The Davis house smelled of polished wood and stale formality, a suffocating combination Amy had learned to navigate with quiet precision. Each step she took on the marble floor felt measured, heavy, like the walls themselves judged her.
"Did you finish your tasks at work?" Mrs. Davis asked, voice crisp and cold. Her tone carried no warmth—only expectation. Amy lowered her gaze. "Yes, ma'am," she said, forcing herself to keep her voice steady.
"That's good," Mr. Davis added, not bothering to look up from the papers in front of him. "But don't let it become routine. Excellence is expected, not praised."
Amy forced a small smile, one she had perfected over years. Praise had never existed here; approval was a currency she could never earn. Her accomplishments, no matter how brilliant, were always overshadowed by criticism. She had long learned to expect this treatment, yet each day it still cut like ice.
A sudden thought struck her. She wanted to hear something—anything—from Mrs. Davis that felt like warmth, even just a small acknowledgment.
"Mom…" Amy's voice was tentative as she called her mother's name. "Do you… do you think I'm doing okay?"
Mrs. Davis looked at her, one eyebrow raised, expression unreadable. "Doing okay? Amy, I've told you before: adequacy is not enough in this house. You either meet expectations or you disappoint them. There is no 'okay.'"
Amy swallowed hard, her throat tight. There it was again—the cold wall she had grown up against. Her mother's words weren't cruel out of malice; they were cruel out of indifference, a constant reminder that Amy would never truly belong.
From the staircase, Mirable appeared, poised like a porcelain doll. Her smile was gentle, almost comforting, but Amy sensed a hidden edge beneath the surface. "You're working too hard, Amy," she said softly. "Don't let them drain you completely. You deserve more than this."
Amy blinked, unsure how to react. Mirable's words were warm, sisterly even, but there was something calculating behind them. Still, a tiny flicker of comfort sparked. Perhaps someone in this house cared for her—or at least wanted her to think they did.
"I… I'm fine," Amy murmured, adjusting her bag. Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the fatigue she carried like armor.
Later, in the kitchen, Amy overheard the Davis parents whispering over bills and ledgers. Every glance, every word felt like judgment. She tried to focus on preparing her tea, but Mirable leaned casually against the counter, voice low and smooth.
"You know," Mirable murmured, "sometimes they don't really see how much you do. They only see what they want to control. Maybe… they don't really care the way they should."
Amy's fingers tightened around the cup. She didn't want to believe it, yet the thought wormed into her mind. For years, she had worked for their approval, yet the praise never came. Mirable's words reflected what she had always feared: she was never truly part of this family.
By the time Amy retreated to her room, a storm churned inside her—anger, confusion, and a gnawing uncertainty about the only people she had ever called family. Mirable's soft smile lingered in her mind, comforting yet cold, like a shadowy promise of control. Amy realized, with a creeping unease, that the life she thought she knew—the family she thought loved her, even her feelings for Ethan—was riddled with cracks.
Lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, Amy felt the first stirrings of fear and frustration that would soon consume her. She didn't know how far Mirable's schemes stretched or what her stepsister really wanted, but she sensed it already: Mirable's loyalty was not to her parents, nor to anyone else—only to herself and the legacy she intended to inherit.
Somewhere deep in her chest, Amy felt the faintest flicker of rebellion, a spark that would later grow into a fire. But for now, she lay there quietly, surrounded by shadows, wondering if she would ever escape the cage the Davis family had built around her.