The morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, yet it did nothing to ease the tension simmering in the air. I moved carefully, carrying the breakfast tray I had prepared. My cheek still throbbed faintly, a dull reminder of yesterday's chaos with Grace, but I told myself it would pass.
I arranged plates and cups on the table, trying to ignore the quiet judgment of the Smith family sitting around the dining room. Today, for the first time, I was actually going to eat breakfast with them. A small victory, perhaps, but one I hoped would go unnoticed.
"Breakfast is ready," I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Grace was unusually quiet at first, but I should have known better. Her eyes glimmered with a mischief that made my stomach churn. Slowly, deliberately, she walked toward me, her perfect posture a stark contrast to my own careful movements.
Then it happened.
Grace suddenly slammed her hand onto her own cheek, screaming as if I had struck her. "Ah! She hit me!" Her voice rang out like a siren in the quiet kitchen.
I froze, shock rooting me to the spot. My eyes widened, searching her face for any sign of remorse or hesitation. None. Only triumph.
The sound of her scream brought everyone running into the kitchen. John's footsteps were the first, quick and furious, followed closely by Liam, who moved silently as always, his expression unreadable. Even my adopted father appeared at the doorway, drawn by the commotion.
John's gaze immediately found me. "Fiona!" he shouted, and before I could even respond, his hand struck my cheek. The sting was sharp, and the echo of the slap reverberated in my ears.
I touched my face instinctively, tasting the faint salt of tears I hadn't even realized I had shed. My heart pounded violently in my chest, and a mixture of confusion, hurt, and disbelief coursed through me.
"Why did you do this?" John demanded, anger and frustration clouding his voice. "I told you to make peace with Grace!"
I opened my mouth to defend myself, to explain that I had done nothing, but no words could reach him over the chaos Grace had created. Her tears were real—or at least convincing—and everyone else seemed to buy it. My adopted father frowned, unsure, but silent.
And Liam?
Liam didn't move. He didn't flinch. He simply watched, his dark eyes sharp and calculating, taking in every detail: the hot soup incident from yesterday, Grace's false performance, John's rash reaction, and my helplessness. He did not intervene, did not offer me protection, did not speak a single word.
I could feel the familiar pit of fear twisting in my stomach. Liam's silence was always more dangerous than any action. His gaze held power, control, and the promise of consequences that no one else could comprehend.
Grace, sensing her victory, continued to wail, slapping her own face as if my imagined attack had injured her. The sound of her voice echoed through the kitchen, drawing the attention of the entire household.
"Fiona, apologize to Grace," John barked again, his voice thick with frustration. "Now!"
I hesitated, swallowing hard. My pride screamed at me to stay silent, to resist the unfairness of it all, but the weight of everyone's attention pressed down on me. Slowly, carefully, I murmured, "I… I'm sorry, Grace."
Grace's expression softened, a triumphant smile curling her lips, but I refused to meet her gaze. My hands trembled slightly as I set down the tray, the small victory of being allowed at the table overshadowed by humiliation.
The family tried to proceed with breakfast, but tension crackled in the air like static. I sat quietly, picking at the food, watching the subtle ways Liam's presence dominated the room without him even speaking. He remained at the far end of the table, dark eyes fixed on me, calculating. The quiet storm he carried made everyone else pause, even Grace.
After breakfast, when the table cleared and the room returned to a tense silence, I slipped away to wash my hands. Cold water rushed over my fingers, numbing the burn from yesterday and the sting from this morning. I stared at my reflection in the kitchen window, barely recognizing the girl who had been molded by fear, control, and endless expectations.
Why can't they see? I wondered bitterly. Grace's false tears, John's quick temper, Liam's silent dominance—they all played roles in this cruel theater of my life. And I? I was trapped in the middle, a pawn no one seemed to notice, yet everyone feared.
Even in my frustration, a small part of me could not ignore the dark satisfaction that came from Liam's silent observation. No one else could protect me like he could, yet no one else could punish me like he could. It was a terrifying, exhilarating contradiction that left me breathless.
I left the kitchen quietly, cold water dripping from my hands, and retreated to my room. Alone, I allowed myself a brief moment to breathe, to think, to remember. My past, my stolen childhood, my complicated feelings for John, and the dangerous obsession Liam carried—all collided in a whirlwind of thought.
And yet, one thing was certain: Liam saw everything. He understood the truth behind the chaos in ways no one else could. And while he remained silent now, I knew he would act. Soon.
He always acts, I reminded myself, shivering at the thought. The thought of what he might do, how he might claim control, both terrified and strangely comforted me.
This house, this family, this life—it had never been fair. But as long as Liam watched, as long as he was there, my world was dangerous, yes—but also undeniably alive.
And deep down, I knew the storm was only just beginning.