Chapter 3
The next morning, I woke up to a lot of noisy voices echoing around me.
The whole house felt chaotic; people were hurrying from room to room, shouting my name.
Feeling scared, I curled up even tighter inside the haystack, hoping no one would find me here.
Suddenly, a pair of gleaming leather shoes came to a halt right outside the doghouse.
I looked up and saw Lucas.
He was staring down at me, brows knotted tight, his face dark with displeasure.
He demanded, "Why are you sleeping here?"
His voice was frosty, as cold as the winter air outside.
I whispered, "I'm all messy. Mom doesn't like it."
I was scared he'd pick me up like a little chick again.
"But Snowy likes me," I added softly.
Lucas went quiet. He stared at me for a long time, his eyes full of emotions I couldn't read.
Finally, he just waved his hand impatiently.
He ordered, "Take her and get her cleaned up. She'll stay in that room from now on. She's not allowed out again."
A maid came over and reached for my arm.
I instinctively shrank back.
I was afraid my mom would say no to me staying in that beautiful room—and that she'd get angry.
I stayed frozen where I was, my eyes darting nervously toward the main hall.
That was when I caught sight of my mom.
She stepped out of the kitchen, a cup in her hand, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.
My heart shot up into my throat.
The instant her eyes landed on me, that smile instantly froze solid.
In a heartbeat, she lifted her hand.
The cup came whizzing through the air straight at me.
It missed me, smashing right at my feet—shards scattering everywhere.
I flinched, scared stiff.
Seeing such a pretty cup shattered on the floor, I knew my mom would be heartbroken.
It was all my fault.
Without thinking about my injured hand, I scrambled to pick up the sharp shards—until a fresh sting shot through my palm.
Lucas shouted, "Don't touch that."
But it was already too late.
A piece of porcelain sliced deep into my palm—the one not wrapped in gauze.
Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the floor and staining the white shards.
At the sight of it, my first thought was: The blood would soil the floor—Mom hated messes more than anything.
Panic hit me hard—I looked up, fumbling to wipe the blood away with my sleeve. And then, I saw my mom's face.
Her pretty face was twisted, almost monstrous with fury.
My mom shouted, "Look at her. She did this on purpose. She's just acting pitiful to get people to feel sorry for her. How can she be so nasty and cunning? Why doesn't she just drop dead already?"
Lucas grabbed me off the ground and barked at the maid, "Take her back to her room. Hurry."
A maid half-dragged, half-carried me back to that spotless, snow-white room.
The door clicked shut behind me.
I had no idea what I'd done wrong this time.
I couldn't understand why my mom was still so mad. Was it because the blood got all over the floor, and now it wouldn't come off?
Panic washed over me. I sat on the edge of the bed, nervously picking at my other arm.
My skin was covered in old scars—pale white marks left behind by my dad's cigarette burns.
There were also plenty from Maya's beatings, all scabbed over now.
I dug my nails into them, over and over, not caring about the pain.
The skin split open, a dull ache radiating through my arm.
Finally, a thin line of red seeped from beneath the white scars.
Once again, blood began to trickle.
As I watched the red seep through, I finally felt myself relax.