The Hidden Monster

Charcoal scraped against the heavy grain of the paper.

The sound filled the dim bedroom, steady and rhythmic, standing in stark contrast to the suffocating silence of the rest of the house. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight across the windows. Marcy did not remember pulling them shut. Perhaps she had done it hours ago, or perhaps her mother had slipped in and closed them while her father, Victor, was busy screaming at the housekeeper down the hall. Or maybe the drafty old house had simply pushed them shut on its own. The weather always seemed to understand her need to hide.

She sat cross-legged on the faded Persian carpet, an oversized sketchpad resting heavily in her lap. Her fingertips were stained black with charcoal dust. The page stared back at her. It was a beautiful face, but like all her drawings, it was only half-finished. A single, expressive eye framed by thick lashes. The gentle slope of a nose. A mouth, slightly parted, hinting at a secret. A cascade of soft, sweeping hair. It was the kind of face that commanded attention, the kind of face people turned to look at in the street.

She always stopped right there, right at the bridge of the nose. She never filled in the other side. She did not know how to draw a face without ruining it.

Her charcoal-stained fingers hovered in the air, drifting closer to her own cheek. She did not touch the skin, but she could feel the heat radiating from it. The skin on the left side of her face always ran warmer than the right. She did not need to pull back the heavy scarf draped over her bedroom mirror to know that the skin was an angry, violent red today. The birthmark always flared up and darkened whenever she felt anxious, whenever she felt sad, or sometimes, just from the simple act of breathing in this house.

She scratched lightly at the edge of her jaw where the red swirls met her pale neck. She dragged the sleeve of her oversized sweater down over her knuckles, hiding her hands, even though she was entirely alone.

"Marcy?"

The voice on the other side of the heavy oak door was soft, muffled by the wood. Her mother never shouted. Elena Rossi saved her voice, hoarding it as if speaking too loudly might trigger another one of Victor’s explosive rages.

"Come eat something, sweetheart." Elena’s voice barely carried over the steady hum of the house's old plumbing.

Marcy stared down at the half-finished face on her lap. She did not answer right away. She wanted to stay right here in the dark, where her flaws were swallowed by the shadows. But her stomach betrayed her, letting out a low, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet room.

"I’ll come in a minute." Marcy raised her voice just enough to be heard.

The doorknob did not turn. Her mother did not push her way inside. Elena never forced her out of her sanctuary. It was a small mercy, perhaps the only genuine kindness left within these walls.

Listening to her mother’s footsteps fade down the hall, Marcy finally set the sketchpad aside. She pushed herself up from the carpet, her joints popping in the quiet room. Her eyes flicked toward the corner of the room. The full-length mirror stood there, rendered blind by a thick, woven scarf draped over the glass. She had not looked at her own reflection in over two weeks. The mere thought of seeing her own face sent a fresh wave of heat prickling across her cheek. She walked over and adjusted the edge of the fabric, making absolutely sure not a single inch of the glass was exposed.

Downstairs, the house felt far too quiet. The absence of noise meant Victor was gone. He had left for another one of his mysterious meetings, taking the heavy, oppressive dread of his presence with him. There would be no slamming doors for the next few hours. There would be no barking orders, no sudden crashes, and no cruel eyes tracking Marcy’s every move as if her very existence was a stain on his expensive rugs. Genevieve, her younger sister, was likely shut inside the sunroom, practicing her pristine posture or curling her golden hair for an audience of none.

Marcy moved through the sprawling house like a ghost, keeping her footsteps light until she reached the kitchen. Her dinner was already waiting for her on a small ceramic plate near the island. Her mother had taken a dinner roll, sliced it neatly in half, and spread a thin layer of strawberry jam across the center. It was such a small, simple gesture, yet it formed a hard lump in Marcy’s throat.

"Thanks," Marcy whispered.

Elena turned away from the deep copper sink. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, severe twist, but the silver strands she had given up plucking caught the dim kitchen light. The lines bracketing her mouth seemed carved deeper today, etched by years of silent endurance. Her dark eyes flicked over Marcy’s oversized sweater, lingering on the way Marcy deliberately pulled the cuffs down to hide her wrists. Elena offered a tired, fleeting smile before turning her attention back to the soapy water.

"Eat before it gets cold, Marcy."

Marcy picked up the small plate and headed straight for the back door. She pushed the screen open and stepped out into the evening air, settling onto the top step of the back porch. The sprawling backyard was cloaked in twilight. Out here, hidden behind the massive oak trees and the overgrown hedges, nobody could see her from the street.

She used to sit on these exact steps when she was a little girl. She used to pull her knees to her chest and hold her breath, thinking that if she made herself perfectly still, the world would simply overlook her. She wished she could still believe that.

"Genevieve’s going to the salon later." Her mother’s voice drifted through the mesh of the screen door.

Of course she was.

Genevieve lived her life in salons. She had her nails filed and painted weekly. There were endless hair appointments, expensive facials, custom-fitted shoes, and designer dresses shipped directly to the house. Genevieve had been born with everything Marcy lacked. She possessed clear, radiant skin. She had soft, spun-gold hair. She had a symmetrical, striking face that made strangers stop and smile on the street. Even Victor, a man who only ever curled his lip in disgust when he looked at Marcy, looked at Genevieve as if she were a gleaming gold coin. He smiled at her as if she alone had saved him from the deep, burning shame of siring his eldest daughter.

Marcy took a small bite of the roll, the sweet jam tasting like ash on her tongue.

She remembered the day she finally found the courage to ask him. She had been fourteen years old, standing in his grand office, trembling as she asked why he looked at her with such raw, unfiltered hatred.

He had not answered right away. He had simply poured himself a drink, looked at her red-stained cheek, and sneered.

"God must’ve hated me to give me a daughter like you."

Now, at nineteen, Marcy still heard those words rattling around in her skull every single day.

The screen door whined on its hinges. Elena slipped outside, wrapping a thick knitted cardigan around her narrow shoulders. She did not sit down next to Marcy. Instead, she stood near the doorframe, her gaze fixed on the swaying branches of the oak trees.

"Your father has business with the Marsettis again."

Marcy froze. Her jaw locked around the bread. "Why?"

"Debt." Elena refused to look down at her. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edges of her cardigan. "He promised Genevieve to someone. Silvio Marsetti’s son, I think."

Marcy blinked rapidly, certain the rushing blood in her ears had distorted her mother's words. "He what?"

Elena nodded slowly. She reached out and brushed her thumb against the peeling white paint of the doorframe. "She’ll go along with it. He told her last night."

Of course he had.

Marcy sat rigid on the cold concrete step, the half-eaten roll forgotten in her lap. Her beautiful, perfect sister was being sold off like a prized mare at an auction. Traded away to settle a gambling debt, to buy back a few more months of power and status for Victor Rossi. It was sickening. Yet, sitting in the shadow of this house, Marcy realized she was not truly shocked.

"Is he dangerous?" Marcy asked, her voice trembling slightly in the cool air.

"I don’t know." Elena let out a long, heavy sigh. "But his name is Dante. I remember that much. And your father’s terrified of his father. That should tell you something."

A strange, heavy sensation settled deep in Marcy’s chest. It was not jealousy. She would never envy being traded to a mafia family. But it was a strange, morbid curiosity. A sense of wonder.

What kind of man agreed to marry a girl he had never even met? What kind of girl could sit across the table from a mafia heir, look into his dangerous eyes, and not flinch?

When Marcy finally retreated back upstairs to the safety of her bedroom, she reached for the sketchpad again. She picked up the charcoal, but her fingers shook so badly she could not form a single line. The page remained stubbornly blank.

She did not know what to draw anymore. She only knew that no one in this world had ever wanted to draw her.

"Stop pitying yourself, Marcy." Marcy’s voice cracked loudly in the empty room, harsh and reprimanding.

She slammed the sketchbook shut and shoved it deep into the bottom drawer of her dresser, burying it beneath a pile of oversized sleep shirts. She slammed the drawer shut, ensuring she would be too lazy to dig it out again anytime soon. Outside, the loud, obnoxious buzz of a neighbor's weed whacker shattered the quiet of the evening. Marcy pressed both palms hard against her ears, her shoulders hunching tightly toward her neck.

The forced marriage clawed at her brain. Her thoughts bounced rapidly between disgust and confusion. Her own sister was being used as a mafia bargaining chip. What century were they living in?

There had been a time, long ago, when they actually got along. When Marcy was seven, Genevieve used to let her braid the synthetic, golden hair of her expensive dolls. The braids always ended up tangled and messy, but Genevieve had laughed. But as they grew older, Genevieve had polished her edges. She became shiny. Her bright smiles morphed into calculated performances. Her childhood kindness twisted into an unbearable, suffocating pity. And sometimes, pity was vastly more cruel than outright malice.

Now, Marcy barely recognized the golden girl living down the hall.

But she still loved her. She could not help it.

Marcy lay back on her carpet, staring up at the ceiling. The faint water stains in the plaster looked like ink blots, shifting into dark, meaningless shapes. Her fingers twitched against the floorboards. She hated this feeling. She hated how her chest tightened and her limbs grew restless when her anxiety spiked. She wanted to run until her lungs burned, but she also wanted to lay here and never move again.

Dante Marsetti.

The name sat heavy and weird in her chest. She pictured him in her mind. He was probably tall, imposing, and cold. He was probably much older. He was undoubtedly the exact kind of man who would look at Genevieve and see precisely what Victor wanted him to see. Perfection. A soft voice, flawless posture, and a pristine pedigree.

Would a man like that kiss Genevieve’s hand at the dinner table? Would he trace her flawless cheekbone and call her beautiful?

What if she hated him?

What if he was a monster?

Marcy rolled onto her side and pulled a throw blanket off the edge of her bed, dragging it over her head even though she was sweating. The room had grown far too quiet again.

A sharp knock echoed down the hall.

Before Marcy could even open her mouth to speak, her bedroom door cracked open. Genevieve pushed her way inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

Marcy sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall away from her head and pool in her lap.

"What?" Marcy asked, her tone instantly defensive.

Genevieve leaned casually against the wooden doorframe, a teasing, almost mocking glint shining in her pale eyes. She was wearing a stunning, tailored pale blue dress. Her golden hair fell in perfect, cascading curls over her shoulders. Her makeup was flawless, highlighting her high cheekbones and full lips. She looked exactly like a porcelain doll—the kind kept behind a glass case, the kind Marcy was never allowed to touch.

"He is coming tomorrow." Genevieve crossed her arms over her chest, the fabric of her dress pulling taut.

Marcy blinked, momentarily confused. "Who?"

"Dante Marsetti. The fiancé. Or whatever he is."

A cold knot twisted violently in Marcy’s stomach.

Genevieve pushed off the doorframe and strolled into the bedroom as if she owned the very air inside it. "Apparently, he is flying in with his father to finalize everything. They’re having dinner at the house. You should probably… not be around for that."

Marcy stared at her sister’s perfect face. "Why?"

Genevieve let out an elegant, careless shrug. "No offense, but… you’re a little intense. It’s a whole vibe. And Dad’s already stressed."

Genevieve wandered over to the corner of the room. She stood in front of the draped mirror, ignoring the scarf as she adjusted her diamond earring. She caught Marcy’s eye in the reflection of the window pane.

"He’s not what I expected." Genevieve ran a manicured nail over her bottom lip. "From what I’ve heard, I don’t think he’ll be impressed by fake eyelashes and polite smiles. Which is a shame. I’m good at both."

Marcy looked down at her hands, hiding her charcoal-stained fingers in the folds of the blanket. "Maybe he wants a real person."

"Whatever." Genevieve waved a dismissive hand.

"Why did you say yes to this?" Marcy asked, her voice dropping to a timid whisper.

Genevieve rolled her eyes dramatically. "Because Dad doesn’t have a spine. And he owes them more money than he’ll ever admit in a lifetime."

She picked up a cheap plastic hair clip resting on Marcy’s dresser and began twirling it between her perfect fingers.

"Besides." Genevieve’s tone remained light, but a sharp, bitter edge bled into her words. "It’s not like he gave me a choice. He sat me down, listed off every single debt he’s racked up since last year, and said, ‘This is your chance to save the family name.’" She let out a dry, mocking scoff.

Marcy’s throat went bone dry. "You don’t have to do it."

Genevieve snapped her head around, glaring sharply. "Yes, I do. Technically, it should’ve been you since you are the oldest, but Dad doesn’t think Dante would go for you with your… um… blemish."

Marcy flinched as if she had been struck across the face. The word echoed in the room. *Blemish.*

Genevieve sighed. She set the plastic clip back down on the dresser with a soft clink. "Sorry. That’s just what he said when I argued against him."

Marcy immediately looked away, staring hard at a stain on the carpet. "No, I get it."

"Look, just… stay out of the way tomorrow, okay? And thank your lucky stars that you are not being shipped off to marry some deadly criminal." Genevieve’s eyes darkened with a sudden, profound sadness.

Marcy did not respond. Her jaw was locked tight. There was absolutely nothing left to say.

Genevieve turned on her heel and walked out, leaving the door wide open. She did not say goodbye.

The bedroom felt infinitely smaller the second she was gone. The air felt thin, difficult to breathe.

Marcy sat paralyzed on the floor, staring down at her lap. Her hands were curled into tight fists in the fabric of the blanket, her knuckles turning a stark, bloodless white.

*Stay out of the way.*

*Don’t be seen.*

It was not a new command. She had lived her entire life in the shadows of this house. But hearing it spoken out loud, hearing that she had been spared from a terrifying fate simply because she was too repulsive to look at, made the reality sting so much worse than usual.

She pushed the blanket off her lap. She slid off the floor and padded barefoot across the carpet, stopping directly in front of the draped mirror.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached up. She gripped the edge of the woven scarf and peeled it away from the glass.

The reflection staring back at her was not a surprise.

She never expected to see beauty.

But she did not expect the sharp, suffocating ache that blossomed in her chest, either. It crawled up her ribs, tightening her throat as she stared at the angry red swirls dominating the left side of her face. The severe asymmetry of her features. The stark contrast between the pale, smooth skin on the right, and the violent, heated stain on the left.

She let the scarf slip from her fingers. It pooled uselessly on the floorboards.

She leaned closer to the cold glass, forcing herself to endure the punishment. She let herself look at the exact reason her father hid her away.

"A monster," she whispered.