Emily didn’t scream. The air left her lungs instantly. When she looked down, terror froze her—her legs twisted at unnatural angles, swelling rapidly as dark bruising spread beneath her skin.
Victor watched her writhe on the ground and smirked.
“Maybe now you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.”
Margaret stepped outside, still holding her coffee.
She didn’t run. She didn’t call for help. She let out a soft, mocking laugh.
“That’s what useless girls get,” she said coldly. “You’re going to stain the patio. Move.”
No one helped her.
As Emily dragged herself across the stone, leaving a faint trail of blood from where she’d bitten her tongue, she looked at their satisfied faces—never realizing that this moment would destroy all of them.
PART 2
In that house, time didn’t heal wounds—it trained them.
Emily spent three days locked in her room.
No doctor.
No medication.
No real bandages.
Just a damp towel she dragged from the bathroom to wrap her shattered knees—now swollen, dark, and barely recognizable.
Downstairs, life continued as usual.
Silverware clinked.
Olivia laughed.
Television blared.
They didn’t act like they had crippled a teenage girl.
They acted like they had moved broken furniture out of sight.