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

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

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

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

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

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