Chapter 1

​"Thank you, come again,” I said with a weary smile, waving goodbye to the last customer of the day.

​As the heavy glass door swung shut with a soft chime, the mask slipped. The exhaustion I’d been holding at bay all afternoon finally crashed over me. It curled into my muscles, turning every step into a small battle. My feet throbbed in my cheap work shoes, a dull ache that reminded me I had another double shift coming up tomorrow.

​I flipped the sign on the glass door to CLOSED, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

​Cling-ling.

​I winced, turning around ready to tell a straggler we were closed. But it was just Eliza, my best friend, leaning against the doorframe with a tired grin stretching across her face.

​“Damn, I am beat,” she groaned, pushing a lock of stray hair behind her ear as she stepped inside. She looked how I felt—worn out, overworked, and underpaid.

​I smiled, the kind of genuine smile that only she could inspire. “Thank you for staying,” I said, sincerity lacing my voice. “I don’t think I could’ve gotten through the afternoon rush without you.”

​She scoffed playfully, grabbing a rag from the counter. “Please. You would've drowned in latte orders and croissant crumbs without me. You’re good, Sephi, but you’re not an octopus.”

​We shared a tired laugh before rolling up our sleeves. The next hour was a blur of bleach and lemon-scented cleaner. We scrubbed the counters until they shone, swept the floors, and prepped the dough for the morning bake.

​By the time we stepped out into the cool evening air, the sun had long dipped below the horizon. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long, orange shadows on the pavement.

​“You okay to walk?” Eliza asked, eyeing me. “You look pale.”

​“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just hungry. Mom said she’s making dinner.”

​“Alright. Text me when you get in?”

​“Always.”

​We said our goodbyes at the corner, walking off in separate directions. The walk home was usually my time to decompress, but tonight, the silence of the town felt different. Heavier.

​The wind bit at my exposed skin, and a strange unease settled in the pit of my stomach. It was the kind of instinctual feeling you get when you’re being watched, or when a storm is brewing just out of sight. I wrapped my cardigan tighter around myself and walked faster.

​When I turned onto my street, I stopped dead.

​The knot in my stomach tightened into a hard rock. There were extra cars in the driveway. A sleek, black sedan that looked far too expensive for our neighbourhood.

​I stood on the porch, my hand trembling over the doorknob. The house smelled like jambalaya—my mother’sspecialityy, the dish she only made for major celebrations. But what were we celebrating? I hadn’t been invited to a celebration. I’d just been told to "come home early."

​The air inside felt heavy, suffocating. I toed off my work shoes, the exhaustion from a ten-hour shift vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold, prickling fear.

​"I’m home," I called out.

​Silence.

​Then, a burst of laughter from the dining room.

​It wasn't my father’s gruff chuckle. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in six years. A sound that used to make me lock my bedroom door and wedge a wooden chair under the handle every single night.

​No.

​My breath hitched. It can’t be.

​I walked into the dining room, and my world shattered.

​The table was set with the good china—the plates we weren't allowed to touch. My parents were beaming, wine glasses in hand. And there, sitting in my father’s usual spot at the head of the table, was him.

​Tyler.

​My brother. My abuser.

​He looked older, broader. His suit was expensive and tailored, screaming of money and success, but the eyes were the same.

Predatory. Cold.

​When he saw me, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face.

​"There she is," Tyler said, his voice smooth like oil. "Little Sephina."

​I dropped my bag. The thud echoed in the sudden silence. My mother jumped up, wiping her hands nervously on her apron, her eyes darting between us.

​"Sephina! You're early! Look who’s here!" She gestured to him like he was a war hero returning home, not the monster who had tormented me for years.

​"What is he doing here?" I whispered. My voice barely worked. My throat felt like it was closing up.

​"Is that how you greet your brother?" My father snapped, slamming his wine glass down. "After six years? Show some respect."

​I didn't even think. My body reacted before my brain could. Flight response. Survival mode.

​I spun on my heel, my hand grasping for the doorframe to propel myself back out into the night. Anywhere but here. I would sleep on the street. I would sleep at the bakery.

​"Sephina!"

​My father’s voice cracked like a whip across the room. It wasn't a greeting; it was an order.

​I froze, my back to them, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

​"Don't you dare walk away," he growled, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he stood up. "Sit down. Now."

​I turned slowly, my eyes meeting Tyler’s.

​He was swirling his wine, a predatory smirk playing on his lips, watching me squirm. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the power.

​He knew he had me.