Chapter 4: Milk-Flavored Deception

It was already nighttime, and Elara sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection and studying the unfamiliar youth in her eyes. Eighteen again. It was still hard to believe.

Her face was smooth, her skin free of the stress lines she’d worn in silence for years. No hollowness beneath her eyes. No hospital gown. No trembling hands.

Just Elara Voss. Alive. A girl with her whole life ahead of her—and the wisdom of the grave behind her.

She reached up and traced the shape of her cheekbone, still caught in awe. The sound of a door creaking open drew her eyes back to the mirror.

Selene.

Standing behind her with a smile that could convince even the angels that she was one of them.

"I brought you some milk," Selene said sweetly, holding a delicate porcelain glass with both hands. “You skipped lunch earlier. I figured you’d be hungry.”

Elara didn’t answer immediately. She just met her sister’s gaze through the reflection, noting how her fingers were curled just so around the glass—exactly as they always were.

Her gaze lingered on it. The milk.

The milk that always tasted just a little off, though she had never paid attention. The same warm glass of milk that slowly fogged her mind each and every night. The milk that made her agree to everything. That turned her into a puppet—not mad, but molded.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile. "Thanks, Selene."

Selene walked over and placed the glass gently on the bedside table, hovering by Elara’s favorite fox plush—a faded, white-eared thing with a velvet bow around its neck. The plush her parents had gifted her on her tenth birthday.

Selene picked it up, twirling it slightly in her hand, her thumb grazing the ribbon.

Rage bloomed like wildfire in Elara’s chest.

That fox had been cradled during sleepless nights, wept into during heartbreaks. It was hers.

Elara stood slowly, wiping the last of her moisturizer into her cheeks, and walked over to Selene with practiced grace. Without a word, she plucked the plush from her sister's hands and gently returned it to the shelf.

“Be careful with that. You know how much it means to me.”

Selene blinked, startled. “Oh… sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Elara said, her voice sharp but calm. “Just don’t touch it again.”

The message was clear: Distance.

Selene’s smile wavered for a breath, but then she recovered, perching at the edge of the bed like a doting sister.

“So,” she started lightly, “you rejected Damien's proposal.”

Elara turned back to the vanity, brushing through her long hair. “Yes, I did.”

“Is something wrong?” Selene asked, her tone too casual. “I just thought, well… you were so close before.”

Elara smoothed a strand behind her ear. “It’s not that anything’s wrong, really. I just don’t feel ready.”

Selene tilted her head. “You don’t?”

“I’m still eighteen,” Elara said softly. “It’s my last year of school. I want to enjoy it. Graduate. Go to college. Do something for myself before I’m someone’s wife.”

Selene frowned faintly, feigning concern. “But... he loves you.”

Elara turned in her seat, folding her hands in her lap. “Maybe. But I don’t think our parents would have wanted me to rush into marriage. They wanted us to live full lives first.”

The mention of their parents worked like a spell. Selene’s face faltered for real this time. Her smile dimmed, replaced by something closer to genuine sadness.

“They would’ve wanted the best for you,” she said quietly, looking down.

“I know,” Elara replied.

And despite the dark pit of betrayal in her memory, part of her remembered that Selene had cried at their funeral. That she had mourned them, in her own way—even while planting knives in Elara’s back.

A silence settled, tinged with old grief. Elara leaned back slightly. “Maybe you should marry Damien.”

Selene’s head snapped up.

“What?” she gasped, too quick. “Elara, no! I—I couldn’t. He’s your fiancé.”

Elara raised a brow. “Is he? I didn’t say yes.”

Selene flushed, scrambling. “Still… I could never! You both have been betrothed since you were children. That’s not—he doesn’t think of me that way.”

Elara offered a small, mysterious smile. “You never know. People change. You’ve grown into quite the beauty, Selene.”

Selene looked shaken for just a moment. “I—thank you.”

Elara stood and walked to the bed, lifting the untouched glass of milk and holding it between her fingers.

“I’ll drink this later,” she said smoothly, placing it on her desk instead.

Selene didn’t move, but her eyes darted toward it—just once. Elara saw it and scoffed silently.

“Goodnight, Selene.”

Selene hesitated, then forced another smile. “Goodnight, Ellie.”

She left.

Elara locked the door behind her and turned to the milk. She walked into the bathroom and poured the white liquid down the drain of the sink. Then she stared at the empty glass, a wicked, quiet grin blooming on her lips.

‘You’ll have to try harder than that.’