Chapter 3

3

When I was twelve, I started my real work on Cynthia.

I didn't hit her. I didn't curse her. I didn't use poison.

Those methods were for amateurs. I used something much more effective: praise.

“Mom, that dress is stunning. It makes your waist look so tiny.”

Cynthia twirled in front of the mirror. “You think so?”

“Definitely. But I heard the trend in Paris right now is the 'pencil-thin' look. You have such a great frame. If you lost a few more pounds, you’d be a supermodel.”

The next day, Cynthia skipped dinner.

“Mom, your face is so photogenic. If your jawline were just a bit sharper, you'd look ten years younger.”

The day after that, she skipped breakfast and dinner.

Within a month, Cynthia had lost ten pounds. Her collarbones poked out. Her wrists looked like twigs.

She spent more time in front of the mirror and less time smiling.

“Mom, I read this book on bio-hacking. There’s a fasting method that’s perfect for your body type…”

“I’m not fat!” she suddenly shrieked, interrupting me.

“Of course not! I just meant… your body is different from how my mom’s used to be.”

I said that last part on purpose.

Cynthia’s face turned pale. She didn't say a word and stormed into her bedroom.

Two months later, she started purging.

Six months later, my father pounded on my door in the middle of the night.

“What have you been saying to her?! She only eats half an apple a day! She’s skin and bones!”

I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes.

“Dad, I was just telling her how beautiful she is. Don’t you tell her that too?”

My father froze.

He had said it. Just last week at dinner, he told her she looked “different” and “refined.”

It was a sincere compliment to a woman who was starving herself into a shadow.

When I was fourteen, I got into the top private academy in the city. That same year, I won a national biology competition.

When I brought the trophy home, my grandfather hosted a private dinner for just the two of us.

“Nora, you’ve grown up,” he said, watching me with a strange glint in his eyes.

“It’s because you taught me well, Grandpa.” I poured him a drink.

“The Sterlings need an heir. Your father isn't cut out for it,” he muttered, his face flushed from the alcohol. “But you are.”

“Grandpa, I’m only fourteen.”

“Your mother was already learning to manage a household at your age.” He stopped himself. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know.” I put the bottle down and dug my nails into my palm under the table. “Ever since Mom left, I knew you were grooming me.”

Silas stared at me for a long time.

“Nora, do you resent me?”

“For what?”

“Your mother’s death.”

I lifted my glass and looked at the color of the wine. It was a deep amber, like the dried blood I remembered on the pavement.

“Grandpa, Mom struggled with her mental health. She made her choice. You shouldn't overthink it.”

I looked him straight in the eye and downed the drink.

A fourteen-year-old girl, drinking hard liquor without flinching.

Silas’s pupils contracted. In that moment, I saw fear in his eyes.

He wasn't afraid of me. He was afraid of the monster he had created.