Cold War

I didn't sleep.

For hours, I lay on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled sounds echoing through the grand mansion. I heard the distant, hushed tones of my mother cooing over Claire, the heavy footsteps of my father pacing the hallway, and the quiet murmur of Karl’s voice reassuring them all before he finally left.

They treated a faked asthma attack like a tragic survival story, while I sat locked in the dark with a swollen face and a bleeding lip.

When the first light of dawn trickled through the heavy curtains, the heavy bolt on my door finally clicked open.

A maid crept into the room, her head bowed low, her hands trembling as she set a tray of untouched breakfast on my vanity table. She didn't dare make eye contact. In this house, sympathy for Stella Sinclair was a fireable offense.

"Miss Stella..." she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Your father requests your presence in the dining hall."

"Request?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh, standing up from the bed. "Or commands?"

The maid flinched and didn't answer.

I walked over to the mirror. The swelling on my left cheek had gone down slightly, leaving behind a faint, purplish bruise along my jawline—a permanent souvenir from my loving father. I didn't bother covering it with makeup. I wanted them to see it. I wanted every single one of them to look at what they had done.

I smoothed down my uniform, pulled my shoulders back, and walked downstairs.

The dining room was blindingly bright, filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, roasted meats, and warm pastries. Sitting at the head of the table was my father, reading the morning paper over a cup of espresso. Beside him sat my mother, lovingly spreading strawberry jam over a slice of toast and placing it onto Claire's plate.

Claire was wrapped in an expensive silk robe, a dramatic white bandage still slapped across her forehead. She looked like a fragile doll wrapped in cotton.

And sitting right across from her, completely at home, was Karl.

He had stayed the night, or at least returned early, acting as the protective hero defending his precious new sister-in-law.

The moment my footsteps echoed on the marble floor, the easy laughter around the table vanished.

Karl’s eyes flicked to me first. His dark gaze dropped straight to the dark bruise blooming across my jaw. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of discomfort—maybe even guilt—crossed his face. But as quickly as it appeared, he masked it, hardening his expression back into righteous anger.

My father folded his newspaper with a sharp, deliberate snap. "Sit down, Stella."

I didn't move toward the chair. I stood at the edge of the table, my hands tucked loosely into my blazer pockets, my face an impenetrable mask.

"I asked you to sit," my father repeated, his tone laced with warning.

"I prefer to stand," I replied smoothly. My voice was calm, completely stripped of the desperation or tearful rebellion I used to show. "It makes it easier to leave when you're finished playing happy family."

My mother slammed her butter knife down onto her plate. "Stella! Have you no shame?! Look at your sister—she barely survived the night because of your petty jealousy, and you walk down here with that vile attitude?!"

"My jaw hurts too much to put on a fake smile, Mom," I said, tilting my head slightly so the morning sunlight caught the dark purple bruise on my face.

My mother blinked, her breath catching in her throat for a split second as her eyes registered the mark. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it, looking away awkwardly.

Claire, noticing the shifted energy, immediately let out a soft, pathetic cough. She grabbed Karl's arm, leaning her head weakly against his shoulder. "Mommy, please... don't fight because of me. It's my fault. If I hadn't come here, Stella wouldn't be so angry..."

"Don't blame yourself, Claire," Karl spoke up, his voice firm as he covered her hand with his own. He looked up at me, his eyes cold and scolding. "Stella needs to learn that her actions have consequences. You don't get to hurt people just because you feel insecure."

I looked at Karl. I looked at the hand he had placed over Claire's—the same hand that had slipped a diamond ring into my palm just yesterday.

The old me would have screamed. She would have ripped that ring out of her pocket and thrown it directly into his face. But I just smiled. It was a small, chilling smile that reached nowhere near my eyes.

"You're right, Karl," I said quietly, taking a step closer to the table. "Actions have consequences. Everyone in this room will learn that eventually."

My father stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "That's enough! I brought you down here to give you one last chance to redeem yourself. You will apologize to Claire right now, and you will give her your official blessing to take the master bedroom. If you do that, we will forget this disgrace ever happened."

He thought he was offering me a lifeline. He thought he was giving me a path back into their good graces.

I looked at my father, then at my mother, then at Claire, who was watching me through her lashes with a triumphant smirk hidden beneath Karl's arm.

"No," I said cleanly.

The word hung in the air like a heavy blade.

"What did you say?" my father growled.

"I said no," I repeated, holding his angry stare without flinching. "Keep the room. Keep the clothes you threw in the trash. Give her my birthday, give her the house, give her Karl if she wants him so badly."

I pulled the velvet box out of my pocket—the diamond ring Karl had gifted me yesterday. I tossed it carelessly onto the center of the table. It rolled across the polished wood and clinked against Claire's orange juice glass.

Karl stared at the ring in utter shock, his jaw tightening. "Stella, what are you doing?"

"I'm declining," I said flatly, looking Karl straight in the eye. "I don't accept garbage, and I certainly don't accept boys who play hero for snake-bitten girls."

Claire gasped, pulling back as if she had been slapped. "Stella... how could you say that...?"

"Shut up, Claire," I cut her off instantly, my tone so sharp and commanding that even my father froze in surprise. "Save the tears for someone who doesn't know your script."

I turned my back on the entire table and began walking toward the front door to head to school.

"Stella Sinclair! If you walk out that door right now, don't expect a single cent from this family!" my father roared behind me, his voice echoing through the massive foyer. "You will be dead to us!"

I paused at the heavy oak doors. I didn't turn around.

"I died a long time ago, Mr. Sinclair," I whispered quietly to the empty air, gripping the door handle. "You're just waiting for the body to drop."

I opened the door and stepped out into the crisp morning air, leaving the monsters behind in their paradise.