Chapter 1

When I was six, I moved into our new home with my mom.

My mom went from a tramp living in a pigsty to being the heiress of the Velorian family.

But whenever she saw me, she'd shriek like she was seeing a ghost.

She snapped, "You little bastard, why did you come back with me? Why don't you just go die already?"

To keep my mom from crying, I'd sleep in the doghouse.

To make her happy, I'd even willingly stick my hand in scalding oil.

When someone finally stopped me, my mom was sobbing so hard she could barely catch her breath.

She cried out, "I didn't want this either. But why did you have to bring her back, too?

"Why do I have to be reminded every day that I was tormented by that monster for seven years?"

My mom's sobs faded into soft, fragile whimpers, her whole body trembling.

A kind-looking old lady walked over. It was Claire, my mom's mother.

Claire gently pulled my mom into her arms, stroking her back in slow, tender motions, her eyes full of heartbreak.

She said, "Emily, I know you've suffered. But the kid is innocent. She didn't choose any of this. We brought her back because we didn't want her to walk down the same miserable path you once did."

"Mom!" Lucas snapped, voice sharp as he cut Claire off.

He pulled my mom out of Claire's arms and shielded her protectively behind him, his eyes red and fierce as he glared at Claire. He said, "Enough. Hasn't Emily suffered enough already? Must you keep stabbing at her heart with these words?"

Then he gently held up my mom, who was practically falling apart. He said, "Emily, let me take you upstairs for a break. Try not to think about it—it's done. It's all over."

Seeing my mom cry, I felt a knot of anxiety twist in my chest.

I didn't fully understand what they were saying, but I had a vague feeling that what Mom asked me to do wasn't right.

But it was one of those rare times my mom actually spoke to me.

I watched as Lucas gently steadied my mom, step by step, leading her out of sight upstairs.

Panic surged through me.

Would Mom smile if I put my hand into the boiling oil?

I lowered my head, my eyes locking onto the bubbling pot—the oil inside was still hissing and steaming.

For as long as I could remember, all I ever got from my mom were tears. She cried quietly every night, and whenever she looked at me, her eyes were hollow—like I was staring at a lifeless doll.

But since we moved into this house, sometimes she actually smiled.

Her smile was beautiful, just like sunshine breaking through the cold of winter.

It hit me then: if Mom really smiled, then whatever Claire or the rest said was irrelevant. None of that mattered one bit.

As long as Mom was happy, as long as she could smile, then that was the only thing that mattered to me.

I didn't hesitate.

Right as they were about to disappear up the stairs, without thinking, I jammed my hand hard into the sizzling pot of oil.

The moment my skin met the boiling oil, the stench of scorched flesh rushed up my nose.

Pain exploded, engulfing me like a burning cage—every nerve screaming, every inch on fire.

I howled, the scream ripping out of me—so primal and guttural it barely sounded human.

That scream—raw and desperate—made all three of them whip around in shock, freezing where they stood.