There was a time I wanted a family.
Now I just want the truth to scream louder than they ever let me.
Funny how dreams die quietly.
Not with explosions, but with silence.
With closed doors. With whispered warnings. With "not now, Selene" and "you can't be seen here."
I used to think love meant patience.
That if I waited long enough, tried hard enough, smiled soft enough… someone would choose me.
Claim me.
Call me theirs without shame.
I didn't realize the only place I existed in this house was behind closed lips and locked rooms.
Family isn't blood.
Family is where you're allowed to exist.
And I was never allowed.
I was positioned.
Hidden.
Tucked away like a sin politely framed in gold.
I walk through the hallway now - the same one I once tiptoed through, afraid to take up space, afraid the walls would echo my existence too loudly.
But I don't tiptoe anymore.
Let them hear me.
Let the ghosts panic.
My fingers brush over the wallpaper - smooth where they painted over cracks, just like they painted over me.
This house has always been a liar.
I learned from the best.
I stop in front of the study door.
His study.
Where decisions were made, where lives were shaped, where I was never allowed to knock.
I used to stand right here as a child, palms sweating, heart begging for permission to matter.
Now I just stand still. Calm. Solid.
I don't need permission anymore.
I am not that trembling thing they sculpted into silence.
I look at the door - at the symbol of everything I was denied -
and I smile.
One day soon, this house will say my name out loud.
And it will choke on it.
My phone buzzes again.
Same unknown number.
No name. No hint. Just a bold offer sitting on my screen like temptation wrapped in pixels.
If you want to break him, I can help.
For a second, I just stare.
A younger version of me would've panicked.
Would've felt hunted, exposed, afraid.
But fear is something I buried long before I came back.
I type slowly, deliberately - every letter a dare:
Who are you?
Three dots appear instantly.
Typing.
Deleting.
Typing again.
Whoever this is… they're careful.
Finally, the reply comes:
Someone who knows what he did.
And someone who wants him to pay.
My pulse stays steady.
Pain used to shake me.
Now it fuels me.
Why me?
I send it without flinching.
Another pause. Then:
Because you were the first one he broke.
And you might be the only one who can break him back.
The words hit something raw - not softness, not weakness -
a wound that healed wrong and learned to sharpen itself.
I lift my chin, staring at the house around me.
Every polished surface, every perfect corner, every lie they built into these walls.
They created their heir.
They hid their mistake.
They forgot I learned how to survive in shadows they threw me into.