I stepped back into my robe and walked over to the little cushioned stool in front of my dresser. The mirror loomed ahead, perfectly mounted on the wall, catching every flicker of movement, every emotion I tried to hide.
Mom had already plugged in the hot comb. She stood beside me, holding it with a firm grip, her eyes fixed on the heated metal like she'd discovered some ancient, sacred relic. There was a strange calm to her stillness, the kind that came before something unsettling.
I didn't look at her. I focused on the routine—my own quiet ritual of care. I picked up a towel and gently patted it against my face, softening my wet skin for the moisturizer. My movements were steady, almost mechanical, practiced over the years like survival instincts. I reached for my facial cleanser and cotton bud, glancing at her reflection as I did.
She hadn't moved.
Still holding the hot comb. Still staring.
Like she wasn't in the room at all.
I began rubbing in the cleanser in small, slow circles. Then I heard her voice. Distant. Cold. Not harsh, but void of warmth.
"Your hair… it's soft," she said, almost to herself.
She stepped closer, parting a small section of my natural afro with her fingers. Her touch wasn't gentle. It never was. Then, slowly, she lowered the hot comb. My body stiffened when it stopped—right at my scalp.
Silence.
Everything in the room froze. Even my hand stopped moving. I looked at her in the mirror.
She was already staring back.
Our eyes met—briefly, hollowly. No love, no fury, just that strange, unblinking gaze.
I looked away and resumed applying my cleanser, pretending not to care. Pretending not to feel the heat. Then I heard the sizzle. The sharp crackling sound of heat and dry hair colliding. The smell of burning strands filled my nose, bitter and metallic.
I didn't flinch.
That would have made her stop—and stopping meant it mattered.
And nothing was allowed to matter.
I woke up sore the next morning, every part of my body aching from last night's "bonding session." The kind of soreness that lingered long after the pain had ended, like my skin remembered what my heart wasn't allowed to feel.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts hazy. Somewhere in the background, I could hear shuffling. Light movements. Someone was in the room. But I couldn't bring myself to care.
"VANYA," a voice called from the bathroom. Faint and familiar.
My name again. "VANYA?"
Then a warm hand touched my shoulder and gave me a gentle shake. I blinked slowly, pulling myself from the fog of half-sleep. I turned to see Mira, our housemaid, standing over me with a worried expression.
She wasn't looking at me directly. Her eyes drifted toward my neck, concern etched into her features. Her hand moved gently to the spot, brushing over the tender skin.
"Baby, what happened to you here?" she asked softly.
Her fingers brushed over the bruise, and I winced slightly. I could still feel the sting caused by the comb pressing on my skin for too long the night before—it was a punishment for not holding still while she straightened my hair. It was always about control. About perfection. About her vision of me.
I swatted Mira's hand away quickly and sat up, my robe shifting with the motion.
"I burned myself with the hot comb last night," I lied, the words leaving my mouth with practiced ease.
It wasn't a good lie. Not really. But it was believable enough.
Mira nodded, though her eyes lingered a moment longer on the bruised skin. I could tell she didn't fully buy it, but she wouldn't push. She never did.
"Okay, baby… be careful next time," she murmured. "And vanya dear, would you like me to pack your breakfast? You've only got about twenty minutes before the Anders' chauffeur arrives."
I nodded, already climbing out of bed.
"Yes, please. Thank you, Mira. And… good morning," I added belatedly.
She gave me a small smile and turned to leave. Once she was gone, I stood in front of the mirror again. The same mirror from last night. My robe slipped slightly as I tilted my head to the side, examining the mark on my neck. It was faint but clear—a red imprint, already beginning to darken.
I sighed and turned away.
There wasn't time to think about it.
Not now.
The ride to school wasn't smooth—at least not in my head.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop thinking about last night. It wasn't just lingering at the back of my mind; it was on a constant loop, playing over and over again. And strangely enough… it felt good. Comforting, almost. Like a memory my body had started to crave.
Soon, we pulled up in front of Finrod High—my new school.
"Hope no one likes me here," I sighed to myself, stepping out of the car and walking toward the principal's office.
"Good morning, Miss Calista," I said softly as I pushed the door open after my knock went unanswered, peeking my head in.
The woman behind the desk—short-sighted and squinting through thick glasses—studied me in silence for a moment. Then her stern expression broke into a warm smile.
She's quite pretty, I thought absentmindedly.
"Good morning, Miss Astor. And a very happy resumption to you!" she said cheerfully, motioning for me to come inside.
"Your aunt mentioned that you'd be moving into one of our most prestigious dormitories while she handles your tuition," Miss Calista added, folding her hands. "But we were surprised you didn't arrive yesterday with your belongings."
"My mother wants me to commute from home," I said flatly. "She doesn't support me staying away from her."
"I see," she said slowly. "Well, in that case, a refund will be processed to Miss Loughty."
She tapped a few keys on the nearby landline, made a brief call, and a woman—likely the school accountant—came in, whispered a few words, and disappeared again.
Then came another knock.
A girl entered, dressed in the same uniform as me. Her hair was perfectly styled, her posture immaculate, and her smile polished like glass.
"Eddie dear," said Miss Calista brightly, "please be a darling and show Miss Astor around, will you?"
"Yes, ma'am!" the girl chirped, turning to me with that same bright smile.
"Come with me, dear," she said sweetly—then placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. Hard.
Not painful. But firm enough to stir something inside me.
Confusion, maybe.
Or something more complicated.