Chapter 3

Ellie POV

The dining room felt less like a place of gathering and more like a courtroom where the verdict had already been read.

I had been found guilty long before I sat down.

It was a pre-party family dinner, reserved strictly for the inner circle.

I was seated in the far corner, exiled next to a cousin I barely recognized.

Marcus and Chloe, naturally, were center stage.

The scent of roast lamb hung heavy and cloying in the air. It made bile rise in the back of my throat.

I pushed a roasted potato around the porcelain rim of my plate, praying for invisibility.

"Ellie," Chloe called out.

Her voice carried across the room, bright and piercing.

I looked up, my hand freezing.

"Since you grew up with Marcus, maybe you can help me," she said, her smile innocent but her eyes sharp. "I can't decide on the ring setting. Platinum or gold?"

The table went deadly quiet.

Everyone knew. It was no secret that I had once worshipped the very ground Marcus walked on.

I gripped my fork until my knuckles turned white.

Marcus had promised my father he would protect me.

That promise echoed in my head, a cruel, mocking loop.

"Platinum," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "He prefers cool tones."

"Actually," Marcus interrupted.

His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mahogany table.

He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed solely on Chloe.

"You should get whatever you want, Chloe," he declared smoothly. "You don't need to listen to anyone else. Especially not someone with... unrefined taste."

Unrefined.

The word struck me like a physical blow.

I had spent four years studying art in the cradle of the Renaissance. My entire life was refined.

He turned to his consigliere, offering a dismissive shrug. "Ellie's taste has always been a bit... niche. Not suitable for the family image we are projecting."

My face burned with a cold, humiliating heat.

He was erasing me. He was rewriting my history in real-time to fit his new narrative.

Maria appeared at my elbow, the ghost of the household. She refilled my water glass.

"Drink, child," she whispered, her voice a soft rustle. "You look pale."

I took a sip. The water was ice-cold, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging in my chest.

I checked the mental clock ticking in my head. Six days.

Outside, the sky finally opened up. Rain lashed against the tall windows, blurring the world.

I remembered a rainy day ten years ago. Marcus had walked me home from school because the driver was late. He had held the umbrella over me, letting his own shoulder get soaked to the bone.

"You are my responsibility, Ellie," he had said then. "I don't let my responsibilities get wet."

Now, he was the one drowning me.

The next morning, the bomb dropped.

I was scrolling through my phone in bed, the morning light gray and unforgiving.

The official Thorn family account posted a photo.

Marcus and Chloe.

The caption was simple, brutal: The Future of the Family.

It was public. It was official. It was done.

I stared at the screen, waiting for the pain.

I expected to cry. I expected to throw the phone against the wall.

Instead, I felt... nothing.

A numb, cold void expanded within me, swallowing the grief.

I went to my contacts.

Marcus.

I hit delete.

I went to Instagram. Unfollowed.

I went to his private number. Blocked.

My fingers were trembling, but my mind was crystal clear.

I sat up, shedding the blankets. I wrapped the duvet around me for a moment, but I couldn't stop shivering.

"I am not his responsibility," I said to the empty room, testing the weight of the words. "I am the artist of my own life."

I got dressed. I pulled on heavy boots and a raincoat.

I walked out of the house.

I didn't take an umbrella.

I walked into the garden. The rain hit my face like shards of ice. It soaked my hair instantly; it ran in cold rivulets down my neck.

It felt real. It felt like baptism.

I walked past the rose bushes Marcus prized so much, the ones he forbade anyone else to touch.

I stood there, letting the water wash away the scent of this house, the scent of roast lamb and betrayal.

Maria was waiting by the back door when I finally returned. She held a thick towel in her hands.

"Miss Ellie," she said, her dark eyes heavy with sadness. "Your father... he would be proud of how strong you are."

She didn't mean Marcus's father. She meant my biological father.

The man who had died so Marcus could rise.

I took the towel, clutching it like a shield.

"Thank you, Maria."

I walked up the stairs. My legs felt heavy, as if I were dragging iron chains with every step.

But I didn't stop.

I was not the canary anymore.

I was going to be a rose. Beautiful. And covered in thorns.

I just hadn't realized yet that thorns draw blood.

And usually, the first person you cut is yourself.