The Woman He Was Never Meant To Love

ELENA'S POV

The Brooks family starts their mornings in silence.

Not the gentle, serene type that gives you a sense of security. No. This quiet seems to... hold. It's as if the home itself is holding its breath, anticipating a break.

I get up early every day. before the yelling. Before the lies begin to trickle like oil down the marble stairway. Situated between the washing room and the attic, my room is the smallest in the house. The wallpaper peels no matter how many times I try to glue it down, and it's hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. However, I prefer it that way. I own it.

I gently blink as I sit up in bed. I pretend not to see the bruises from yesterday's "discipline" that still hurt my wrists. I do it every time.

I stand on a cold floor. My stepmother will find another excuse to call me "lazy" during breakfast if I don't fold my blanket neatly. I try to ignore the fact that my eyes seem a little emptier every day as I brush my hair in the mirror, long, black curls that fall past my waist. As if I'm gradually disappearing.

I've mastered the art of quiet movement, to take gentle breaths. to avoid being very noticeable. But none of that helps me today.

"Elena!" My dad's voice echoes like thunder in a glass home from downstairs.

I was tying a ribbon in my hair when my fingers froze.

Once more, here we go.

With my heart racing like a moth was stuck in my throat, I ascended the steps one at a time. His lips are narrow, and his jaw is pinched as he stands in the living room wearing a smart grey suit. She's beside him as usual. Clarisse, my stepmother. Stylish. Gorgeous. Disgusting.

Her smile is poisoned, horribly sweet, and put on like cheap perfume. She stares at me as if she's seeing a cockroach after leaning toward him and whispering something.

Clarisse exclaims, "There she is," in a sugary voice. "The little princess who can't even manage a simple task without making it everyone's problem."

I remain silent. Words just serve to fan the fires, I've discovered.

My dad takes the lead. His eyes are icy, glass-clear, and on the verge of breaking.

He yells, "Is it true?" "You refused to clean up the dining room last night? After everything we've done for you?"

All that you've done for me? I keep my mouth shut even if the thought screams in my chest.

Clarisse lets out a loud sigh. "I offered to help, of course, but she just stared at me. Ungrateful little thing. She thinks she's better than this family."

That was not the case.

I was ill. lightheaded. I was unable to stand at all. However, they are unconcerned. They have never done so.

My father snatches my arm with enough force to cause bruises. I don't recoil-no more.

"You think the world