I hardly slept.
Not because I was scared.
Well... not only because I was scared.
It was excitement too. The restless, buzzing kind that sat under my skin and refused to let me sink into sleep no matter how many times I turned over in bed and shut my eyes and told myself to calm down. Every few minutes, I found myself getting up again, pacing across the room, staring at the outfit I had already laid out for the morning like it might somehow disappear if I stopped looking at it.
Two weeks.
Only two weeks away, and yet it felt longer. Long enough for rumors to spread, long enough for people to invent stories, long enough for Alisa to poison every ear she could reach.
And still, beneath all of that, I was excited.
I kept glancing at the clock, waiting for it to hit five.
When Bridget and I had seen each other the day before, I'd told her I was going back to school, and she'd looked more excited than I was.
"Finally," she had said dramatically, flopping back against the couch. "At least now you can escape these walls for a few hours. Before they absorb you into the Blackwood house forever."
I had laughed so hard I almost dropped the juice I was holding.
And now here I was, awake long before sunrise, too wired to even pretend to sleep.
By the time the clock finally blinked 5:00 AM, I was already sitting up.
And yes — I actually went and knocked on Bridget's door.
I was that excited.
By six minutes to 6:00 AM, we were both awake and moving around like two idiots who had somewhere glamorous to be instead of school.
I'd taken my shower first, then put on my dress carefully, smoothing the fabric down over my waist and hips with hands that were trying very hard not to shake. After that, I went to Bridget's room so we could finish getting ready together.
She was standing in front of her mirror, already halfway transformed into her usual impossible self. Her pleated school skirt fit her like it had been stitched onto her, and she'd paired it with a fitted top and a hoodie that somehow still managed to look expensive and effortless at the same time. Her hair was packed neatly, her makeup soft but perfect — one of those looks that made it seem like she had naturally woken up that flawless, which I knew for a fact was a lie because I had just watched her spend ten whole minutes blending concealer.
I stood by the side of her bed, adjusting my hair one last time while she lined her lips.
Then she looked at me through the mirror.
And froze.
"What?" I asked, immediately suspicious.
She turned fully and looked me up and down in exaggerated silence, one hand still holding her lip gloss.
Then, with full seriousness, she said, "Wow. You look good enough to eat."
I stared at her.
Then I burst out laughing.
She grinned, uncapped the gloss again, and said, "I'm serious. If I looked like you, people would have to physically drag me out of my mirror every morning."
"You're insane."
"And you're hot. We all have our burdens."
That made me laugh again, and soon both of us were just standing there grinning at each other like idiots.
By the time she checked the time again, it was almost seven.
Bridget glanced toward the door. "Ready to go downstairs for breakfast?"
"Yeah," I said, then paused. "Actually, go ahead. Let me get my bag first."
She nodded. "Okay. Don't take forever."
We stepped out of her room together, then split in opposite directions down the hallway — she headed toward the stairs while I hurried back to my room.
The excitement in my chest was starting to twist into something else now.
Nervousness.
Because as much as I wanted to go back, I knew what was waiting for me there.
This would be the first time I'd seen anyone from school since I'd been taken away. The first time I'd have to walk back into those hallways with every rumor floating ahead of me like smoke. The first time I'd have to face the looks, the whispers, the curiosity, the ugliness.
Nothing had magically changed.
People who enjoyed cruelty did not suddenly wake up kind.
I grabbed my bag from the chair near the window — the same old bag, still surviving mostly on duct tape and loose stitching, my books packed inside like always — and slung it over my shoulder before heading downstairs.
Bridget was already halfway through breakfast when I got to the dining room.
She had a piece of toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other, eating fast like someone who had no respect for mornings but had agreed to participate in one anyway. A second place had been set beside hers for me.
I noticed immediately that Nana Rose wasn't around.
Instead, another member of staff was setting out dishes in the kitchen — a woman with soft features and a tidy bun I had seen around the house a few times before.
As I sat down, the woman came over with my plate and offered me a polite smile. "Good morning, Miss Kiera."
"Good morning."
She set down my breakfast and added, "Nana Rose called in sick this morning, so she's resting in her room."
Concern pricked at me instantly. "Is she okay?"
The woman nodded. "Just under the weather. She should be fine after some rest."
I exhaled. "Okay. Thank you."
Bridget, of course, kept chewing like this was not new information to be processed. "If Nana Rose doesn't come back tomorrow, we riot."
I glanced at her. "You're very committed to chaos."
She lifted her juice. "Only for the people I love."
That softened something in me.
"Plus, who doesn't love a good fight" She said causing me to shake my head with a chuckle.
I looked down at my breakfast and ate quickly, though not quick enough to miss how strange and full my chest felt. Two weeks ago, I had never imagined I'd be sitting here before sunrise, sharing breakfast with someone who genuinely liked me in a house that wasn't meant to be this welcoming.
When we finished, we gathered our things and headed out.
We were just crossing the living room when we saw someone.
Raphael.
He was lounging on one of the couches with the television remote in hand, flipping lazily through channels like he had nowhere in the world to be. He turned at the sound of our footsteps, saw us, and his face split into an amused smile.
"Well, wow," he drawled, eyes moving between us. "You two still go to school in this century?"
Bridget didn't even pause. "Yeah, of course. Not everybody drops out like you."
Raphael placed a hand over his chest in fake offense. "Ouch. That stings." He shook his head solemnly. "For the record, I am not a dropout."
Bridget snorted. "Keep telling yourself that."
He looked genuinely wounded for half a second, then ruined it by grinning. I laughed before I could stop myself.
Raphael's gaze shifted to me.
"Hi," I said, suddenly more nervous than I had expected.
"Hey." He tilted his head slightly. "You don't really talk much, do you?"
Before I could answer, Bridget spoke for me.
"No, she doesn't. At least not around people. But when it's just me and her?" Bridget threw an arm dramatically around my shoulder. "That girl can talk."
I gave her a look. "You are literally the louder one in every conversation."
"Not true."
Raphael looked between us and chuckled. "I can see that already."
Then he stood up from the couch and stretched. "Alright, I won't hold you back. I'll probably still be here when you get back, so go survive your educational journey."
Bridget gave him a mock salute. "Thanks, unemployed man."
"I have a career," he called after us.
"Sure you do," she said over her shoulder.
I smiled and said, "Thank you."
He gave me an easy nod. "Have a good day, Kiera."
That made something warm flicker in me too.
"Thank you."
Then we headed out.
The driver was already waiting outside.
He opened the back door for us, and we got in, our bags settling beside us as the car pulled away from the estate.
At first, neither of us said much. Bridget was on her phone within seconds, probably replying to texts or ignoring them selectively, while I sat by the window, watching the roads pass by in a blur of early morning light.
The city looked different this early. Cleaner somehow. Quieter. Like it hadn't fully remembered itself yet.
A few minutes later, we arrived at Bridget's school.
And for a second, even my anxiety had to pause and admire it.
It wasn't preppy in the loud, flashy way rich-kid schools were usually shown in films. It was worse — or better, depending on how you looked at it. It radiated old money. The kind that didn't need to scream because everyone already knew. Wide gates. Stone buildings with history in their bones. Perfect lawns. Students arriving in expensive cars, stepping out like they had inherited confidence along with their surnames.
The uniforms were what caught my eye most.
The girls all wore deep royal blue pleated skirts, the boys wore tailored trousers of the same colour, but everything else seemed personalized — tops styled differently, shoes chosen to fit each person, jackets, accessories, bags. It was like the school allowed them just enough freedom to dress their privilege in individuality.
And somehow, it suited Bridget perfectly.
She turned to hug me before getting out.
"I'll see you after school," she said. "And good luck."
I smiled nervously. "Please try not to die."
She blinked at me, then laughed. "Because of you, sure. I'll try not to die."
I grinned, and then she was gone, striding toward the gates like she owned the morning.
The car pulled away again.
And now it was just me and the driver.
My school was farther.
The roads shifted as we went, and though I didn't know the exact route he was taking, I eventually started recognizing pieces of it — certain blocks, familiar corners, places I had walked past enough times for them to lodge somewhere in my memory.
The closer we got, the tighter my chest became.
I didn't want them to see me getting out of that car.
I didn't want the first thing people noticed to be that. Not because I was ashamed, exactly — I wasn't even sure what I felt anymore — but because I knew them. I knew how quickly they would twist anything into something ugly.
So I turned slightly toward the driver.
"Excuse me?"
His eyes flicked to me in the mirror. "Yes, miss?"
"Would you mind dropping me a few blocks away from school?"
There was a short pause.
"I'm not sure that would be wise."
"I know my way from there," I said quickly. "I come here every day from my house. I just..." I hesitated. "I don't want to be seen coming out of the car."
He kept his attention mostly on the road, but I could feel him considering me.
"I can walk the rest," I added. "And when you come to pick me up later, I'll wait at the same spot. So you won't waste time."
Another pause.
Then finally he gave a short nod. "Alright."
Relief loosened something in me.
A few houses before the school, he stopped.
I got out with my bag and leaned down slightly. "Thank you."
He gave me a professional nod. "I'll be back at the same point after school."
Then he drove off.
And I turned toward the gates.
The whispers started before I even reached them.
I felt them first — eyes dragging across me from different directions, heads turning, conversations dimming and then picking up again in lower voices. By the time I stepped through the gates, it was impossible to ignore.
Most people looked surprised.
Some looked openly shocked.
A few looked disappointed, like I had returned alive when they had expected something far more entertaining.
Others just stared, trying to piece me together with the version of me they remembered.
I kept walking.
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag, but I kept walking.
And the whispers got louder.
"I thought she was supposed to be dead by now."
"Didn't Alisa say she got taken out of the country?"
"She said Chiara was sold off as a sex worker or something."
"But she actually looks good though."
"Her hair got shinier."
"Oh my God, the freak is back."
That one landed harder than I wanted it to.
Still, I kept walking.
Each step felt louder than normal, even though I knew that was just my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My dress moved softly against my legs as I went, and I became painfully aware of every inch of myself — the way I looked, the way my hair fell, the way people were seeing me.
I reached my locker.
And stopped.
Papers had been stuck all over it.
Sticky notes. Scraps of torn notebook paper. Ugly little messages scribbled in pen. Some had already peeled at the corners, but I didn't need to read every single one to know what kind of things they said.
I recognized some of the handwriting immediately.
Alyssa.
Of course.
My jaw tightened, but I said nothing. I just started peeling them off one by one, crumpling them in my hand without reading. Then I opened the locker.
Inside was slightly dusty. My books sat where I'd left them, untouched but forgotten, and seeing them there did something strange to me — as if a part of me had been paused in this hallway for two whole weeks, waiting for me to come back and decide whether I still belonged to it.
I reached in to pull out what I needed for class.
And then I felt it.
A presence behind me.
Before I even turned, I knew who it was.
The perfume told me first. Sharp, sweet, expensive in a way that tried too hard. Then the silence around us shifted — not emptied, exactly, but focused. Like the whole hallway had drawn in a breath and was holding it.
I closed my locker slowly and turned around.
Alyssa.
She stood there like she had been waiting for this moment since the day I left.
Her eyes moved over me in one long, deliberate sweep — my dress, my hair, my shoes, my face — and by the time they met mine again, I saw it clearly.
Anger.
Arrogance.
Something ugly and sharp that looked almost like hatred.
And underneath it, buried badly enough that only I would notice?
Jealousy.
So she saw it too.
She saw that I looked different.
That I looked good.
That I had come back standing straighter than she wanted me to.
For a moment, nobody around us moved.
It really did feel like the hallway had gone quiet.
Students lingered by their lockers or classroom doors, pretending not to stare and failing miserably. Everyone was waiting.
Watching.
Waiting for the face-off between the stepsisters.
And honestly?
I didn't want it.
But Alyssa had never needed permission to be cruel.
Her lips curved first.
Not into a smile. Into something worse.
"Well," she said softly, tilting her head. "Look who crawled back."
I looked at her calmly. "Good morning to you too."
Her eyes narrowed, maybe because she had expected me to flinch.
"I'm actually surprised," she said, voice just loud enough for the people nearest to hear. "I really thought you'd be gone longer."
"Disappointed?"
She let out a short laugh. "Please. Why would I be disappointed? I just thought maybe whoever bought you would've gotten more use out of you before sending you back."
A few people nearby shifted uncomfortably.
Others leaned in harder.
I held her gaze.
"Oh im not back. I'm here for school, Alyssa."
"Oh, are you?" She stepped closer. "How inspiring. So what is this, then? A little charity visit? They let you out long enough to take your exams?"
I didn't answer immediately.
That always irritated her more — when she threw poison and I didn't rush to drink it.
Her eyes flicked again to my dress.
"Cute outfit," she said. "Did he buy that for you too? Or did u beg for their hand me downs?"
There it was.
That bitter edge.
That need to reduce everything.
I adjusted my grip on my bag and said, very evenly, "You seem very interested in my life. Tired of your fake one already?"
That hit.
I saw it in the tiny twitch near her mouth.
I honestly was shocked by the confidence because I have never stood up. Especially to her.
I guess Bridget made a huge impact on me.
She laughed, but it came out too sharp. "Trust me, Kiera, no one is interested in your life. People are just curious how someone like you comes back looking like..." Her eyes dragged over me again. "This."
I tilted my head slightly. "Like what?"
For the first time, she hesitated.
Only for a second.
Then she leaned in, voice low now, venom sweetened at the edges. Her frizzy straightened hair fell a bit over her face.
"Like you forgot who you are."
That one nearly made me smile.
Because she was wrong.
So completely wrong.
So I looked her dead in the eye and said, quietly enough that she had to lean in to hear it:
"No, Alyssa. I think you're just upset I remembered. Remember, and alwaysremember. You wouldn'tbe here if my dad hadn't married your mom. So you shouldn'tforget your place."
Her face changed.
Just for a second, the control slipped.
The jealousy showed more clearly now, ugly and bright.
"You think because you came back with shiny hair and a new dress, you're suddenly better than everyone?" she hissed.
I shook my head once. "No. I just think you're angry that I came back at all."
That did it.
Her whole expression hardened.
Around us, the hallway had become a live wire. Everyone listening. Everyone pretending not to.
Alyssa folded her arms and looked me up and down one more time, slower this time, meaner.
"You should be careful," she said. "People here haven't forgotten what you are."
My fingers tightened slightly around my bag strap, but my face didn't move.
"And what am I?" I asked.
She smiled then.
A proper one this time. Cold. Cruel.
"A girl who got taken away like property and came back pretending she's still normal. Pathetic. Only God knows how many dicks you ride everyday just to be alive. Fucking cocksucker."
The words landed in the hallway like a slap.
No one said anything.
No one moved.
And for a single second, the old version of me — the one who lived in attics and apologized for existing and tried not to cry where people could see — rose up in my chest like muscle memory.
Then something else rose with it.
Something steadier.
I looked at Alyssa for a long moment before answering.
And when I did, my voice was calm enough to make hers sound childish.
"Interesting," I said. "Because from where I'm standing, I'm not the one who looks threatened."
The silence after that was complete.
Pure.
Sharp.
Alyssa stared at me like she couldn't quite believe I had said it.
Maybe she couldn't.
Maybe she was still waiting for the old me to step back into place.
But that girl was tired.
And this one had come back wearing white with flowers on it and enough spine to stand in her own skin.
The bell rang.
Loud. Sudden. Cutting straight through the hallway like a blade.
People startled out of their stillness. Conversations broke. Feet started moving again.
But Alyssa didn't step back.
Not right away.
She held my gaze for one last second, and when she spoke again, her voice was low enough for only me to hear.
"This isn't over."
I believed her.
Of course I did.
Girls like Alyssa never stopped at one cut when they thought there was blood to be drawn.
Still, I gave her the smallest smile.
"I know."
Then I stepped around her and walked toward class.
I could feel every eye in the hallway follow me.
Dear God, I'm getting pretty anxious. Direct my path.