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Chapter 3

Auteur: Dimple M
Once again, I was locked in the damp wine cellar.

Cold and familiar.

Growing up, whenever Stella played the victim, I paid the price.

But the damp chill still made my body tremble.

After a long time, the door opened.

The dim yellow light from the hall stung my eyes.

My mother was helping Stella, whose eyes were still red from crying.

My father followed.

Hands behind his back, his face a dark cloud.

My mother walked over and sighed.

Her eyes glistened with tears, but her voice was full of frustration.

"Amelia, why do you have to be like this? Just admit it, give Stella back her things, and it will be over."

I knew those tears weren't for me.

She was just annoyed I was causing trouble.

I looked up, meeting her gaze.

My voice was hoarse, empty.

"Isn't kneeling enough?"

Seeing me like this, Stella sidled up to our father.

She spoke, pretending to be casual.

"Dad, Amelia doesn't really care about being punished in the cellar."

She paused, a vicious smirk on her lips.

"What she really treasures... is her art studio on the third floor."

"I heard she's been talking to a gallery in Miami. She's planning to use those paintings for Art Basel. To make a name for herself. To leave the family for good."

Those words hit their mark.

They shattered my father's control.

Leave the family?

That was betrayal.

A challenge to his authority.

My father let out a cold laugh.

He turned to the guards waiting outside.

"Drag her to the third floor!"

Two huge bodyguards strode in.

One on each side, they grabbed my arms.

I started to struggle, hard.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!"

Panic flooded my veins.

The guards were strong.

They dragged me mercilessly up the stairs from the basement.

My knees slammed against the steps.

But the pain was nothing compared to the fear in my heart.

The door to my studio was kicked open.

Inside, dozens of my paintings were lined up.

Years of my life.

Countless nights of work.

They were my ticket out.

My hope for a new life.

My father walked to the easel in the center of the room.

On a nearby table was a bottle of red wine, left to breathe.

He picked it up and turned to me.

"I'm asking you one last time. Where is the necklace?"

My eyes widened.

I lunged forward.

"Don't touch them!"

The two guards instantly pinned me, forcing me to the floor.

I couldn't break free.

I could only look up at him.

The tears I'd held back all night finally broke free.

I screamed, my voice raw.

"Please, don't touch my paintings! I stole it! I did it! It was all me! Just leave the paintings alone!"

If I could just save the paintings, if I could just leave.

What was being called a thief?

Nothing.

My father looked down at me, his face blank.

He saw me breaking.

A cold, satisfied smile touched his lips.

"So you'd throw away all the rules for a few canvases."

His words hung in the air.

He raised his wrist.

The red wine poured out.

"No!"

That was the painting I was going to use to win over the Miami gallery.

But that wasn't enough for him.

He walked to a toolbox in the corner and grabbed a box cutter.

He extended the blade and walked to another painting.

A landscape.

The sunset coast I had spent six months on.

With a flick of his wrist, he sliced down.

The sound of the canvas tearing was sharp and clear in the silent room.

It was like a knife plunging straight into my heart, ripping my soul apart.

I thrashed with all my might, ramming my shoulder into the guard's leg.

"No! Please, no!"

But I couldn't get away.

I could only watch him move to the next painting.

A slice.

And another.

Canvas ripped.

Wooden easels kicked over.

Paint, torn fabric, and wine like blood covered the floor.

He was destroying my dreams, one by one.

He was personally cutting off my only escape from this prison.

After what felt like an eternity, the room fell silent.

I stopped struggling.

The tears dried on my face.

My throat was too raw to make a sound.

I knelt in the wreckage, staring at my ruined work.

My body felt cold, empty.

Anger, shock, heartbreak.

After all of it, all that was left was despair.

Just then, the sound of frantic, stumbling footsteps came from the hall.

The butler, practically crawling, burst into the room, drenched in sweat.

He was gasping for air, holding a glittering blue sapphire necklace high in his hand.

"Sir! I found it! The necklace! I found it! I was helping Miss Stella pack her luggage. She'd accidentally stuffed it into one of her ski boots..."
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  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 9

    The storm outside faded.Isla leaned against the doorframe, watching their retreating figures.She turned to me."Are you really going to let them die on the street?"I picked up a glass of red wine from the table and swirled it.I met her gaze, my voice flat."Yes.""If I hadn't left that mansion, the one dying in a cold Russian ditch would have been me."I stared at the crimson liquid in my glass.The nightmare that haunted me for years was crystal clear."Thrown in a dungeon. My face slashed. Utterly destroyed. They wouldn't have shed a single tear for me. So why should I feel sorry for them?"Two months later, news of their fate reached Miami.My father's weak heart finally gave out in a cheap motel room.He died in the middle of a cold night, without even a blanket to keep him warm.My mother was begging on the street when she ran into some local thugs.She was beaten savagely while trying to protect the five thousand dollars.Her old injuries flared up.She held my father's body

  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 8

    My assistant's voice broke my concentration."Miss Lina, there's an old couple at the gate. They're soaked from the rain and insisting on seeing you."I put down my brush and walked to the front of the gallery.Miami thunderstorms always hit hard and fast.A bolt of lightning lit up the night.In that brief flash, I recognized the two faces in the downpour.Old, miserable, dressed in rags.My parents.It had been five years.In those five years, my gallery and the women's art collective had become famous in Miami.I had a whole new life.The Stewart family, back in New York, had crumbled like a rotten building.Just like in my nightmare, Stella had attached herself to Nolan.The head of the Russian Bratva.To help her, my parents had foolishly betrayed their deals with several New York families.They even sold out the Rinaldi family's shipping routes.But their fatal mistake was earning the full, focused wrath of Matteo Rinaldi.Driven mad by my "death," Matteo's revenge was swift and

  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 7

    "No! Don't touch them!"I shot up in bed, gasping for air.Cold sweat soaked my nightgown.The sound of cracking easels was still ringing in my ears.The sharp smell of wine and paint filled my nose.A glass of warm water was pressed to my lips.Isla sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes calm and understanding."The dream again?"I took the glass, the water soothing my dry, panicked throat.The night breeze from the Miami villa was warm.It blew away the chill of the nightmare.Under the protection of Isla's family, the wounds on my back had healed.But the wounds inside still woke me up screaming.Isla never pushed me.She just waited.I threw off the covers and walked barefoot to the back of my closet.A few paintings were stored there.The only ones I'd managed to save, thanks to Isla.I turned to her.My voice was a little hoarse."I'm ready."She stood up and put an arm around my shoulders."Have you picked a name for the artist?"I ran my fingers along the edge of a canvas."Lina.

  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 6

    A week later, the Stewart mansion in New York was lit up, full of life.Smooth jazz filled the grand hall.Stella lounged on the sofa, sipping champagne.Basking in the praise of the city's elite.It was her farewell party, a grand send-off before her trip to Europe."Stella, you're going to be the talk of every circle in Europe."She smiled, her ego soaring.The same people who had whispered about her failure to land the don were now fawning over her.Suddenly, the butler's panicked footsteps cut through the music.He rushed to Mr. Stewart's side and whispered something urgent.Mr. Stewart's eyes lit up.He turned to Stella, glass in hand.His voice trembling with excitement."It's Matteo Rinaldi. He's here in person. He must feel terrible about not choosing you. He's here to make it right."A thrill shot through Stella.She lifted her chin, proud.She was sure that even the coldest king of New York's underworld couldn't bear to see her hurt.The main doors swung open.Matteo, flanked

  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 5

    The car left New York City behind.A light rain began to fall.The city lights blurred through the wet windows.I leaned back in the seat.The cuts on my back from the broken easel were still bleeding.Sharp pains shot up my spine.But it was nothing.Nothing compared to the feeling of watching my life's work being torn apart.They destroyed my paintings.And in doing so, they killed the Amelia who was always desperate for their love.The driver kept a steady hand on the wheel.He didn't take I-95 South.Instead, he turned, driving through the night to a private airstrip in New Jersey.A Gulfstream jet was waiting at the end of the runway.At the bottom of the stairs, a tall woman stood waiting.Isla.I pushed the car door open and walked into the rain.I always thought Isla was just another rich girl, a southern socialite who loved art shows.But now, seeing her surrounded by Made men in black trench coats.The telltale bulges of holstered guns at their waists.I knew the rumors were

  • They Chose My Sister Over My Scars   Chapter 4

    The knife in my father's hand froze mid-air.The tears on Stella's face froze.Even her sobs got stuck in her throat.My mother was the first to recover.She walked over, her eyes red, and reached down to help me up."Amelia, it was all a misunderstanding. See? The necklace is found. It's okay now."A misunderstanding.Two words to erase years of my work, to destroy my only hope of escape.I saw her hand and pulled away.I pushed myself up from the floor.My clothes stained with paint and wine.My knees were numb, but I stood up straight.My father tossed the knife on a table.No guilt on his face.No apology.Just the embarrassment of being exposed by the butler.And the anger of being defied by me.He adjusted his cuffs.His voice was stiff."Since it's found, the matter is closed. Stella didn't mean it. It was an honest mistake."I looked at the shredded canvases on the floor.At the smeared mess of my sunset coast.I turned to face him."Closed? What about my paintings? What about

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