Heath
1529 Words
Six Months Ago...
Rain.
A steady, soothing rhythm drumming softly against the glass, trailing delicate rivulets along the window pane of my bedroom. My gaze follows a single droplet as it slithers downward, merging with others until the outside world becomes nothing but a watery blur of grey. Beyond it, the vast backyard stretches out into the mist, dark trees swaying like ancient sentinels. In the distance, the garden lights flicker faintly through the veil of rain.
I sit still, soaking in the silence—the kind that feels sacred, almost borrowed in a house like this. A quiet this loud never lasts long in the Morani mansion. I know that too well.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, allowing the calm to settle into my bones. But as always, it slips away before I can hold on.
Dinner time.
With a quiet sigh, I rise, adjusting the sleeves of my sweater as I step into the hallway that stretches endlessly toward the central staircase. My footsteps echo softly against the marble floors. The walls are lined with golden sconces and oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors—men who built empires and women who stood beside them, silent and ornamental.
This house is a museum of wealth and tradition. Cold and perfect.
The left wing belongs to me and Nicole. The right wing was claimed by Dad and Isabel the day she moved in. She had the guest suite gutted and turned into a sprawling master bedroom—her declaration of conquest. She insisted on it. She needed to eliminate every whisper of my mother, every trace of the woman who once made this house a home.
Mom died of cancer. Quietly. Tragically. Unfairly. And with her, the light in my father died too. He tried to resist, for a while. He grieved, clung to her memory, even fought for it. But duty always wins here. When the Bianchis came knocking, offering Isabel as a political solution to his mourning, he bowed.
He said yes. For the family. For the legacy. For the empire.
And he never came back from that.
Isabel Bianchi wasn’t just a new wife. She was a calculated merger. A woman raised by wolves in silk, born to manipulate, to conquer. And she despised me from the moment she laid eyes on me. I was the ghost of everything she could never be—the reminder that my father had once truly loved someone else.
She didn’t bother pretending. Not then. Not now.
I used to fight back. I used to run to Dad, beg him to notice, to see the cruelty behind Isabel’s smiles. And for a time, he did. But his patience wore thin. He became exhausted—by my pain, by the tension. Eventually, I stopped trying. I learned to smile through gritted teeth and swallow the bitter taste of silence.
It’s easier, I tell myself. Easier to pretend she doesn’t see me as a mistake. Easier to pretend he doesn’t know.
The underworld is not a place built for softness.
It rewards fear. Obedience. Bloodlines.
There’s no space for fairness. No room for dreams.
Here, we do not choose. We inherit.
The men of this world rise. The women bend, break, compromise. Our lives are bartered long before we’re born. We’re decorations on a political chessboard. Beautiful. Silent. Dispensable.
We grow up in velvet cages and die adorned in gold.
Some of the younger generation speak of change. Reform. Equality. But even that is dangerous talk. The rules bend, yes. Sometimes. But they never break. Not for us. Not yet.
As I enter the dining room, I find it empty. No surprise.
I slide into my usual seat—third from the head, across from where Isabel always sits. The table is long and regal, carved from dark walnut, polished to a mirror shine. Crystal glasses gleam under the soft chandeliers. I place my hands in my lap, folding them neatly, as the rain continues to fall against the windows.
A few minutes later, Nicole walks in. She’s smiling at her phone, fingers dancing over the screen, lost in whatever world she lives in. Probably texting friends, maybe her secret crush of the week.
“Hey,” I murmur.
She doesn’t look up. Just slides into the seat next to Isabel’s, across from me, as if I’m invisible.
It stings more than I let on.
Nicole and I aren’t close. Never have been. We’re sisters in name, not bond. When she was born, I wanted to love her. I really tried. I reached out. I brought her books, read her bedtime stories, tried to braid her hair like Mom used to do mine. But she never reached back.
Maybe it was Isabel’s doing. Maybe Nicole simply decided I didn’t fit in her world. Either way, I gave up. You can’t keep giving to someone who doesn’t see you.
We co-exist. Not enemies. Not allies. Just strangers who share the same blood.
The sound of footsteps makes both our heads turn. Dad and Isabel walk in, composed and elegant as ever. Dad looks tired. Worn down. Isabel, on the other hand, looks like a queen taking her seat at court. Cold perfection.
Nicole straightens immediately, sliding her phone away and smiling. Dad gives me a polite nod. It’s all routine.
Dinner is served quickly. The staff moves silently, placing steaming dishes and pouring wine without a word. We eat in near silence, the only sound the clink of cutlery and the faint storm outside.
Halfway through, Nicole sets down her fork. “I’m done. Good night.”
“Wait,” Dad’s voice stops her mid-step. “There’s something we need to discuss. Join us in the living room.”
She blinks in confusion but nods. I follow her out, heart suddenly heavy with unease.
When I reach the living room, Nicole is pacing like a trapped bird. Her fingers fidget, her lips drawn into a tight line.
“What do you think this is about?” she asks.
I shrug. “Not sure. You seem… nervous.”
She glares. “Why would I be nervous?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. You just look a little tense.”
“Don’t try to analyze me, Phoebe,” she snaps, arms crossed. “You don’t know me.”
I stay silent. She’s right. I don’t.
The moment Dad and Isabel enter, Nicole falls still. The air in the room changes—shifts into something colder.
“Nicole,” Dad starts gently, “you know your mother and I want only the best for you. We care about your future—about your place in this family.”
Nicole frowns. “Okay…”
He straightens. “We’ve found a match for you. A good one. You’re going to be married.”
Silence slams into the room like a punch.
Nicole stares. “What!? No—what do you mean?! I just turned nineteen!”
Dad’s voice hardens. “You always knew this would happen. We’ve waited long enough. This is important for both you and our family’s future.”
She looks at me, furious. “Why not Phoebe? She’s older! Twenty-five and still unmarried!”
Dad’s jaw clenches. “This has nothing to do with her. Don’t drag her into this.”
Isabel steps forward, her hand resting possessively on Nicole’s shoulder. “You’ve been chosen by the De Lucas, darling. It’s a tremendous honor. One most girls could only dream of.”
The room spins.
The De Lucas.
There’s only one name that matters in that family.
“He’s seventeen!” Nicole protests. “He’s younger than me!”
Isabel laughs. “Not him. Heath. The eldest.”
My heart shatters. Just like that. With one name.
Heath.
Nicole looks at me. “Wasn’t he your friend before he left? You two were close… why can’t she marry him instead?”
Isabel’s voice sharpens. “You know why. You are the true daughter of Morani and Bianchi blood. You carry the legacy. Heath chose you.”
I can’t breathe. The air feels thick, heavy. Suffocating.
Nicole steps back. “I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this!”
“You will attend the dinner this weekend,” Dad cuts in, his tone final. “It’s already been arranged.”
Nicole turns and storms up the stairs.
“Phoebe,” Dad says, turning to me, “talk to her. Help her understand. Heath will make a fine husband.”
I nod mutely, watching him disappear into the hallway.
Isabel lingers just long enough to throw me one last dagger.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she hisses. “Heath pitied you, Phoebe. That’s all. You were a childhood charity. Nothing more. Stay away from him.”
And she’s gone.
My knees finally give, and I collapse onto the couch, gripping my stomach as nausea churns inside me.
Heath. He was supposed to come back.
Five years. Five years of waiting, writing letters I never sent. Five years of imagining he still cared.
But he doesn’t.
He chose Nicole.
He chose blood.
And I was just a forgotten promise.
- Writer
