After lunch, I didn't go back to the group.
Didn't sit with anyone.
Instead, I walked.
Like I was seeing Parsons for the first time.
Like I didn't already know the echo in the east hallway.
Like I hadn't sat in that very courtyard ten years from now, sketching a coat with armor-like shoulders — "So they see themselves when they judge you."
I trailed my fingers along the glass walls.
Stood under the skylight where the afternoon sun spilled like liquid gold.
Smiled at a student who waved, though I didn't know her.
I played the part.
The new girl.
The quiet one.
The rich girl trying to prove she belonged.
And then I saw her.
Mrs. Vale.
She stepped out of the elevator at the end of the hall — tall, rigid, dressed in a tailored navy suit, her silver hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful.
A staff member bowed slightly as she passed.
"Mrs. Vale. The board meeting is in ten minutes."
"I'm aware," she said, voice cold, clipped.
She didn't smile.
Didn't nod.
Just walked — like the world was beneath her.
My breath stopped.
Her.
Not just Julian's mother.
But the woman who would one day call me "disgrace" under her breath.
The woman who would slap me for leaving my shoes by the door.
The woman who poured hot oil on my hand while I cooked — then said, "Oh, I didn't see you there. How clumsy of me."
I didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't freeze.
I turned.
Fast.
My back to the wall, my chest pressed against the cool glass, heart slamming like it wanted out.
Don't look. Don't breathe. Don't exist.
I heard her heels click past.
Steady.
Unhurried.
Like she owned the air.
And when I finally peeked around the corner, she was gone.
But the memories weren't.
They came like a storm.
Her voice: "You don't belong in this family, Evelyn. You were a mistake."
Her hand, gripping my wrist as she shoved me into the wall.
The burn — sharp, searing — when she "accidentally" knocked the frying pan. Oil splashing across my fingers. Me screaming. Her saying, "Calm down. It's just a little burn."
The way she made me serve dinner with bandaged hands. The way she smiled at guests like I was a loyal dog.
And Mr. Vale.
Even worse.
Not loud.
Not wild.
But cold.
The way he'd stand in the doorway, silent, watching.
The way he'd slap me — not hard, not in front of others — but just enough to make me flinch.
"You will respect your mother-in-law," he'd say. "Or you will leave."
I remembered the rules:
• Never speak unless spoken to.
• Never wear bright colors.
• Never touch Julian in front of them.
• Always serve, always obey, always disappear.
And I did.
For years.
Until my body started failing.
Until I couldn't sleep.
Until I couldn't eat.
And they said:
"She's just dramatic."
"She's not strong like us."
"She was never meant for this life."
Now?
Now I stood in the hallway, hidden behind a wall, hand pressed to my chest like I could calm the past.
I'd forgotten.
Not the abuse.
But the inevitability of it.
Because Julian wasn't the only monster.
His parents were the ones who shaped him.
Who taught him that women were meant to serve.
Who taught him that love was control.
Who gave him the idea that my father's property — my legacy — should belong to them.
And I still had to face them.
Not years from now.
But sooner.
When Julian proposed.
When I said yes.
When I moved into their home.
When the slaps began.
When the oil spilled.
When I started disappearing.
I watched as Mrs. Vale stepped out of the building, a driver opening the door of a black sedan.
She didn't look back.
Didn't hesitate.
Just got in — like she'd already erased everyone who stood in her way.
And as the car pulled away, I stayed where I was.
Hidden.
Shaking.
But not broken.
Because this time?
I wouldn't move into their home.
I wouldn't say yes.
I wouldn't serve.
And when she tried to hurt me again?
I wouldn't be silent.
I stepped out from the wall.
Walked to the window.
Watched the car disappear into the city.