The fork slipped out of my hand before I even realized I wasn't holding on. The clink against the porcelain was sharp, cutting through the polished silence of the dining room like a gunshot. Three pairs of eyes flicked to me, quick, cold, and heavy.
I muttered an apology and bent down to pick it up, but the maid was already there, quiet and efficient, scooping it from the floor and replacing it with another without a word. She didn't look at me, not once. She never did.
"Try to keep yourself composed," my foster mother said, her voice smooth and light, like she was just commenting on something on the news. But her eyes were daggers.
I nodded, gripping the new fork as though it might save me.
Dinner at the mansion always felt less like eating and more like being examined. Every movement, every pause, every word was judged. The chandelier above us poured too much light onto the table, spotlighting the silverware, the china, the crystal glasses, and me—always me, like I was some stray dog they'd let inside as a temporary act of charity.
The food was perfect, of course. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly plated. I couldn't taste any of it.
"You look tired," my foster father said finally, setting down his glass of red wine with a soft clink. "Law school already wearing you down?"
He smiled like it was a joke, but I knew better. Everything out of his mouth was a test.
"I've had a lot of reading," I said. My voice sounded small, even to me.
"Reading," he repeated, as though the word itself amused him. "That's all anyone ever says about law school. Reading." He leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass. "Well, it's good you have the chance. Not everyone does."
I hated the way he said it. Chance. Like the life I had here was some golden ticket I should be bowing down in gratitude for. As if the roof over my head, the clothes I wore, the tuition they paid for—all of it meant I owed them my life.
"I know," I said softly.
My foster brother chuckled, stabbing a piece of steak with his fork. "She's always so polite. It's cute."
The table went quiet. My foster mother's lips tightened. She hated when he spoke out of turn, especially if it drew attention away from her.
"It's not about politeness," she said, finally lifting her glass. "It's about showing gratitude and repaying our trust in her with results."
I felt heat rise to my face. The steak on my plate stared back at me, untouched. My stomach was in knots anyway.
"I am grateful," I whispered.
She smirked. "Good."
Silence again. Only the sound of cutlery scraping china.
The walls felt too close, the chandelier too bright, the air too heavy with perfume and wine. I wanted to run, to breathe, to exist anywhere but here.
I always thought it was strange how a house could look so beautiful on the outside and feel so suffocating inside. Marble floors, tall ceilings, expensive art on every wall—yet it was colder than the subway stations I spent hours in. At least there, people were honest about wanting nothing to do with you.
Here, they smiled in public, called me their daughter when it looked good on them. Behind closed doors, I was a guest overstaying my welcome.
"You've hardly eaten," my foster father said suddenly. His voice was calm, but I knew it was another test.
"I'm not that hungry," I answered carefully.
He studied me for a moment, then cut into his steak again. "You need strength. You're not a little girl anymore."
"She'll be fine," my foster brother muttered. "She's tougher than she looks."
"Don't encourage her," my foster mother snapped.
I forced myself to take a bite. The meat was tender, expensive, perfect. It tasted like nothing.
Halfway through the meal, the conversation shifted to something else—the business, the market, names I didn't recognize and numbers that meant even less to me. I stared at my plate, nodding once in a while, pretending to care.
But then my foster mother turned back to me.
"Have you met anyone interesting at school?"
The question wasn't innocent. It never was.
I shrugged. "Not really. I mostly spend time with my classmates."
"Classmates," she repeated, sipping her wine. "Are they from good families?"
I swallowed hard. "They're… nice people."
"Nice doesn't pay bills," she said flatly. "Nice doesn't get you anywhere."
My foster father chuckled again, deep and low. "She's still young. She'll learn."
My cheeks burned. I wanted to throw the fork across the table, scream that I didn't need anyone's money, that I could make it on my own. But I stayed quiet. That was the rule. Stay quiet, stay small, stay invisible.
When dessert came, I excused myself. My foster mother's eyes followed me as I stood, her smile sharp as glass.
"Don't forget who made all of this possible," she said softly, just loud enough for me to hear.
I nodded again, swallowing back the words I wanted to spit out.
Upstairs, I shut myself in the guest room they called mine. The walls were painted cream, the furniture polished, the sheets clean and crisp. But it wasn't home. It never would be.
I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling my phone out of my pocket. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the empty screen staring back at me.
For a moment, I thought about my parents. My real parents. I could barely remember their faces now, just flashes—a hand brushing my hair back, the sound of laughter, the smell of coffee in the kitchen. Everything else was gone.
I pressed my hands to my face and let the tears come. Quiet, muffled, quick. I hated crying here. It made me feel even weaker, like they'd won somehow.
Downstairs, I could still hear the faint clinking of glasses, their voices low and smooth, talking about things I would never be a part of. I knew, deep down, I could ace every exam, graduate at the top of my class, build a life from nothing—and it still wouldn't be enough for them.
But maybe that was fine. Maybe I didn't need it to be enough.
I wiped my face, sat up straighter. Tomorrow I'd be back at school, back in the library where nobody cared who raised me or what house I slept in. Tomorrow, I'd belong to myself again.
When I finally crawled under the sheets, I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. The chandelier's light had been replaced by the glow of the city outside, spilling through the curtains. The hum of cars, the faint echo of laughter, the rhythm of life that never stopped.
That sound was my lullaby. The city didn't care who I was. It didn't judge, didn't whisper about my place, didn't smile with knives behind its teeth.
The city was honest. Brutal, maybe, but honest.
And someday, I'd rather belong to it than to this house.