The Unloved Daughter:
Alexander Mansion – Staff Quarters – New York City – 6:00 Am.
The alarm didn't wake Zara.
She was already awake.
She had been awake since 4:00 AM, staring at the cracked ceiling of her small room in the staff quarters. The paint was peeling. The walls were damp. The single bulb above her head flickered like it was about to die.
Just like her spirit.
Zara sat up slowly. Her body ached from yesterday's work—scrubbing floors, washing laundry, serving tea to people who looked through her like she was made of glass.
She was twenty-one years old.
She had never celebrated a birthday.
She had never received a gift.
She had never heard the words "I love you" from the woman who gave her birth.
Mother.
Zara looked at the closed door. On the other side of that door was Imani—the woman who called herself Zara's mother.
But mothers were supposed to love their children.
Imani did not love her.
Zara had known this since she was five years old, when Imani had locked her in the dark storage closet for accidentally spilling juice on the floor. She had cried for hours. No one came.
At seven, she had asked Imani why Amara got new dresses while she got rags.
"Because Amara deserves good things. You don't."
At ten, she had asked why Amara went to a private school while she stayed home to clean.
"Because Amara is somebody. You are nobody."
At fifteen, she had asked about her father.
The slap had come so fast Zara didn't even see Imani's hand move.
"Never ask me about your father again. He is dead. And if you mention him one more time, I will make you wish you were dead too."
Zara never asked again.
But she never stopped wondering.
---
*Staff Quarters – Kitchen – 6:30 AM********
Zara walked into the small kitchen and found Imani already there.
Imani was forty-five, but her face looked older. Hard lines around her mouth. Dark circles under her eyes. Her hands were rough from years of work—but somehow, those hands were always gentle when they touched Amara.
Never Zara.
"You're late," Imani said without looking up.
Zara glanced at the clock. It was 6:31. She was supposed to be up at 6:00.
"I'm sorry, Ma."
"Sorry is a word lazy people use." Imani finally looked at her. Her eyes were cold. Empty. "The floors in the east wing need scrubbing. The breakfast dishes need washing. And Amara's dresses need ironing before noon."
Zara nodded. "Yes, Ma."
"Don't just stand there. Move."
Zara moved.
As she walked past Imani, she caught a whiff of the woman's perfume—cheap, floral, cloying. The same perfume she had worn for as long as Zara could remember.
Why don't you love me?
The question sat on Zara's tongue, heavy and unspoken.
She had asked it once, when she was twelve. Imani had slapped her so hard her lip bled
She never asked again.
*************
Main House – East Wing – 8:00 AM
Zara knelt on the cold marble floor, scrub brush in hand.
The east wing was beautiful. Chandeliers. Paintings. Fresh flowers in crystal vases.
This was the world Amara lived in.
And Zara? She cleaned it.
The door behind her opened. Zara didn't turn around.
"Well, well. The little servant is working hard."
Zara kept scrubbing. "Good morning, Amara"
Amara walked around her slowly, her silk robe trailing on the floor—a floor Zara had just cleaned. Her long braids were perfectly styled. Her skin glowed. She looked like a princess.
And she knew it.
"You missed a spot," Amara said, pointing to a corner Zara had already scrubbed twice.
Zara bit her tongue. "I'll clean it again."
"You always have to clean everything twice, don't you? So incompetent." Amara smiled—a cold, cruel smile. "I don't know why my Imani keeps you around,how pathetic is your life ,you are been hated by your own mother,while I get all the love and affection "
Zara had never understood why Imani loved Amara more. Amara wasn't even Imani's real daughter—everyone knew that. Amara was Mr. Alexander's daughter. His only child. The heiress.
But Imani treated Amara like she was her own flesh and blood.
And treated Zara—her actual daughter—like garbage.
"Why do you think she keeps me around?" Zara asked quietly.
Amara's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I said... why do you think she keeps me around? Your lovely mother. Imani. She hates me. You hate me. So why am I still here?"
Amara laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. "Because someone has to clean the toilets. And it's certainly not going to be me."
She leaned down, her face inches from Zara's.
"You're nothing, Zara. You're nobody. The nanny your mother keeps you because she pities you. That's the only reason anyone tolerates you. Pity."
Amara straightened up and walked away, her robe trailing behind her.
Zara stared at the floor.
Her hands were shaking.
But she picked up the scrub brush and kept cleaning.
---****************
Main House – Living Room – 10:00 AM
Mr. Alexander walked into the living room and found Zara arranging the cushions.
He was a tall man in his late forties, with kind eyes and silver at his temples. He had built an empire from nothing. He was rich, powerful, respected.
But when he looked at Zara, his eyes softened.
"Zara," he said warmly. "How are you today?"
Zara stood up straight. "I'm well, Mr. Alexander. Thank you for asking."
He frowned slightly. "You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?"
Zara didn't know how to answer that. She wasn't allowed to tell the truth.
"I'm fine, sir."
Mr. Alexander studied her face for a long moment. His eyes lingered on her cheek—the faint yellow bruise still healing from Imani's slap last week.
"Zara," he said gently. "If something is wrong—if someone is hurting you—you can tell me."
Zara's heart pounded.
Tell him.
The words were on her lips. But then she imagined Imani's reaction. The beating that would follow. The days locked in her room without food.
"There's nothing wrong, sir," she said quietly.
Mr. Alexander looked like he wanted to say more. But he just nodded.
"Alright. But promise me something."
"What, sir?"
"Promise me you'll take care of yourself." He touched her shoulder lightly—a fatherly gesture. "You remind me so much of someone I lost a long time ago."
Zara's throat tightened. "Who, sir?"
Mr. Alexander's eyes grew distant. Sad.
"My wife," he said softly. "Victoria."
He walked away before Zara could respond.
Zara stood there, confused.
She had seen photos of Victoria Alexander. The late Mrs. Alexander had been beautiful—elegant, graceful, with kind eyes.
But Zara didn't understand what that had to do with her.
She looked nothing like Victoria.
Did she?
---
Manhattan – Rooftop Lounge – 9:00 PM
Across the city, Liam Sterling sat with his friends.
The Manhattan skyline sparkled behind them. Waiters in black vests served expensive scotch. Cigars burned in crystal ashtrays.
Liam wasn't paying attention to any of it.
"Dude, you've been quiet all night," Marcus said, kicking his foot. "What's going on?"
Liam swirled his drink. "My father is forcing me to meet her."
"Her?" Julian asked. "The fiancée?"
"Amara Alexander." Liam said the name like it tasted bad. "The engagement dinner is next week."
Xavier whistled. "Arranged marriage? That still happens?"
"In my world, it's the only thing that happens." Liam set down his glass. "I've never met her. I don't know anything about her. But I'm supposed to marry her because our fathers made a pact twenty-five years ago."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What if she's terrible?"
"Then I'm stuck with a terrible wife."
"What if she's beautiful?"
"Beauty fades." Liam looked out at the skyline. "Character doesn't."
His friends exchanged glances.
"Maybe she'll surprise you," Julian offered. "Maybe she's amazing."
Liam laughed bitterly. "Maybe."
But something in his chest felt tight.
He didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in love at first sight.
But he had a feeling that something was about to change.
He just didn't know how much.
---
Alexander Mansion – Staff Quarters – 11:00 PM
Zara lay on her thin mattress, staring at the ceiling.
She replayed the conversation with Mr. Alexander.
"You remind me so much of someone I lost a long time ago."
Why did he say that?
And why did he look at her with such kindness?
No one looked at her like that. Not Imani. Not Amara. Not anyone.
Zara closed her eyes.
She thought about her father—the man she had never known. Imani refused to talk about him. Refused to even say his name.
Who was he?
Why won't you tell me, Ma?
Why do you hate me?
What did I do wrong?
The questions circled her mind like vultures.
But there were no answers.
There were never any answers.
Zara pulled her thin blanket up to her chin and waited for sleep to come.
It didn't.
It never did.