silent before turning to me with an apologetic smile.

"You know how your stepmother can be. Don't let her upset you, okay? I'll speak to Rosalie when things have calmed down."

I lowered my eyes to the plate on my desk.

"Okay, Daddy."

He squeezed my shoulder affectionately before leaving, and I watched him go with the familiar mixture of love and disappointment that had followed me for years.

After he left, I pushed the food aside, my appetite gone, and opened my laptop to distract myself from everything that had happened.

An email notification caught my attention.

I'd submitted several university applications over the past few months, but most had gone unanswered or ended in disappointment, so I opened this one without much expectation.

It was from the university in Boston.

My eyes widened as I read the first few lines.

Dear Vivian Carter,

We are pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. You have been selected for the scholarship programme supporting qualified students admitted into our accelerated degree pathway in Boston.

I stared at the screen, then read the message again to make sure I hadn't misunderstood.

I'd received the scholarship.

It covered my tuition, and the programme included student accommodation, which meant I could leave home without worrying about how to afford somewhere to live.

A smile slowly spread across my face as I scrolled down to the bottom of the email, eager to find out what I needed to do next.

Then I saw the deadline.

I had only forty-eight hours to accept the offer, and the university required a financial guarantor's signature to finalize my admission.

I stared at the screen, my heart sinking.

If I wanted to leave, I'd need Daddy's help, but knowing how easily my stepmother could influence him, I wasn't sure he'd agree to let me go.