Chapter 3: The Scalding Truth

The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a gavel.

Leo paused, his hand inches from the flask. "What’s your problem now, Elara? Are you jealous that she didn't make any for you?"

"Actually," I said, walking toward them. The heels of my shoes clicked against the hardwood like the ticking of a countdown clock. "I’m worried about your health, Leo. You’ve always had a sensitive stomach. Who knows what 'herbs' she found in the slums? For all we know, she’s been cooking hemlock in a rusted pot."

"How dare you!" Mother screamed, standing up. "Elena is a saint! She’s trying to bond with her brother, and you’re accusing her of—of what? Poor hygiene?"

"I'm accusing her of being a stranger," I said, looking Elena dead in the eye. "Seventeen years is a long time. People change. Some people get bitter. Some people learn how to extract what they want from those who abandoned them."

Elena’s hand trembled—just a fraction. She knew I was seeing through the veil. She quickly turned to Leo, her lip quivering. "Leo, if you don't want it, I’ll throw it away. I just... I wanted to do something nice."

"Give it here," Leo snapped, glaring at me. He snatched the flask and took a long, defiant swig. "Mm. Tastes like almonds and honey. Better than anything you’ve ever made, Elara."

I watched the liquid slide down his throat. He wiped his mouth, leaning back with a smug grin, waiting for the instantaneous collapse I had predicted. But nothing happened. He didn't choke; he didn't pale. He just looked at me with triumphant contempt. He was fine—for now. Elena was smarter than to kill him in a single day. She wanted a slow decline, a medical mystery that would eventually lead to the harvesting of my organs.

"See?" Mother huffed, smoothing her skirt. "Perfectly healthy. Now, since you’ve spent the afternoon being a thorn in our side, you can make yourself useful. Dinner is ready. Go fetch the tureen."

The dining room felt like a courtroom where I had already been sentenced. I moved with a silence that should have unsettled them, but they were too busy basking in Elena’s presence. I brought out the soup, the steam rising in lazy, fragrant swirls.

In my past life, this was the moment everything broke. I had been so eager to please, so desperate for Elena to like me. I had reached out to serve her a bowl, and with a flick of her wrist and a practiced sob, she had pulled the hot liquid onto her own lap. She had looked at my parents with wide, watery eyes and whispered, “It’s okay, Elara just slipped,” while I was branded a jealous monster for the next five years.

"Serve your sister first," Father commanded, not even looking up from his wine.

I picked up the ladle. Elena sat there, the picture of a fragile doll. She looked up at me, a tiny, jagged glint of malice reflecting in her eyes. She thought she knew what I would do. She thought she was about to play the same trick.

"Give me the bowl, Elara," Elena murmured, reaching out with hands she had deliberately made to look shaky. "I can do it myself. I don't want to be a burden."

"No," I said.

The room went still. Mother’s fork clattered against her uplate. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, my voice as cold as a mountain stream. "I'm not giving you this bowl."

"Elara!" Father roared, slamming his hand on the table. "What is this behavior? You have never refused a single request in this house. Give your sister the soup!"

They were shocked. To them, I was a dog that had suddenly stopped wagging its tail and started showing its teeth. Elena, seeing her window of opportunity closing, suddenly lunged for the bowl. "It's okay, I'll just—"

Splash.

Just like the last time, the bowl tipped. The hot liquid soaked into Elena's white silk dress. She let out a sharp, practiced cry, her hands flying to her chest. "Oh! My skin! Elara, why would you—"

She began to draw in a breath for the innocent accusation, preparing to tell them I had attacked her. But I didn't wait for her to finish. I didn't apologize. I didn't cry.

I grabbed the secondary tureen from the center of the table.

Before she could utter a single word of her lie, I tipped the entire vessel over her head. The thick, warm broth drenched her perfectly styled hair, dripping down her face and into her gasping mouth.

"Oops," I said. My voice was devoid of any regret. I leaned down, my face inches from hers as she sputtered in shock. "If you're going to accuse me of something, why not add a finishing touch? It would be a shame to waste a good lie on such a small spill."

I looked at my mother and father. Their mouths were hung open, frozen in a silent scream of disbelief. They had never seen me move with such violence, such intent.

"Since you think I'm a monster," I said, straightening my back and smoothing my hair, "I might as well start acting like one. Don't wait for me. I find the company here... unpalatable."

I didn't even wait for the explosion of their rage. I turned on my heel, the rose birthmark at my ear flashing under the light.

I was done being their spare part.

The pain in my scalp was a sharp, searing reminder that this was no longer a nightmare from the past—it was the reality of my present. My mother’s grip was frantic, her fingers tangled in my hair with a strength born of pure, unadulterated hatred.

“How dare you!” she hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of the expensive wine she’d used to toast Elena’s return.