Chapter 2

They locked me in a cabinet when I was five and when I was nine.

A small one, under the stairs. Just big enough to curl into like a broken doll.

They told me it was a game. Hide and seek. But no one came looking. No one ever came looking.

When I was eleven, they left me in the mountains. It was a family camping trip—one of those "bonding" weekends Elias insisted we take for appearances.

We hiked, we laughed (they laughed), and when we took a group photo by the ridge… they told me to go fetch water.

I did.

When I came back, they were gone. Just gone. No note. No flashlight. Nothing.

I wandered for a few hours in the dark—alone, scratched, freezing, scared, crying until my throat gave out—until a park ranger found me half-conscious and covered in mud.

When I returned to the McLaren cabin, Norma scolded me for "running off."

Elias just gave me a tired look and said, “Next time, stay with the group.”

The girls ignored me.

Next time. Like it was my fault. Like I hadn’t been left behind on purpose.

And then… there was Norma. She didn’t just ignore me—she beat me.

When I didn’t wash the dishes fast enough or cook the pasta right. When I got an A-minus instead of an A. When I said the wrong thing in front of guests and friends.

She hit me with anything within reach—her palm, belt, a wooden spoon, a belt once. I remember the welts. The silence. The way Elias didn’t say a thing. Not once.

Not even when I stood in front of him, bleeding from a split lip, clutching my ribs. I was again ignored.

He just walked past me like I was a hallway painting. Part of the décor.

So I learned to cry quietly. To bleed silently. To fold my pain into the shadows of my room, where no one could see me crumble. No one came. No one cared.

But I remembered. Every burn. Every pain. Every bruise and every lie.

I remembered it all. Every single thing. And I folded it like a stupid paper crane, tucked it deep in my chest, and let it grow sharp wings.

And when I finally reached college, I thought—maybe—just maybe, things would get better. I had clawed my way out of that house, with my dreams strapped tightly to my chest like armor. I enrolled in a two-year course in Culinary Arts, and for the first time in my life, I tasted freedom.

Cooking became my escape. The scent of butter melting, the sound of knives against cutting boards, the garlic, the heat of the oven—those were the only things that made sense. Food didn’t lie. Recipes didn’t hurt. You followed the steps, and the outcome was something beautiful.

I thought that would be the rhythm of my new life. Safe. Warm. Predictable.

But life—mine, specifically—never stays soft for long.

It was in my final year. I was twenty back then. That’s when I met him.

Raven Anderson.

He was the man. Tall, dark, handsome—the kind of man whose smile was practiced, polished, and dangerous in all the ways I didn’t yet understand. He came from a reputable family, old money with a global hotel chain. His suits always looked expensive, but he wore them like they didn’t matter and with a nice car.

He said he noticed me because I was different. Quiet. “Interesting,” he called me.

At the time, I thought it was love at first sight. He was sweet—or at least played the part perfectly. He gave me silly little gifts—handwritten notes, an oddly shaped cookie, a keychain with a “K” on it, saying it stood for “Kickass.” He told me I was brilliant. He called me beautiful when I had flour on my nose. He made me feel seen, and after years of being invisible… I fell. Hard.

But looking back now, I realize he never once introduced me to his friends.

Never once held my hand in public. Never asked about me, really—just my availability. Because, boy… I was wrong. He was never kind. He wasn’t a romantic. He was a user. Raven Anderson approached me because I looked like a nerd. Because I was quiet, because I kept to myself, because I had no circle to protect me. Because he needed someone who could write his assignments, finish his projects, and even edit his damn thesis while he partied in rooftop bars and posted photos of champagne bottles on social media. I was in love, I didn't mind those things. I was stupid.

And I—naïve, hopeful, desperate for love—did it. All of it. Because I thought we had something real.

But unbeknownst to me… While I was in the kitchen making his favorite lemon tarts, he was dating my sister, MJ.

Yes, MJ. The third McLaren sister. The one who used to steal my ribbons and mock my thrift store shoes. They weren’t just dating. They were laughing at me behind my back. They made fun of me.

And I didn’t know. Not until that rainy Thursday afternoon. I’d gone home unexpectedly to grab my apron before finals. The door was cracked open. I walked in.  And there they were. In her room. On her bed.

I stood in the doorway, frozen. I was shocked. Everything around me seemed to stop—the world, the air, my heartbeat. My hands were still clutching the little dessert box I had brought for him because we were supposed to study for finals, lemon tarts I baked after class, his favorite. The plastic crinkled slightly under my trembling fingers, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t breathe. I was frozen.

Their faces weren’t shocked. They weren’t guilty. They were smirking.

MJ—my own cousin-slash-adopted sister—sat there half-covered by the sheets, leaning against her headboard like it was just another casual Tuesday. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick smeared, but her eyes sparkled with cruel satisfaction.

“Did you really think he loved you?” she said, her voice like poison wrapped in silk, each word a slow, slicing blade.

And Raven?

Raven laughed.

The bastard just laughed.

He actually laughed. That familiar, cute, charming chuckle that once made my heart flutter—it now carved a hole inside me I didn’t know could exist. My chest tightened so violently I thought my ribs would break from holding in the scream that built up in my throat.

He didn’t even pretend to care. No stammered excuse. No fake apology. Just laughter. Like I was the punchline.

Something shattered inside me—loud and final, it broke into millions of pieces like glass dropped from the sky. All the dreams I had carefully stacked, all the hope I had timidly nurtured, just… gone.

I dropped the box. The lemon tarts hit the wooden floor with a soft plop, the buttery crusts cracking open like my chest. The scent of citrus and sugar filled the air as I turned around and stumbled out of the house. With tears I couldn't control.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. Because if the universe had any sense of drama, it poured when your heart fell apart.

And I didn’t have an umbrella. No coat. No bag. Just me, in a thin, damp white uniform, walking the streets with shoes that squelched every step and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. I stood at the bus stop, drenched from head to toe, the rain mixing with the tears on my cheeks until I couldn’t tell which was which. I wasn’t sure if I was crying because of him or because of her. Because of what they did, or because I let them.