3

The house itself was no castle. It barely passed for a mansion. My father was scraping by with his drug business—money came fast, but danger came faster.

Still, I told myself we were a family. That it would be enough.

When Gia needed new clothes, he spent every cent dressing her like royalty.

When I needed a coat, I got hand-me-downs from charity bins. They even throw away the clothes Aunt Eva had given me—clean, elegant, too nice for me to wear.

When Marco was born, he had his own room. His own little phone. A laptop before he could spell.

I was in high school without a phone, without a computer, writing essays by hand and pretending I didn’t care.

That’s when I realized: this wasn’t my family.

This was a battlefield where I was the expendable one.

So I planned my escape.

I fought tooth and nail for a scholarship and left.

I’d spent my entire life trying to prove I was worth loving. Worth keeping. I bent myself backward for scraps of affection—for the sound of my name said with pride instead of shame.

And now? Now I was dead. Turns out I was right. My family doesn’t love me, even after I’d given them these many chances.

For the first time in my life, I was dead and I felt free.

No more chasing approval. No more begging to be seen.

They didn’t matter anymore. None of them did.

…

Dad hadn’t been having the time of his life since Eva’s call.

Without her threat, he began worrying about his so-called empire was nothing more than a pile of bricks barely standing.

“I should’ve just let Eva keep her,” he muttered for what had to be the hundredth time that day. “Nothing but a burden. Useless.”

And there it was again—his version of fatherhood. Tossing the blame on the child he offered up like currency and acting like the loss was a nuisance, not a tragedy.

My mother, ever the perfect wife, soothed him with a hand on his shoulder and a voice sweet enough to coat poison. “Have you tried calling Mr. Rossi directly? Maybe he knows where Serena went?”

“Tried,” Dad said, jaw tight. “Didn’t go through. Feels like both of them are ghosting me.”

Of course the line went dead. Adam Rossi was never planning to work with my father.

Gia wandered into the room, eyes glued to her phone screen, “Isn’t Auntie Eva’s birthday coming up?” she said casually. “She and Serena were close. If Serena’s going to show up anywhere, it’ll be there. We can just… wait and catch her.”

My father’s face lit up, like she’d just handed him a blueprint to salvation.

“That’s my smart girl,” he said proudly.

Of course.

My mother didn’t look convinced. She tapped her screen again, then frowned. “There’s a report on the news,” she said slowly. “Someone named Rossi got arrested by the FBI—something about drug trafficking. Is that the same man Serena went to dinner with?”

She held up her phone. The image of Adam Rossi flashed across the screen, grainy but unmistakable.

My father’s face turned ghostly pale.

Rossi had been running for years, untouchable. I wonder if it was the karma that after killing me, he finally got arrested.

For my father, this news was the end of a dream. He’d been counting on Rossi—counting on that connection to crack open a new level in his drug game. Bigger clients. More money.

“So Rossi’s arrested,” Gia said, brow furrowed. “But Serena’s still missing?”

There was no worry in her voice. Not even the barest flicker.

“She was probably upset about the dinner or got arrested too along with that man,” my mother said with a soft, dismissive wave. “She’ll show up.”

My father didn’t speak. He stood slowly, pacing.

A moment later, I saw the glow of his phone screen. He was texting me.

“Serena, you’d better keep your mouth shut when the cops question you about Rossi. Don’t you dare mention your family. If you do, I won’t see you as my daughter anymore. This is the least you can do for your father. I can’t afford to lose everything.”

It felt like a blow straight to my chest— though I wasn’t made of skin and blood anymore.

Even now, with me gone, he was still threatening me, trying to control the narrative and pretending I owed him something.

If I’d read that message when I was alive, I would’ve crumbled or cried.

But not anymore.

I’m dead now, Daddy.

And for the first time in my life… I’m not afraid of you.

…

They still hadn’t heard from me.

And Aunt Eva’s birthday had arrived.

To my surprise, this year, there was no birthday party.

I knew she was worried. I had never—not once—missed calling her on her birthday.

“You still haven’t heard from Serena?” I heard Eva’s voice echo crisply through the speakerphone. “I’m parking. Talk when I get inside.”

She was coming here. To them.

Even in death, I felt a burst of warmth. I wanted to greet her at the door, wrap my arms around her the way I used to. But I couldn’t. I was tethered—like a shadow—to my parents. I had no control. Only the ache of wanting.

So I waited in the foyer, floating beside my father as Eva stepped through the door.

God, she was still stunning—dressed in black like a queen in mourning. Her presence lit the room like a slap of perfume and thunder.

“Auntie Eva!” Marco called, rushing into her arms. She gave him a stiff smile, her body barely bending for the hug.

“Hey,” she said. “You’ve grown.”

Then came Gia.

High heels clicking, voice sweet as poison. “Auntie Eva,” she sang, stretching the words with fake warmth.

Eva’s face darkened. She didn’t like Gia.

I once told Eva—accidentally—about a bruise Gia gave me. I hadn’t meant to. She asked, and I answered. The truth spilled out before I could shove it back.

Father punished me that night.

“I didn’t think you were that evil,” he’d whispered coldly. “Trying to turn Eva against Gia? Gia had already suffered a lot. And you knew it was hard for her to live at this family. Don’t stir more troubles.”

Eva had always seen through Gia. She’d once said, I don’t like that girl’s eyes. Too much malice for someone so young.

And now, that same girl was playing nice again.

“Eva,” my father said, voice falsely cheerful, “don’t be so distant. Gia was just greeting you.”

“Distant?” Eva snapped, turning toward him with steel in her voice. “She’s a bully. And I’ve never liked bullies—even when they come with your last name.”

Silence sliced through the room.

My father’s expression soured. My mother stiffened beside him.

They never liked when Eva spoke the truth.