That was all it took.
A sharp crack filled the room. My head snapped to the side.
She had slapped me.
Hard.
The sting bloomed across my cheek, my skin burning, my ears ringing—not from the pain, but from the words that followed.
“I should’ve left you with those peasants who raised you!” she shouted. “You think you’re our blood? You’ll never be one of us. I regret ever claiming you as my daughter. Patricia is my only child.”
My body froze. Her words settled like lead in my chest.
Then she turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.
A soft knock.
Then Patricia stepped inside.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently, reaching for me.
I pulled back instinctively, but she came closer—offering me that same false comfort she always wore like perfume.
“You know,” she said in a voice only I could hear, her hand brushing my arm with sisterly sweetness. “Maybe she’s right. No one really loves you. You’re just…extra.”
Her words sliced deeper than the slap.
Before I could stop myself, something inside me snapped.
I shoved her.
My hands shoved Patricia, and for a second, she staggered back, wide-eyed. I hadn’t meant to push her that hard—it wasn’t even that hard. But in true Patricia fashion, she made it dramatic.
“You little—!” she hissed and lunged at me, nails aimed for my hair.
Before I could react, she had grabbed a fistful of it, yanking my head to the side. Pain tore across my scalp as I fought back, grabbing her wrist, trying to break free.
“Enough!” I screamed, pushing against her again.
She scratched me. I could feel it—sharp lines burning across my cheek and neck. We stumbled backward, grappling like children, like animals.
“What the hell is going on here?” Denver's voice thundered as he stormed into the room.
Patricia instantly started crying. “She hit me! Look at what she did!” she whimpered, showing the faint red line on her arm.
“She attacked me first!” I shouted, pointing at the mess of my hair, the torn edge of my shirt, the blood beading on my cheek.
Denver didn’t even hesitate.
“Alicia, what is wrong with you? Are you insane?”
“She started it!” I yelled, eyes wide. “She provoked me! She said—”
“Shut up.” He snapped the words like a whip. “God, you’re pathetic. You’re always the problem.”
I stood there in shock as Patricia sniffled behind him, clutching her fake wounds.