Chapter 2

The manor's garden had once been my favorite place, where every plant held a fond memory. But now, it had become the setting for my nightmares.

It was a sunny afternoon, the garden in full bloom, the breeze carrying waves of fragrance. When Isabelle suggested viewing the flowers from the pavilion, everyone readily agreed, and I followed along.

Overlooking from the pavilion, I could almost hear the echo of our laughter. But the people who had made those memories with me had long since changed.

Isabelle stood nearby with a smug smile, clinging to Henry, who was completely absorbed in doting on her. I was left standing on the sidelines, a forgotten outsider.

Suddenly, Isabelle staggered toward the railing. Henry's face changed as he rushed to catch her. But as he passed me, his hand struck hard, shoving me off balance, and I plunged downward.

Time froze. My eyes widened in disbelief as I looked at Henry, despair and bewilderment flooding my gaze.

How could my dearest brother push me off the pavilion, all for Isabelle?

The wind roared past my ears as I plummeted uncontrollably. Terror surged like a tide, and I grasped desperately in the empty air.

I felt my life slipping away, the shadow of death enveloping me.

With a sickening thud, I crashed to the ground. Agony tore through me as if every bone had shattered. I lay motionless, struggling for breath.

My vision blurred, and consciousness began to fade.

In my final moment of awareness, I saw Henry and Isabelle on the pavilion, staring down coldly without the slightest concern.

When I awoke days later, I lay on a cold bed, every movement sending searing pain through me. Yet the ache in my heart was far harder to bear.

That single shove shattered all my love and trust for my brother, leaving me utterly hopeless toward this family.

The days of recovery were torment. My body slowly mended, but the wound in my heart only deepened, never to heal.

Countless times, I woke from nightmares—my brother's cold eyes and that brutal shove haunting me like specters, leaving me drenched in sweat and trembling with fear.

I had believed Kael would be the light in my darkness, the one I could lean on in my most helpless moments.

Yet I never imagined he would betray me as well, standing at Isabelle's side.

That day, the sunlight was blinding, as if mocking my fate. Isabelle deliberately made a commotion in the garden, drawing everyone over.

When I arrived, she was already on the ground, looking pitiful and frail. Kael was supporting her with deep concern, and the tenderness in his eyes felt utterly foreign to me.

"Lila, why did you push me? What did I do wrong for you to treat me this way?" Isabelle asked tearfully, feigning grievance, her trembling voice full of false pitifulness.

To anyone watching, she appeared the innocent victim.

I froze, my mind blank—I never thought she would so brazenly distort the truth. "I didn't, I never pushed you, stop lying!" I cried in panic, my voice trembling.

I turned to Kael, hoping he would believe me and speak for me.

But he only looked at me coldly, his eyes devoid of trust, filled instead with disdain and reproach.

"Lila, I thought you were kind, but never imagined you could be so cruel—hurting even your own sister." His voice was icy, each word cutting into my heart like a knife.

I stared at him in disbelief, pain crashing over me like waves. "Kael, how can you say this? Don't you believe me? After all these years, you won't even hear me out?" My tears streamed as my voice broke.

Just then, my parents and brother arrived. At a glance, they chose without hesitation to believe Isabelle.

"Lila, you've let us down so deeply. How could you do such a thing?" My mother's voice, full of disappointment and anger, chilled me to the bone.

"Lila, if you had any dissatisfaction with Isabelle, you could have told us. Why resort to violence?" Henry reproached me, his tone stripped of the affection he once held.

Their words cut into me like a thousand blades, leaving me raw and bleeding inside. I looked at the faces of those who had once been dearest to me, and despair swallowed me whole.

To them, I was already the villain—the unforgivable one. No explanation could pierce their certainty; their belief in me was gone.

"It wasn't me… I swear it wasn't…" The words slipped out in a broken whisper as tears blurred my vision, but all I was met with were cold stares and sharp accusations.

I was left utterly alone and helpless, stranded in a world of ice and abandoned by everyone.

The day I was condemned to the laundry quarters, the sky sagged low and gray, as though the heavens themselves grieved for me. Each step dragged me closer to the place where my nightmare would begin.

The moment I crossed the threshold, a wave of damp, moldy air engulfed me, laced with the acrid sting of wash water. The stench was so suffocating that it caught in my throat.

A few narrow windows let in a thread of dim light, just enough to reveal a room buried under mountains of clothes.

The floor was slick with puddles, and every step I took echoed with a wet, squelching sound.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Murrays' little lady. What's the matter—have you fallen so low you're mixing with the help now?" A sharp voice cut into my ear. I turned to see a broad-faced matron, hands on her hips, her sneer dripping with mockery.

She was the matron in charge here, a petty tyrant lording over the laundry quarters. The maids lived under her shadow, too afraid to raise their voices against her.

"From this moment on, you'll work hard and keep your head down. Try to slack off, and you'll answer to me." She snatched up a bamboo stick and struck it against a wooden basin with a thunderous crack. The sound jolted through me, making me shudder.

Before I could even steady myself, she hurled a massive tub into my arms, piled so high with filthy clothes it threatened to spill onto the floor.

"All of these must be washed today. Leave a single one undone, and you won't eat tonight!" Her words crashed over me, echoing like a demon's roar.

I bit down hard, choking back the humiliation and rage, and crouched to begin scrubbing. The water was glacial, stabbing into my hands like a thousand needles, pain so sharp it nearly tore a cry from my throat.

But I knew resistance was useless. All I could do was endure in silence.

I scrubbed furiously, my hands turning crimson, my fingers numb. Yet the stains clung stubbornly, as if mocking every desperate effort.

The matron prowled the room like a hawk, bamboo cane in hand, striking without hesitation at anyone who faltered even for a moment.