All Chapters of Her Neglected Scars: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

41 Chapters

TWENTY-ONE: How Many?

I knew this would happen.The whispers.The stares.The judgment.But knowing doesn’t make it any easier.I move across the room, each step is heavy on my feet, my heels clicking against the marble floor. I keep my chin up, shoulders straight, but I can still feel their eyes crawling over me, dissecting every inch of exposed skin.Slut.Whore.“Probably fucked her way into this seat, just like she always does.”God, she’s not even trying to look respectable.The words slither through the air like a thick, choking fog.My fingers tighten around the delicate fabric of my dress.Not mine, I remind myself.I didn’t choose this.I reach the table where Konstantin sits, exuding dominance even in his silence. The candlelight flickers against his sharp features, casting deep shadows over his jaw, his cheekbones, the dangerous glint in his crimson gaze.And he looks . . . furious.His gaze drags over me again, slower this time, as if trying to peel the dress off me with sheer hatred alone.He’

TWENTY-TWO: Cutting Hearts Open

The moment Irene’s body breaks the surface of the pool, gasping, shivering, her dress clinging to her like second skin—I know.I blink, my hands still outstretched, still damp with the wine she poured on me just seconds before. The sticky residue clings to my skin like guilt, but I know the truth.I barely touched her. But truth means nothing when you're me. Not when she’s Irene—the kind, the beloved, the innocent orphan the Morozov family took in. And certainly not when I’m Evangeline fucking Bennington—the whore, the villain, the girl everyone already decided to hate before I even walked into the room.And then—Konstantin moves. Not towards me. No, of course not. He’s running straight to her. The crowd parts for him like they wouldn’t dare block his way, and in seconds, he’s at the pool’s edge, one arm reaching down while the other steadies himself on the stone border.Irene clings to his hand like a lifeline, her wet curls sticking to her face, tears glistening in her lashes. She lo

TWENTY-THREE: Gloves

I watch the blood smear across my palm, the sting dulled by the burn of Konstantin’s glare. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands there like a predator caught between tearing its prey apart and trying to figure out if it’s even worth the effort.The air between us is thick, suffocating, stretched so tight I swear I can hear it creak under the weight of his silence.Then, with a low, frustrated sigh, he turns, stalking toward the nightstand. A drawer slides open. Metal rattles.When he turns back, there’s a first-aid kit in his hand.Oh.I blink at it. Then at him.“What—?”“Sit.”His voice is clipped, rough like gravel scraping against pavement.I don’t move.He levels me with a look so sharp I swear it cuts deeper than the blade did.“Eva.”It’s not my name, not really, but the way he says it—low, dangerous, laced with warning—makes something in my chest tighten.I sit.The mattress dips under his weight as he lowers himself beside me, his presence too close, too solid.I keep m

TWENTY-FOUR: The Morozov Heirloom

The first box opens with a soft clack. Then another. And another.One by one, the men flip open the sacred velvet cases, revealing a collection of necklaces so stunning they look like they belong in a fucking museum. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds—each stone cut to perfection, catching the dim chandelier light like a beacon. They glisten in their cases, waiting to be draped around some lucky woman’s throat like a collar. A Morozov collar.I glance at Konstantin, who stands at the head of the room, completely at ease in the center of it all. His eyes are impassive, scanning the selection like he’s choosing a fucking weapon, not a necklace.Then I look at Irene, who sits a few places away, sipping her tea with the kind of delicate grace that makes me want to rip the cup right out of her hands. There’s something about her today. Something off. Like she’s already won.“Ah, the Morozov heirloom.” The woman in charge of the jewels steps forward, gesturing to the biggest box in the middle. The w

TWENTY-FIVE: Going Back To Hell

The businessman’s fingers press against the curve of my thigh like he owns the fucking right to touch me. My skin crawls, disgust coils tight in my stomach, and just as I open my mouth to tell him to back the fuck off—a strong arm snakes around my waist.It’s instant, the shift in the air. The businessman stiffens, the smugness in his beady little eyes draining away. The heat at my back is suffocating, consuming, and then I hear the voice that shreds through the room like a sharpened blade."I’ll be taking my wife now."Konstantin. His voice is quiet, but it slams into my ribs harder than a gunshot.A shiver trails down my spine, but it’s not from fear. No, it’s something worse—something I don’t want to name.The businessman swallows, raising his hands in a show of mock surrender. “Just a little fun, Morozov.”Konstantin doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to. His fingers clamp around my wrist like a steel shackle, and suddenly, I’m being yanked away from the ballroom, dragged through the d

TWENTY-SIX: Coming Back To Another Hell

The first strike is always the worst. Not because it hurts more—pain is relative when you’ve felt it your whole damn life. No, it’s because it reminds you that you’re back here. That no matter how far you try to run, how many masks you wear, how many times you tell yourself you’re safe—you never fucking are.The leather slices across my back again, white-hot agony blooming through my nerves. I barely register the scream that shreds from my throat before I bite down on my lip, muffling it. Nikolai thrives on reactions. He wants the sobs, the pleading, the cracks in my composure that tell him he still owns me. I won’t give him that.Another lash. My body jerks involuntarily, breath choking in my lungs. I’m kneeling on the floor of my childhood bedroom—if you could even call this gilded prison a bedroom—my hands clenched into fists against the cold, polished wood. The scent of aged bourbon and expensive cologne taints the air.He’s drunk. Typical.“Say it.” His voice is calm, composed. L

TWENTY-SEVEN: Lunches and Thieves

The office is suffocating in the way all offices are—sterile, cold, and drowning in the scent of paper and cheap coffee. I can practically hear the groan of overworked printers and the shuffle of documents being pushed around just for the sake of looking busy.Carlos sits at his desk, watching me like I might burst into flames at any second. His fingers drum lazily against the mahogany surface, his sharp eyes flickering between the clock and me, like he’s waiting for the inevitable moment I throw my hands up and say, Screw this, I’m just a whore after all. Yeah, not happening.I focus on the pile of documents in front of me, meticulously categorizing each one with an efficiency that would make any seasoned secretary weep.Carlos doesn’t know this, but I’ve been doing paperwork since I was a kid. When you’re born into a family of power-hungry men, you learn quickly that someone has to keep their empire running behind the scenes. Nikolai was always too busy playing the part of an heir,

TWENTY-EIGHT: Sleeping Leonid

I sit there, silent, forcing the soup down my throat as the entire table practically sings Irene’s praises like she’s the second coming of Christ. I really shouldn't expect anything from this household.Leonid, who has spent the entire meal kicking the table leg and slurping obnoxiously on his soup, gasps dramatically. “I told you! I told you Irene is the smartest! She’s like the best at everything. You’re just jealous, aren’t you, Evangeline?”I slowly place my fork down, my lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. Not the pleasant kind. More like the kind a person wears when they’re watching a house burn with their enemy still inside. Jealous? I should be. I should feel something. But I don’t.I have long since accepted that my ideas, my efforts, my existence will never be credited to me. Irene will always be the saint. The intelligent, graceful, kind-hearted woman that everyone adores. And me? I’m the scandalous wife. The walking embarrassment.Konstantin says noth

TWENTY-NINE: A Rejected Husband

I jolt upright the second I hear his voice. “So this is where you went.”Fuck. Konstantin stands at the doorway, arms crossed, sharp eyes cutting through the dim room like a goddamn scalpel. His tone is flat, unimpressed—but the tension rolling off him? Not so subtle.Next to me, Leonid stirs, groaning as he turns over in his sleep. His tiny hand is still clutching my dress tight. My body stiffens. If he wakes up like this, he's going to throw a fit big enough to shake the damn mansion.I glance at Konstantin, whose expression flickers with something unreadable before settling on annoyance. Of course. With a lazy tilt of his head, his red eyes sweep over me, then down to the brat attached to my dress like a leech. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Tsk."Then, in that deep, infuriatingly smooth voice, he mutters, “Get up, you little shit.”My head snaps toward him so fast I nearly dislocate something. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hiss, reaching over to shake Leonid awake as ge

THIRTY: Cooking Competition

This is my lunch. The banana is halfway to my mouth when I pause. I don’t know why I chose this. Maybe because it’s easy, or because it won’t sit heavy in my stomach and remind me that I’m not supposed to eat like a normal person. Whatever the reason, I unpeel it absently, my fingers moving on autopilot as my thoughts drift back to the letter I left for my father. Sarcastic. Spiteful. A big middle finger in perfectly inked calligraphy. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I slide the banana between them, sinking my teeth in. The taste is dull, bland, but at least it isn’t dry like the toast I forced myself to eat yesterday.I suck the fruit into my mouth, rolling my tongue over the tip as I chew slowly. Maybe I should have added a postscript. Something like: By the way, Father, go fuck yourself. I chuckle but it is cut off when a sharp throat clearing behind me slices through my thoughts. I freeze, mid-chew, eyes widening as a heat prickles up my spine. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I alr

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