Morning comes too fast and not fast enough.
I wake with swollen eyes and a hollow ache in my chest. The borrowed gown still lies crumpled on the floor where I left it, navy silk pooled like a bruise against the worn carpet.
I don't bother picking it up.
A knock at the door. Sharp. Efficient. One of the household staff.
"Miss Christina. Breakfast in twenty minutes. Lady Maryanna requests your presence."
Requests. As if I have a choice.
I drag myself to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face until the puffiness recedes to something almost normal. The mirror shows me a girl I barely recognize—grey eyes hollow, dark hair tangled from restless sleep.
I dress in clothes that are actually mine. Simple things. A sweater worn soft from years of washing. Jeans that fit because I bought them myself with hoarded coins.
The dining room gleams with morning light when I enter. Crystal and silver and fresh flowers arranged with mathematical precision.
Lady Maryanna sits at the head, coffee cup poised midair. Vivienne lounges to her right, golden hair artfully tousled, cashmere sweater probably costing more than everything I own combined.
Hunter's chair stands empty. Something loosens in my chest. I don't have to face him again. Not yet.
"Christina." Maryanna's voice carries its usual measured tone. "Sit."
I take my usual place. Three chairs down from Vivienne. Close enough to be present, far enough to be separate.
Silence stretches across the table. Maryanna studies her newspaper. Vivienne picks at a croissant with studied disinterest.
I wait for the blade, nausea and dizziness making it harder to keep myself collected. But the blade always comes.
"Sleep well?" Vivienne asks sweetly. "I imagine it must have been difficult. All that excitement last night."
I don't respond. Nineteen years have taught me that feeding her only makes her hungrier.
"Catherine looked absolutely stunning, didn't she? That sapphire gown. The way Hunter couldn't take his eyes off her." She sighs theatrically. "True love is such a beautiful thing to witness."
My fingers tighten around my teacup.
"I suppose you'll be attending the wedding. As a guest, of course. Maybe they'll seat you near the back, with the—"
"Vivienne." Maryanna's voice cuts through like ice. "Enough."
Vivienne blinks. "I was just—"
"I said enough. Leave us."
Vivienne's face cycles through shock, indignation, and finally sullen acceptance. She pushes back from the table with more force than necessary.
"Fine." She shoots me a look that promises this isn't over. "Enjoy your little chat."
Her footsteps echo through the hall. A door slams somewhere in the house.
The silence that follows is different. Heavier.
Maryanna refills her coffee, movements precise and unhurried.
"She shouldn't have said those things," she says finally. "It was unkind."
The familiar script. I've heard it a hundred times. That was unkind, Vivienne. Apologize to Christina. Empty words followed by nothing. Vivienne would roll her eyes, mutter something resembling an apology, and return to her cruelty the moment her mother's back was turned.
Maryanna never knew what to do with her daughter. Still doesn't.
"It's what she always says," I reply. "And you always tell her it's unkind. Nothing changes."
Something flickers across Maryanna's face. "Vivienne is... difficult. She always has been. I've tried—" She stops herself. "That's not what I wanted to discuss."
All those years of watching Vivienne tear me apart while Maryanna offered gentle reprimands that meant nothing. Slaps on the wrist that left no mark.
She never joined in. But she never truly stopped it either.
"I heard you told Hunter you're leaving." Her voice remains even. "That you're packing your things."
"I am."
"Christina." She leans forward, her voice softening. "I know things have been difficult. I know Vivienne hasn't always been kind. You've been part of this household for nineteen years. That means something."
"Does it?"
"Of course it does." She reaches across the table, and for a moment I think she might actually touch my hand. She doesn't. Her fingers rest on the tablecloth instead, close but not quite connecting. "You're family, Christina. Perhaps not by blood, but family nonetheless."
The words should warm me. Instead, they land like stones in still water.
"Family," I repeat.
"I raised you. Fed you. Made sure you had an education. When you needed new clothes, I provided them. When you were sick, I called the doctor."
She lists these things like items on a ledger. Debts I've accumulated over nineteen years.
"I did my duty by you," she continues. "And I'd like to think you've been... content here."
Content. Not happy. Not loved. Content.
The bare minimum, delivered with precision and recorded for future reference.
"I don't know what you expected from Hunter," she says, an edge creeping into her voice. "He's young. Ambitious. The pressures on him to make an advantageous match—you can't possibly understand."
"I expected him to keep his promise."
"Promises between children don't—" She catches herself. "What I mean is, you can still have a good life here. A comfortable life. This doesn't have to change anything."
"He announced his engagement to another woman in front of three hundred people."
"An unfortunate situation. But you're practical, Christina." She finally looks at me directly. "Where would you even go?"
The question cuts because I don't have an answer. I have no money, no connections, no prospects beyond what this household has provided.
And she knows it.
"Stay," she says. The word is soft, almost gentle. "Take some time. Clear your head."
I study the woman who raised me. Not warmly, not lovingly, but consistently. She kept a roof over my head and food on my plate. She made sure I knew which fork to use and how to curtsy properly. She never called me worthless or unwanted, even if she never called me daughter either.
She did the bare minimum. And now she's asking me to accept the bare minimum forever.
"Why do you care if I leave?"
Something shifts behind her eyes. A flicker I can't quite read.
"Because I raised you. Because this is your home."
"Is it?"
Maryanna's composure doesn't crack, but her fingers tighten on the tablecloth.
"Don't be dramatic, Christina."
"I'm asking a genuine question. In nineteen years, you've never once climbed to the third floor to check on me. You've never actually stopped Vivienne—just told her to be kind and hoped for the best." I stop myself. This is pointless. "Never mind."
"Christina—"
"I'll think about it." The lie slides out easily. "I need some time."
Relief flickers across her features. "Good. That's sensible."
I push back from the table.
"Christina." Her voice stops me at the door. "Whatever you decide... I hope you'll remember everything this family has done for you."
Everything this family has done.
I don't turn around. "I'll remember."
The stairs back to my room feel steeper now. The borrowed gown still lies on my floor. Navy silk, crumpled and forgotten.
I stare at it for a long moment. Then I cross to my closet and pull out the small duffel bag I've kept hidden for years. Emergency preparedness, I told myself when I bought it with hoarded coins.
Just in case.
Lady Maryanna offered me contentment. A comfortable cage. The guarantee of never being quite enough, never being quite wanted, never being quite home.
I'd rather have nothing on my own terms than everything on hers.
I set the empty bag on my bed and begin.
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