Chapter 3

The days blurred into a monotonous cycle of textbooks and practice exams.

I barely spoke a word, spending every waking hour grinding through problems.

My teachers all said I had changed.

I'd gone from an introverted but bright girl to a silent, immovable stone.

The only thing that moved was my GPA, climbing higher and higher.

I stopped caring whether my essays won praise from the faculty.

I began conquering the math and physics problems that used to haunt my dreams.

Because I knew that only raw numbers could secure me a perfect score.

Only perfection would get me into the university of my choice.

During my senior year, I rarely made it home before the stroke of midnight.

Grandma always left a lamp burning for me, with a bowl of warm soup waiting.

In those bleak, gray years, she was the only light I had left.

The calls from my parents became few and far between.

Sometimes, two or three months would pass without a single word.

When they did call, the script was always the same.

Michael's latest triumphs, followed by a list of warnings for me to stay in line.

I had finally learned how to remain completely unfazed.

I no longer had any use for the meager allowance they sent.

My scholarships and weekend tutoring gigs were enough to cover everything for Grandma and me.

But I still accepted their money.

I funneled every cent of it into a separate bank account.

I tracked every single deposit with cold, calculated precision.

On the eve of the National Finals, a package arrived from Veridia.

It was from them.

I opened it without a shred of expectation.

Inside was a dress—a style that had gone out of fashion years ago.

There was also a card.

The card bore Michael's handwriting, a messy, arrogant scrawl.

[Charlotte, heard your Finals are coming up. A gift from us. Good luck. P.S. I've secured a full-ride PhD track at Aethelgard.]

There was no signature at the bottom.

Not even a simple greeting.

The card was less about a blessing and more about a victory lap.

The tag on the dress read "Made in Orienta."

I could see them now, picking out this bargain-bin rag at some clearance outlet.

Just a prop to prove they still remembered me as family.

It was a cheap, perfunctory act of condescending mercy.

I stood there holding that card for a long time.

The last spark of affection in my heart was snuffed out by a cold winter wind.

It went completely dead.

I never wore that dress.

I shoved it into a box along with the card.

I even reached into the depths of my drawer for our only family photo.

I pulled it out.

In the picture, my parents and Michael were radiant with joy.

I stood at the very edge, looking timid and lost.

I stared at that photograph.

I stared for what felt like an eternity.

Then, calmly, I flipped it face down and dropped it into the box.

I slid the lid shut and pushed it into the darkest corner under my bed.

From that day forward, I never let myself think of them again.

As far as I was concerned, they were dead.

That's what it feels like when your heart truly dies.

There were no hysterics, no dramatic floods of tears.

Just a calm, hollow, absolute sense of abandonment.

When the results came out, my scores were off the charts.

I was accepted into the most prestigious university in Metropolis.

I brought the acceptance letter to Grandma.

She wept—tears of pure, unadulterated joy.

"Good, good... my Charlotte is going to be someone."

I wiped her tears away, my heart as still as a frozen lake.

This wasn't the end.

This was the true beginning of my life.