THE LITTLE MOUSE

CHAPTER 1:

EVELYN'S POV

“Get down here, little girl! I gave birth to you. I can also have you!”

“Stay away from me, Papa!” I cried, backing away until my back hit the wall. “Please, I haven't done anything wrong.”

He staggered towards me, the stench of alcohol coming off him in waves. His bloodshot eyes settled on me, and I knew I was in trouble.

“Come here when I'm talking to you!”

“No, Papa. Please…”

My eyes landed on the vase beside the bed. Without thinking, I grabbed it and swung it at his head.

The vase shattered against him…. “blood…ohh my God mum.”

He staggered backwards, cursing, while I ran past him before he could grab me.

I rushed downstairs, tears blurring my vision, and found my mother sitting before her dressing mirror. She was adjusting her makeup, dressed in an elegant gown that probably cost more than everything in our home.

“Mama!” I grabbed her arm. “Papa tried to hurt me again…he tried to force me to do that again, He was drunk, and he…”

“Evelyn, not now.”

She didn't even look at me.

“Mama, please. I'm scared.”

She sighed, examining her lipstick in the mirror before turning to me.

“Deal with it, honey. Everything will be over soon.”

“But…”

“Mama…”

★★★

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I jolted awake and slapped my alarm clock until the noise stopped.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my fingers clutched the bedsheets as I stared around.

The wardrobe. The curtains. The enormous bed.

I was safe.

I pressed a hand against my chest and forced myself to take a deep breath before dragging myself out of bed.

After washing my face, I stood before the mirror and stared at my reflection.

“Dreams can be cruel…. sometimes it's just a play back reality." I whispered.

Sometimes, they reminded you of things you'd spent months trying to forget.

That had been my life only a few months ago.

My father. His drinking. His unpredictable anger. My mother's endless excuses.

Everything had changed when she divorced him and married a wealthy businessman. Now, I lived in a mansion, slept in a comfortable bed, and had more clothes than I knew what to do with.

Quite the upgrade, Evelyn. From a drunken father's punching bag to a rich man's stepdaughter. What a fairytale.

Except fairytales were supposed to have happy endings.

I couldn't say I wasn't grateful. My mother's marriage had given me something I desperately needed: safety. My father couldn't reach me anymore.

But being safe didn't mean I was healed.

Sometimes, the smallest things still frightened me. A raised voice. Heavy footsteps outside my bedroom. The sound of something breaking.

And sometimes, I still woke up crying because my dreams reminded me that the past hadn't disappeared just because my address had changed.

A knock sounded at my door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and one of the maids stepped inside.

“Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you. I'll be down shortly.”

She nodded and left.

I showered, dressed in my school uniform, and brushed my hair before taking one last look at myself in the mirror.

My uniform was neat, my shoes polished, and my hair properly arranged.

Perfect.

If only looking presentable could fix everything else.

I picked up my schoolbag and left the room.

The dining room was already occupied when I arrived. My stepfather sat at the head of the table, dressed in an expensive suit, his phone resting beside his plate.

He looked up as I approached.

“Good morning, Evelyn.”

“Good morning, sir.”

I had never quite gotten used to calling him Dad, even though he had never given me a reason to fear him.

He smiled, stood, and kissed my forehead.

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good. Sit down and eat before you leave for school.”

I took my usual seat, feeling a little awkward under his attention.

He was a good man. Patient, generous, and kind to me despite the fact that I wasn't his biological daughter.

Sometimes, I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A quiet girl who barely spoke? His wife's daughter? Someone he had simply accepted because he loved my mother?

I wasn't brave enough to ask.

We had barely started eating when my mother entered the dining room.

She looked beautiful, as always, in a fitted dress, her makeup flawless. She walked straight to my stepfather and kissed his cheek.

“Good morning, darling.”

“Good morning.”

She settled into the chair beside him, then glanced around the table.

“Where's Adrian?”

My stepfather checked his watch.

“He should be down soon. He has a lecture this morning.”

“Oh, all right.”

And just like that, their conversation moved to something else.

I lowered my eyes to my breakfast.

Adrian.

Even hearing his name made me strangely conscious of myself.

My stepbrother was the kind of person people noticed without him having to try. Tall, handsome, wealthy, and effortlessly popular, he seemed to have everything I lacked.

At school, girls followed him with their eyes. Some found excuses to speak to him, while others practically competed for his attention.

And me?

I could barely look him in the face without forgetting what I wanted to say.

It wasn't because he was unkind. Quite the opposite.

Adrian had never made me feel unwanted. When I first moved into this house, he was the one who noticed how uncomfortable I felt. He had stepped in whenever someone made me feel small, and he never demanded an explanation for my silence.

That was precisely the problem.

He was kind to me, and somehow, that made me even more nervous around him.

I admired him from a distance. That was enough.

At least, it had to be.

After breakfast, I thanked my stepfather and left for school.

The drive was quiet, and I spent most of it staring out the window, watching the city pass by. When the car finally stopped at the school entrance, I adjusted my bag and stepped out.

Students crowded the courtyard, laughing and talking in their usual groups. A few glanced at me before returning to their conversations.

I kept my head down and walked towards the main building.

I only wanted to get through the day without attracting attention.

Apparently,

that was too much to ask.

“Well, well, well. Look who's here!”

I recognised the voice immediately.

My steps slowed.

“The mouse who thinks wearing a uniform makes her one of us.”