Chapter 1 The Debt of Betrayal

Hera Daniel's POV I have always believed that pain has a way of finding people who least deserve it. I was no exception. My name is Hera Daniels, and this is my story-a tale of betrayal, despair, and a darkness I never saw coming. The tragedy began with my step father's death and my mother's death.They both fell victim to a tragic car accident, leaving me alone with my stepbrother, Damian. While the world saw him as the grieving heir to my father's fortune, I knew better. He was a snake, coiled and ready to strike at the first opportunity. After the funeral, my life took a sharp turn. The warmth of my father's house turned cold. Damian didn't waste time showing his true colors. He ordered me to cook, clean, and handle every household chore. It was as if I had become his personal maid overnight. I wasn't even allowed to sleep in my own room anymore. My bed was a thin mattress in the laundry room. It was raining relentlessly one evening, a curtain of water pouring from the heavens as if the world itself mourned my fate.. I was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor for the third time that week. Damian was particular about the floors, claiming they needed to gleam like polished gold. My fingers were raw from the cleaning chemicals, and my knees ached from hours on the cold tiles. But I didn't complain. Complaining only made things worse with Damian. Damian wasn't home yet, but I knew it wouldn't be long before he arrived. He always found a way to ruin my evenings, and I was sure tonight wouldn't be any different. As if on cue, I heard the front door slam. Damian's heavy footsteps echoed through the house "Hera!" he shouted. "Why does it smell like a hospital in here?" I rolled my eyes. "Maybe because I've been cleaning all day," I muttered under my breath. Damian appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair wet from the rain. He looked annoyed, as usual. His suit looked fancy-way too expensive for someone who barely worked. "What's for dinner?" he asked, completely ignoring my exhaustion. I didn't even look at him. "What did you cook?" I shot back. His face tightened. "You know, for someone living in my house, and Eating my food you sure have a smart mouth." "And for someone who's supposed to be in charge, you're not very helpful," I replied. Damian glared at me, of course I knew I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't help it. Annoying him was one of the few things that made me feel alive in this miserable house. After Damian demanded dinner, I sighed heavily and rose from the floor. My knees protested every step, but I ignored them. If I didn't feed him soon, he'd just keep barking orders at me, and I didn't have the energy for that tonight I grabbed the leftover stew I'd made earlier from the stove and ladled it into a bowl. It wasn't fancy-just potatoes, carrots, and some meat scraps I'd found in the freezer-but it was food. Damian didn't deserve more effort than that. I then leaned against the counter, waiting for his usual complaints. It was like a ritual-he never ate without first finding something wrong with the food I watched as he picked up the spoon, gave the stew one stir, and then... nothing. He set the spoon down and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stares at the food. What exactly is the problem again I said to myself not too long he picked up the spoon again Sure enough, after the first bite, he grimaced. "What is this?" he demanded, holding up the spoon like it was covered in poison. "It's stew," I replied flatly. "You know, food? The thing you eat to survive?" "This isn't food," he shot back, pushing the bowl away. "It's an insult to taste buds everywhere. I rolled my eyes. "If you don't like it, you can make your own dinner." He ignored me, poking at the potatoes with his spoon like they'd personally offended him. "Did you even use salt? Or is bland your new specialty At that moment I could feel my temper bubbling up, just like the stew I'd spent hours making. "You know, Damian, you could try being grateful for once. Not everyone has someone to cook for them." He raised an eyebrow at me. "Grateful? For this?" "Yes, for this," I snapped, gesturing to the bowl. "Do you think I enjoy slaving away in this kitchen? Do you think I like cleaning up after you every single day? Newsflash, Damian: I'm not here because I want to be For a moment, he didn't say anything, just stared at me with that infuriating smirk of his. "And yet, here you are," he finally said, leaning back in his chair. "You want to talk about ungrateful?" he yelled, his voice echoing in the small dining room. "You live in my house, eat my food, and you have the nerve to act like you're the victim?" My heart was pounding, and I could feel tears of frustration threatening to spill. "I didn't ask to be here, Damian! If I had a choice, I'd leave this house and never look back!" He glared at me, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse. Then, without another word, he stormed out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him. I stood there for a moment, staring at the chaos he'd left behind. The stew dripped slowly down the walls, pooling on the floor around the shattered bowl. It felt like the perfect metaphor for my life-messy, broken, and impossible to clean up. With a heavy sigh, I grabbed a rag and got to work. Again. As I scrubbed the floor for the second time that day, I thought about everything Damian had said. My house. My food. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. But what choice did I have?                                                                           Hera Daniel's POV

I have always believed that pain has a way of finding people who least deserve it. I was no exception. My name is Hera Daniels, and this is my story-a tale of betrayal, despair, and a darkness I never saw coming.

The tragedy began with my step father's death and my mother's death.They both fell victim to a tragic car accident, leaving me alone with my stepbrother, Damian. While the world saw him as the grieving heir to my father's fortune, I knew better. He was a snake, coiled and ready to strike at the first opportunity.

After the funeral, my life took a sharp turn. The warmth of my father's house turned cold. Damian didn't waste time showing his true colors. He ordered me to cook, clean, and handle every household chore. It was as if I had become his personal maid overnight. I wasn't even allowed to sleep in my own room anymore. My bed was a thin mattress in the laundry room.

It was raining relentlessly one evening, a curtain of water pouring from the heavens as if the world itself mourned my fate.. I was in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor for the third time that week. Damian was particular about the floors, claiming they needed to gleam like polished gold.

My fingers were raw from the cleaning chemicals, and my knees ached from hours on the cold tiles. But I didn't complain. Complaining only made things worse with Damian.

Damian wasn't home yet, but I knew it wouldn't be long before he arrived. He always found a way to ruin my evenings, and I was sure tonight wouldn't be any different.

As if on cue, I heard the front door slam. Damian's heavy footsteps echoed through the house

"Hera!" he shouted. "Why does it smell like a hospital in here?" I rolled my eyes. "Maybe because I've been cleaning all day," I muttered under my breath.

Damian appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair wet from the rain. He looked annoyed, as usual. His suit looked fancy-way too expensive for someone who barely worked.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, completely ignoring my exhaustion.

I didn't even look at him. "What did you cook?" I shot back.

His face tightened. "You know, for someone living in my house, and Eating my food you sure have a smart mouth."

"And for someone who's supposed to be in charge, you're not very helpful," I replied.

Damian glared at me, of course I knew I was pushing my luck, but I couldn't help it. Annoying him was one of the few things that made me feel alive in this miserable house.

After Damian demanded dinner, I sighed heavily and rose from the floor. My knees protested every step, but I ignored them. If I didn't feed him soon, he'd just keep barking orders at me, and I didn't have the energy for that tonight

I grabbed the leftover stew I'd made earlier from the stove and ladled it into a bowl. It wasn't fancy-just potatoes, carrots, and some meat scraps I'd found in the freezer-but it was food. Damian didn't deserve more effort than that. I then leaned against the counter, waiting for his usual complaints. It was like a ritual-he never ate without first finding something wrong with the food

I watched as he picked up the spoon, gave the stew one stir, and then... nothing. He set the spoon down and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed as he stares at the food. What exactly is the problem again I said to myself not too long he picked up the spoon again

Sure enough, after the first bite, he grimaced.

"What is this?" he demanded, holding up the spoon like it was covered in poison.

"It's stew," I replied flatly. "You know, food? The thing you eat to survive?"

"This isn't food," he shot back, pushing the bowl away. "It's an insult to taste buds everywhere.

I rolled my eyes. "If you don't like it, you can make your own dinner."

He ignored me, poking at the potatoes with his spoon like they'd personally offended him. "Did you even use salt? Or is bland your new specialty

At that moment I could feel my temper bubbling up, just like the stew I'd spent hours making. "You know, Damian, you could try being grateful for once. Not everyone has someone to cook for them."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Grateful? For this?"

"Yes, for this," I snapped, gesturing to the bowl. "Do you think I enjoy slaving away in this kitchen? Do you think I like cleaning up after you every single day? Newsflash, Damian: I'm not here because I want to be

For a moment, he didn't say anything, just stared at me with that infuriating smirk of his. "And yet, here you are," he finally said, leaning back in his chair.

"You want to talk about ungrateful?" he yelled, his voice echoing in the small dining room. "You live in my house, eat my food, and you have the nerve to act like you're the victim?"

My heart was pounding, and I could feel tears of frustration threatening to spill. "I didn't ask to be here, Damian! If I had a choice, I'd leave this house and never look back!"

He glared at me, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse. Then, without another word, he stormed out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the chaos he'd left behind. The stew dripped slowly down the walls, pooling on the floor around the shattered bowl.

It felt like the perfect metaphor for my life-messy, broken, and impossible to clean up.

With a heavy sigh, I grabbed a rag and got to work. Again.

As I scrubbed the floor for the second time that day, I thought about everything Damian had said.

My house. My food.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. But what choice did I have?