Cruel Love

Chapter 1

Aria stirred to a symphony of birdsong, a melody so unknown to her usual reality. Blinking against the soft morning light, she peered through the grime-coated windowpane. The sky, so often a dull, brooding grey, was today painted in hues of serenity. Billowing clouds drifted lazily across an endless blue, like cotton ships sailing a calm, boundless sea. It was a scene of such unexpected peace that it felt like a cruel joke in stark contrast to the turmoil that constantly raged within her life. A fragile yearning bloomed within her chest, delicate as a spider’s web, the impossible wish that her world might, even for a moment, reflect the peaceful stillness outside.

With a soft sigh that slipped from her lips like smoke, Aria pushed aside the thin blanket and sat up. Her room, if it could even be called that, looked more like a forgotten storage corner than a place meant for living. Dust danced in the beams of morning light that streamed through the cracks in the shutters, settling over everything she owned. And that wasn’t much.

A crooked mirror hung on the wall, its once-golden frame now dulled with age. In its cloudy reflection, Aria caught the sight of her own tired face and the faint stretch of sky beyond the cracked window. Beside it sat an old leather suitcase, its seams frayed, its lid half open. Clothes spilled out in a messy heap, though most were little more than worn fabric and fading color.

That suitcase had belonged to her mother, one of the few things her stepmother hadn’t thrown away. Every time Aria looked at it, she was reminded of the warmth she’d lost, of the softness that used to fill her world before cruelty took its place.

Downstairs, the aroma of breakfast, sweet cinnamon and sizzling sausage, drifted through the air, a cruel contrast to Aria’s usual fare of burnt toast and lukewarm cereal. It was a reminder of how differently the household’s luxuries were divided. Her stepmother, Melisa, and her daughter, Loren, lived like royalty in this modest home, their every whim met without question, while Aria toiled quietly in the background.

Moments later, both emerged from their rooms, faces set with the kind of pride that demanded to be noticed. Their voices filled the air, sharp, commanding, and void of gratitude, as if issuing orders in a barracks rather than a home.

“Clean my room today,” Melisa said, barely looking up from her plate as she cut into her pancakes. The meal, like most mornings, was Aria’s doing. Years of practice had turned her into an exceptional cook, though no one ever thought to thank her for it.

“And make sure you wash my laundry,” Loren added, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. Her laughter came in short, shallow bursts as she replied to messages, friends, plans, a life Aria could only dream of having.

A hollow ache gnawed at Aria’s chest, one that never really went away. She longed for the kind of freedom Loren had, to go to school, to laugh without fear, to live without constantly being reminded of her place. The education Melisa claimed they couldn’t afford, the opportunities that had been promised once upon a time, all of it had vanished with her father’s death.

Since then, her world had shrunk to the suffocating walls of this house, each day blurring into the next. What used to be a home filled with warmth had become a cage, one she could neither escape nor stop dreaming beyond.

With a sigh, Aria plunged her hands into the sink. The water was cold, greasy, and full of remnants from the breakfast she hadn’t been allowed to share. She scrubbed each plate until it gleamed, though no one would notice. Hunger gnawed at her belly, a familiar ache she had long since stopped fighting. When the last dish was stacked to dry, she gathered the scraps from last night’s dinner and ate in silence, standing by the counter like a shadow in her own home.

A quick glance at the clock sent a ripple of panic through her chest. The hands crept closer to the hour of her shift. Wiping her damp hands on a frayed dish towel, Aria took a steadying breath before making her way to the hallway. The door to her stepmother’s room loomed ahead, polished to perfection, unlike the rest of the house. She hesitated for a moment, then knocked softly.

“Come in,” came the muffled reply.

Melissa lounged on a chaise, the picture of lazy elegance. A glossy magazine lay across her lap, its pages shimmering under the afternoon light. The faint scent of expensive perfume hung in the air, a scent that had once belonged to Aria’s mother.

“I’ve finished everything you asked for,” Aria said quietly, standing just inside the doorway. “And it’s almost time for my shift.”

Melissa barely lifted her gaze, one perfectly manicured finger turning another page. “Good,” she drawled, her voice smooth as honey and twice as false. “Remember, Loren’s friends are coming over for dinner. I expect something nice prepared.”

Aria’s stomach twisted. Her part-time job was the only thing keeping her afloat. Melissa had made it clear she wouldn’t spend a single penny on her. What Aria didn’t know was that the money her father had left behind for her was getting squandered on Loren’s whims and Melissa’s vanity.

“Yes, ma’am,” Aria murmured.

Melissa waved a hand dismissively, already lost in the pages of her magazine. “Don’t be late coming back. We wouldn’t want our guests to think we keep lazy help.”

“Okay,” Aria mumbled, the word barely escaping her lips. Her shoulders slumped in quiet defeat as she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The silence that followed seemed to echo louder than Melissa’s voice ever could.

For a fleeting moment, Aria stood in the hallway, staring at the faded wallpaper as a bittersweet memory unfurled, unbidden.

There had been a time when the name Melissa meant something warm. A time when that woman had stepped into their lives like sunlight breaking through a storm. Aria could still remember her father’s face that day, how he’d smiled, really smiled, for the first time since her mother’s passing. Grief had carved deep lines into him, stealing the laughter from his voice, but when Melissa appeared, something in him had healed.

“She’s going to be part of our family now,” he’d said, his hand resting on Aria’s small shoulder. Melissa had knelt down then, her perfume soft and floral, her eyes bright with what Aria thought was love. “You can call me Mommy if you want,” she had whispered, pulling her into an embrace that felt safe. For the first time in years, Aria believed the world might be kind again.

When Melissa moved in, the house came alive with color, fresh flowers on the table, and laughter at dinner. Aria had thought her mother would have wanted this, to see her father smile again, to see their broken family stitched together with gentle hands.

But time, the cruelest of teachers, had stripped away every illusion.

After her father’s death, Melissa’s tenderness vanished like morning mist under the sun. The warmth in her eyes turned cold, her smiles sharpened into commands. The woman who once promised to be her mother now looked at her as little more than a nuisance, a burden, a servant.

The house that once smelled of roses and home now reeked of bleach and loneliness. And Aria, once the cherished daughter, had become the ghost who cleaned its halls.