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ISABELLA’S POV

My alarm clock screeched at 4:45 a.m., a shrill knife slicing through the darkness of my attic room. I jolted upright, my heart pounding against my ribs, the thin mattress creaking beneath me. The air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint tang of mildew from the cracked wooden beams overhead. My room—if you could call it that—was a forgotten corner of our Mansion, a cramped attic with a slanted ceiling that forced me to stoop.

The walls were bare, save for a faded poster of Ariel, her red hair a beacon of hope I clung to. My brothers, Dylan and Lucas, slept in their proper bedrooms downstairs, their walls plastered with posters of sports cars and rock bands. Even Maria, our head servant, had a cozy room off the kitchen. But me? I was banished to this prison, my existence a stain on my family’s pristine canvas.

I swung my legs over the bed, my bare feet brushing the cold floorboards. My red hair, tangled from restless sleep, fell over my shoulders, catching the dim glow of a flickering bulb. I glanced at the mirror propped against a crate, my pale face staring back, freckles dotting my cheeks like scattered ash. My green eyes, dull with exhaustion, betrayed the nineteen years I’d spent surviving. I wasn’t beautiful, not like Mom—Karen—with her sleek blonde hair and sharp cheekbones. I was the oddity, the redheaded daughter who didn’t belong.

I pulled on a threadbare sweater and jeans, the fabric worn thin from years of hand-me-downs. My fingers trembled as I tied my sneakers, the laces frayed. I had to hurry. If Mom woke before breakfast was ready, I’d pay for it. I crept down the creaky attic stairs, wincing at every groan of the wood. The house was silent, a sleeping beast I dared not wake. In the kitchen, the tiles were cold under my feet, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead.

Maria, the head chef, was already there, her graying hair pulled into a bun, her apron stained with flour. She looked up from kneading dough, her brown eyes softening with pity.

“Morning, Bella,” she whispered, her voice a warm thread in the chill. “You’re up early again.”

“Had to be,” I muttered, grabbing a skillet from the rack. “If I’m late…”

I forced a smile, my chest tightening. Maria and the other servants—Rosaline, who cleaned, and old Javier, who tended the garden—were the only ones who saw me as more than a servant. They slipped me extra bread sometimes, or let me hide in the pantry when Mom’s temper flared. But their kindness couldn’t erase the truth: my family hated me, and I didn’t know why.

I cracked eggs into the skillet, the sizzle filling the silence. Bacon followed, its smoky scent curling through the air. I sliced tomatoes, my knife moving with practiced speed, though my hands ached from last night’s chores. I’d stayed up until 2 a.m. polishing silverware because Mom had hosted her book club and demanded perfection. My eyelids drooped, but I shook it off. No time for weakness.

Footsteps thudded on the stairs, and my stomach lurched. Mom stormed into the kitchen, her silk robe swishing, her blonde hair immaculate even at dawn. Her blue eyes narrowed, pinning me like a butterfly to a board.

“Isabella?” she snapped, her voice a whip. “Why is breakfast not ready, you bitch?”

I flinched, the spatula trembling in my hand. “I—I overslept, Mom. I was up late with the silverware—”

“Don’t give me excuses!” She crossed the kitchen in three strides and slapped me, the sting blooming across my cheek. My eyes watered, but I blinked back tears. Crying only made it worse.

“You’re ungrateful,” she hissed, leaning close, her perfume choking me. “A selfish little bitch who’d rather sleep than pull her weight. I regret the day you were born.”

The words sliced deeper than the slap, carving into the hollow space where my heart should’ve been. I wanted to scream, ‘Why do you hate me? What did I do?’ But I bit my tongue, my gaze dropping to the floor. Maria hovered by the counter, her hands twisting her apron, but she stayed silent. No one crossed Mom.

“Finish this mess and get out of my sight,” Mom spat, turning on her heel. Her slippers slapped the tiles as she swept out, leaving a chill in her wake.

I exhaled, my shoulders sagging. Maria touched my arm, her fingers gentle. “You okay, Bella?”

I nodded, though I wasn’t. The ache in my chest wasn’t just from the slap—it was the weight of nineteen years of feeling like a stranger in my own home. I’d had these thoughts before, dark whispers that Mom and Dad—Mark, with his stern gray eyes—weren’t my real parents. But how could that be?

I plated the eggs and bacon, my hands steady despite the burn in my cheek. The kitchen clock ticked toward 6:30, and I hurried to set the dining table, laying out Mom’s favorite china. Dylan and Lucas would stumble down soon, grumbling for coffee, while Dad read his newspaper, ignoring me. I’d serve them, then retreat to my corner by the pantry with whatever scraps remained—a burnt slice of toast, a cold egg. I wasn’t allowed at the table, not worthy of their company.

As I worked, my mind drifted to tonight, a flicker of warmth in the cold. It was Jake’s twentieth birthday, and I’d saved every penny from the little I was given by my parents as allowance to buy him a gift: a leather-bound journal, perfect for his nerdy love of poetry. Jake, with his thick glasses and shy smile, was my lifeline, the only reason why I showed up at school despite the endless bullying.

He deserves the world for loving me when everyone else hates me and for that reason I plan on giving him more than a gift—my virginity. I’d kept my virginity for nineteen years, holding it close like a secret and Jake had been patient, never pushing, but I knew he wanted me. Well tonight, I will offer myself to him, it was all I had to give, a way to thank him for being my anchor in a sea of cruelty.

I carried the plates to the table, the aroma of breakfast filling the air. Dylan’s voice echoed from upstairs, laughing with Lucas about some video game. I set their plates, my fingers brushing the cool porcelain. Mom would be back soon, her eyes scanning for flaws. I grabbed a stale roll from the counter, my breakfast, and slipped to my corner by the pantry. I sat on the floor, the tiles hard against my thighs, and tore into the bread, its dryness sticking in my throat.

I finished eating and cleared the dishes, my movements automatic. The clock read 7:15, and the house buzzed with morning chaos. Mom and Dad left for their usual Sunday’s polo games without a glance my way. Dylan and Lucas grabbed their jackets, off to meet friends, their sneakers pounding the floor. I slipped back into the kitchen, I still had lots of chores to handle before evening.

By 5:35 p.m., I had already showered and worn my best outfit: a cute blue dress that hugged my slight frame, the hem frayed but clean. My red hair fell in waves, catching the light as I brushed it, I pinched my cheeks for color in place of makeup. In the mirror, I looked almost pretty, though Vanessa’s taunts echoed: Freak. Ugly. I pushed them away. Jake thought I was enough.

By 6: 30 p.m., I was at Jake’s parents apartment, a modest brownstone buzzing with music. My stomach fluttered as I climbed the steps, expecting a quiet night with his family. I knocked, the gift bag crinkling in my hands.

The door swung open, and my breath caught. The living room was packed—not with Jake’s parents, but our entire Crestwood class. Vanessa stood by the stereo, her black hair gleaming, her smirk sharp. Classmates whispered, their glances darting to me, the “Witch” in their midst. Jake was nowhere in sight.

I stepped inside, my dress feeling too tight, my red hair a blazing target. The music pulsed, too loud, and the air was thick with sweat and perfume. I clutched the gift, my palms damp. Where was Jake? He’d promised an intimate party, just us and his parents. My heart sank, a stone in my chest. This was a trap, and I’d walked right into it.

“Hey, witch!” Vanessa’s voice cut through the noise, her laugh a blade. Heads turned, eyes mocking. I shrank back, my shoulders hunching.

I pushed through the crowd, my sneakers sticking to the floor. In the kitchen, I spotted him, laughing with Dylan and a guy I didn’t know. His glasses glinted, his brown hair messy. Relief flooded me, but it died fast.

“Jake, what’s going on?” I asked, holding out the gift. “You said it’d be—”

He turned, his smile fading. “Oh, Bella. Yeah, plans changed.” His tone was off, too casual, his eyes avoiding mine.

Before I could speak, my phone pinged. So did everyone else’s. A chorus of notifications filled the room, followed by gasps and laughter. Vanessa held up her screen, a cruel grin spreading. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers shaking. The school’s forum loaded, and there it was: a photo of my face—my freckles, my green eyes—on a naked body that wasn’t mine.

The caption read: “Ginger Slut Exposed.”

My knees buckled. “But… that’s not me,” I whispered, but no one listened. The room spun, faces blurring into sneers.

“Nice try, whore,” Dylan said, stepping close.

Lucas grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “Let’s cool her off.”

They dragged me outside, the crowd cheering. The backyard pool gleamed under string lights, it’s water black and still. I thrashed, my gift falling, the journal hitting the grass. “No, please!” I screamed, my voice raw.

They shoved me, and I fell, the water swallowing me whole. Cold clamped my lungs, and panic surged—not just from the fall, but a deeper terror, a memory I didn’t own: claws pulling me under, a voice calling my name. I flailed, gasping, my dress heavy.