She's Just Starving

Alistair walked in heavy silence, his polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the marble floors as he led Elara away from the stifling tension of the foyer. He guided her past the grand, sweeping staircases and the lavishly decorated guest wings, taking her all the way down to the very far end of the first floor.

He stopped in front of a narrow, plain wooden door. It was a cramped, uncleaned maid's room, a space clearly meant for the lowest of servants, pushed as far away from the family's living quarters as structurally possible.

Alistair pushed the door open, the old hinges squeaking in the quiet hall. A musty scent of stale air and trapped dust instantly drifted out. He didn't bother stepping inside. He just stood in the doorway, his shoulders rigid, fully anticipating her usual explosive complaints about the degrading conditions. In the past, Elara would have thrown a massive, screaming fit over being handed such an insulting room.

"You'll have to settle for this one tonight," Alistair started, his tone defensive and stern. "Mom will fix you up with a proper room tomorrow morning. Don't even think it is too tiny, and do not maliciously blame Sienna for this arrangement. It was just an oversight—"

"I don't," Elara cut in softly.

Alistair blinked, the rest of his harsh warning dying on his tongue.

Elara wasn't glaring at him. She wasn't preparing to scream. Instead, she was slowly surveying the small, dusty space with a look of genuine, profound relief. The room was tiny, barely fitting a single narrow bed, a nightstand, and a worn wardrobe. But the walls were solid. The lights flickered but turned on. The mattress wasn't soaked in freezing mud or coated in mold.

Compared to the freezing, concrete hell she had endured for the past two agonizing years, this tiny, dusty room was a serious, luxurious upgrade.

"I like it," she added, her voice barely above a whisper. Her dull eyes scanned the four solid walls again. "Thanks, Mr. Alistair."

Alistair stood frozen in the doorway. He swallowed hard, feeling an odd, sudden rush of relief wash over him. Desperately hoping this submissive, quiet attitude meant she had finally changed and accepted her lower place in the family, his guard dropped. If she had really learned her lesson at the institute and stopped making life miserable for Sienna, maybe they could finally have some peace.

"Alright then," Alistair said, his voice softening slightly. "Get some sleep. I'll bring you to see Grandpa tomorrow. He's missed you—"

As he spoke, he subconsciously reached out with his right hand. It was an old, ingrained habit from their distant past, a simple, warm desire to pat her on the head.

The moment his shadow shifted and his hand lifted, Elara’s deep-rooted survival instincts violently took over.

Before his fingers could even brush her hair, she exploded backward. She violently shoved his arm away with terrifying speed, her hands slapping against his wrist like she was blocking a lethal strike. She jumped back so fast her foot slipped on the floorboards.

*Thud!*

The sheer force of her frantic deflection sent Alistair's hand slamming hard into the solid wooden door frame. Pain flared up his knuckles instantly.

"Elara, what the hell are you—" Alistair snapped, an immediate flare of ego-driven anger rising in his chest.

But the angry words completely froze in his throat the second he looked at her.

Elara was pressed flat against the far wall of the tiny room. Her shoulders were hunched up to her ears, and her hands were raised rigidly in front of her face in a desperate, defensive guard. Her eyes were blown wide open, pupils dilated with the ferocious, untamed terror of a deeply cornered animal about to be struck with a lethal blow. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving violently.

"S-sorry. I didn't mean to..." she muttered frantically, the words stumbling out of her pale lips. Her voice was shaking uncontrollably, trembling so hard it sounded like it was being ripped from her throat. Her entire body was entirely stiff with paralyzing fear.

Alistair stared at her, deeply unsettled. His chest suddenly felt incredibly tight. The stinging pain in his bruised knuckles was completely forgotten. The person cowering against the peeling wallpaper wasn't the arrogant, loudly demanding sister he remembered. She looked utterly shattered. A completely unrecognizable stranger.

Unable to process the intense, suffocating terror radiating from her, Alistair took a slow step backward.

"Alright," he mumbled awkwardly, his eyes darting away from her trembling form. "Sleep well."

He quickly pulled the door shut, practically fleeing the heavy atmosphere of the room.

The moment the latch clicked into place, the overwhelming adrenaline crashed down on Elara. She slid down the wall, her knees hitting the dusty floorboards. Being completely alone in the quiet room didn't bring peace. Instead, the suffocating phantom memories violently overtook her mind.

The mere sight of Alistair's raised hand had immediately transported her back to the Aurelian Institute. She could vividly feel the stinging lash of brutal whips, the crushing weight of jagged stones hurled by her instructors, and the agonizing thud of wooden sticks connecting with her ribs.

Her heart raced wildly against her ribs, thumping so hard it actually hurt. She scrambled on her hands and knees, frantically scavenging the perimeter of the cramped room. She swept her trembling hands under the dusty bed frame until her fingers brushed against something hard.

She quickly pulled it out. A discarded, sharp metal pen.

She yanked the cap off and clutched the sharp point tightly in her sweaty palm, holding it out like a deadly weapon. Breathing heavily, she scrambled to her feet and quickly switched on every single light in the small room, flooding the space with harsh, blinding illumination.

She didn't get under the covers. Instead, she retreated to the furthest corner of the room, violently curling up into a tight, defensive ball. She pressed her back firmly and solidly against the wall, refusing to leave any blind spots behind her.

She pulled her knees to her chest, her knuckles turning white around the metal pen. Her wide, bloodshot eyes remained locked intensely on the brass door handle. She didn't blink. She didn't relax. She sat there, entirely frozen in terrifying anticipation, until the pale morning light finally crept through the single, dirty window.

***

The morning arrived with the faint, bustling sounds of the grand Kestner manor coming to life. Maids hurried down the distant hallways, and the faint clinking of fine china echoed through the vast house.

Elara slowly uncurled her stiff, aching limbs. It took her a long, shaky moment, staring at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, to fully realize she was actually out. She had finally escaped that hellish etiquette school. No one was coming to drag her out of bed by her hair.

Knowing with absolute certainty that she was utterly unwanted by the family upstairs, she had no intention of wandering the main halls. She slipped out of the cramped maid's room early and quietly navigated her way to the massive, gleaming kitchen.

She kept her head down, offering to help the busy chef wash vegetables just to have a reason to stay out of sight.

Breakfast at the manor was a grand, lavish affair. The family preferred an array of visually stunning, delicate dishes, which meant massive amounts of expensive food were constantly prepared and inevitably left untouched.

Standing near the prep station, Elara spotted the leftover trays coming back from the family's early breakfast spread. Slices of artisanal bread, roasted tomatoes, and half-touched eggs sat discarded.

Her stomach cramped violently at the sight. She hadn't tasted anything warm, sweet, or properly cooked in two entire agonizing years. The last time she had eaten anything resembling a real meal was days ago, trading a severe beating for a moldy half-slice of bread.

Without hesitation, Elara retreated to a dim corner of the kitchen. She ravenously began devouring the cold leftovers. She shoved the food into her mouth frantically, chewing with rapid, robotic movements. She even snatched up two small, squashed tomatoes that had rolled off the edge of a serving platter, practically inhaling them.

The kind, elderly chef paused his chopping, watching her with a look of profound pity. He had never seen a human being eat with such frantic, desperate terror.

"Miss Elara, please," the chef murmured quietly. He quickly scooped up a portion of hot, freshly cooked pasta, tossed it with a rich, steaming sauce, and handed the fresh plate to her. "Have this instead."

Elara swallowed a mouthful of dry bread, her eyes widening in sheer shock. She accepted the heavy, steaming plate with both trembling hands. "Thank you," she rasped out.

In truth, her stomach had physically shrunken so much over the horrific years that she was already feeling slightly full. But her deep, trauma-ingrained fear of imminent starvation screamed loudly in her mind. At the institute, if you didn't eat whatever was in front of you immediately, it was violently snatched away. You never knew if you would survive until the next meal.

Driven by pure, unfiltered survival instinct, she forced herself to keep eating. She forcefully polished off every last single drop of the heavy pasta, running her fork along the porcelain, practically licking the plate clean to ensure not a single drop of sauce was wasted.

She leaned back against the cool tiles, a hand resting over her painfully full stomach, feeling entirely detached from reality.

"Geez, what are you? A stray? Never seen food before?"

The harsh, booming voice echoed through the sprawling kitchen like a sudden thunderclap, instantly shattering the quiet moment.

Elara flinched violently. She whipped her head around.

Barrett stood in the grand doorway of the kitchen, dressed in a sharp, expensive morning suit. His handsome face was completely twisted in absolute, unfiltered disgust as his eyes raked over her hunched posture and the scraped-clean plate in her hands.

Elara instinctively jerked her hands behind her back, desperately trying to hide the empty plate. She suddenly felt incredibly lost, utterly exposed, and extremely small under his piercing glare.

Barrett fiercely sneered, stepping further into the room. He loudly lamented, his voice dripping with venom. "I poured so much money into your expensive discipline lessons at that institute, and for what? Absolutely nothing! It was a complete waste."

He glared at her cowering form, immediately praising his favored child. "Thank God you aren't my real blood. Look at Sienna. She has natural, elegant superiority. She only needed four years of training to be perfect, while eighteen years of living a glorious, privileged life couldn't fix you."

Elara simply lowered her head, her unkempt hair falling over her face to hide her dull eyes. She absorbed his intense disdain without a single ounce of fight. She didn't snap back. She didn't argue.

In the past, she would have screamed at the comparison, desperate to prove her worth. Now? She had long ago accepted her permanent place as the inadequate, fake daughter. She was nothing.

Barrett's face hardened further into a cruel, commanding scowl. "If you've already forgotten all that discipline you were taught, then don't even bother sitting at the dining table. You'll just ruin the mood for the rest of us."

He didn't wait for a response. He spun on his heel and marched back out, commanding the room with his exit.

Elara remained perfectly still. She was completely unfazed by his verbal insults. Words like 'stray' and 'disappointment' paled entirely in comparison to the brutal, bone-breaking physical torment of her past. They were just empty sounds in the air.

Knowing her banishment was absolute, she remained quietly hidden in the back shadows of the kitchen. She stood there in utter silence, leaning against the cold metal counters, listening.

Down the hall, she could hear the warm, joyful laughter drifting freely from the family dining table. She could hear Kaelen's loud jokes, Davia's soft chuckles, and Sienna's sweet, musical voice. They sounded like a perfect, unbroken family.

Elara waited. She waited until the laughter faded, until she heard the definitive scraping of chairs pushing back, and the sound of footsteps dispersing. Only when she was absolutely certain everyone had finished eating and left the dining table did she finally move.

She stepped out of the kitchen shadows and walked down the long, bright hallway.

The moment she appeared in the archway of the grand living room, all the joyful, boisterous chatter that had carried over from breakfast came to an abrupt, stiff, and suffocating halt.

The laughter died instantly on their lips. The family froze in place, staring at her frail, worn-down figure standing quietly in the doorway, as if they had just simultaneously remembered she was actually residing in the house today.