27 | Flashback, part 2
[Aurelia: Sixteen years old]
The moment I step into my parent's house, I feel it.
The weight of it.
The air is thick with laughter, expensive perfume, and the polished charm of people who pretend to care.
The house is filled with guests, powerful men in tailored suits, their wives in shimmering designer dresses, their children groomed to perfection. The kind of people my family surrounds themselves with. The kind of people who only acknowledge my existence when it's convenient.
I scan the room and spot my parents in conversation with a few others, their polished smiles never faltering. Chase stands a few feet away, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp as he talks to—
I freeze.
Luciano. He's here.
My breath catches in my throat, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. He looks as he always does, composed, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome. Dressed in a dark suit, his jet-black hair slicked back, he exudes power and control.
I shouldn't care.
I shouldn't let my heart clench the way it does.
But I do.
I force myself to look away, to ignore the way my chest tightens at the sight of him.
Franco steps closer to me, leaning in slightly.
"Where's your sister?" he asks, his voice casual.
I inhale sharply, letting my gaze drift toward the center of the room, and I find her.
Ciara is dressed in a delicate pink gown that makes her look ethereal, untouchable. She's surrounded by people, their hands outstretched, offering her gifts, admiration, love. They smile at her as if she is the sun, as if she gives them life.
And maybe she does.
Because she has always been the favorite.
The beloved daughter.
The perfect one.
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat.
No one has ever celebrated my birthday.
Not once.
Not in sixteen years.
Not a single cake, not a single candle.
Not even a damn card.
"She's over there," I mutter, pointing toward Ciara. My voice comes out hollow, detached. "You can go say hi."
Franco hesitates, his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable as he looks at me. But I don't wait for his response.
I turn on my heel and walk away.
I weave through the crowd, my heart hammering in my chest, my breathing shallow. My throat feels tight, my skin too hot. I need space.
I need air. But most of all, I need a drink.
I slip into the kitchen unnoticed, shutting the door behind me. The noise from the party is muffled now, distant, like a world I don't belong to. I move quickly, opening the cabinet where I know my father keeps the expensive liquor.
There it is.
A crystal bottle of whiskey.
I don't bother with a glass. I unscrew the top and take a deep, burning sip.
Then another. And another.
The familiar warmth spreads through my veins, numbing the ache just a little.
This is how I escape. This is how I silence the voice in my head that whispers: You will never be enough.
I press the cool glass of the bottle against my forehead, my eyes burning.
I should be used to it by now.
The neglect. The way they forget I exist. The way Ciara shines so brightly that I become nothing more than a shadow in her wake.
But it still hurts. It will always hurt. And no amount of whiskey will change that.
────??────
I head out of the kitchen when my mom calls everyone for dinner in the dining room.
The long dining table is set with expensive silverware, pristine white plates, and crystal glasses filled with red wine.
The adults sit at the grand table, talking politics, business, and power.
Meanwhile, the younger generation are seated at a separate table, away from the real conversations that shape the world.
I sit next to Franco, his presence grounding me as I push food around on my plate, pretending to care about the meal. The atmosphere is stiff, but manageable until I hear them.
Until I hear her.
Ciara's voice, smooth and sweet as poisoned honey, drifts through the air like a dagger aimed at my throat.
"She looks awful tonight," someone whispers beside her, their laughter quiet but cruel.
"I know," Ciara sighs, her tone carrying that same fake concern she always wears like a designer coat. "I mean, does she even know how to do makeup? She looks so washed out, like she's sick or something."
Laughter ripples through the table, hushed but sharp enough to slice me open.
"Why is she even here?" another voice asks.
And then— "Is she even your sister? You don't look alike."
Ciara hums, as if she actually has to think about the answer. Then, with a light laugh, she says, "I don't know. Sometimes I think my parents took her from the trash or something."
Something inside me twists, but I don't let it show. I won't give her that satisfaction. Instead, I grip my fork tighter, knuckles white as I keep my gaze fixed on my plate.
I hate that I can't stand up to her without facing our papa's brutal punishment. I don't want to spend another night sleeping outside in the cold backyard, especially since he's locked me out more than once before.
Franco tenses beside me. I feel the shift in his energy, the barely restrained anger rolling off him like a storm.
And then Ciara's voice rings out louder, cutting through the quiet chatter.
"Let's play a game." I don't look up, but I can hear the smugness dripping from her tone.
"Everyone has to pick between me and Aurelia," she says, her voice playful but sharp like a knife's edge. "Who do you choose?"
The first person speaks without hesitation.
"Ciara, of course. I'd choose Ciara any time."
Another voice.
"Ciara, obviously."
And another.
"Ciara."
One by one, they cast their votes.
Not a single hesitation.
Not a single person even pretends to choose me.
It's a cruel game, and everyone plays it so easily, so effortlessly, as if the answer was never in question.
I don't flinch. I don't let my expression crack. I just sit there, listening as my name is drowned beneath the sound of their laughter and Ciara's sickeningly sweet voice basking in the attention.
It's finally Franco's turn.
Ciara leans forward, smiling like the devil in designer silk. "Franco, who do you choose?"
He scoffs and without hesitation, he says, "I choose Aurelia."
Ciara's smile falters, her perfect, painted lips parting slightly in shock. She looks hurt.
But Franco doesn't stop there.
"May I have everyone's attention, please?" He stands, lifting his glass, demanding attention, not just from the people at our table, but from everyone, even the adults at the grand table.
"I always thought Ciara Nash was a nice girl," Franco begins once he has caught everyone's attention. "Someone kind. Someone charming. But tonight, I've seen her true colors."
Ciara straightens in her chair, eyes wide, face pale.
Franco tilts his glass slightly, as if contemplating his next words. Then he smirks at Ciara. "Ciara Nash is the most vile, disgusting creature I have ever laid my eyes on."
Gasps echo around the room. The air shifts, thick with tension.
Ciara's eyes glisten, but Franco isn't finished.
"If there was a gun pointed between Aurelia and Ciara," he continues, voice like steel, "and I had to choose who to save? I would save Aurelia."
He takes a slow sip of his drink before adding, "And I wouldn't hesitate."
The room is silent.
Then, Ciara's breath hitches, her lips trembling before she bursts into tears.
The perfect golden girl, shattered.
I should feel guilty. I should feel something other than the rush of satisfaction flooding my veins.
But I don't.
I love the heartbreak on her face.
Because for the first time in my life, someone stood up for me. Someone chose me.
Franco isn't done. He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make sure everyone still hears.
"Ciara," he says, voice dripping with venom, "you might have the beauty, but you have a rotten fucking heart and soul. You're cursed. If I had a daughter like you, I would kill myself."
More gasps. More whispers. More shock.
Ciara shakes her head, still crying, but Franco turns away from her, dismissing her completely. Instead, he reaches for me.
For my hand.
My fingers tremble as he grips them tightly.
"Let's get the hell out of here," he mutters, and I let him pull me away.
Out of the room. Out of that house. Out of the suffocating presence of my family.
As we run into the cold night air, my heart pounds in my chest, my skin tingling, my breath uneven.
For the first time in my life, I feel seen by someone.