The Heart They Stole: Rebirth of the Scapegoat Bride

Chapter 9

The sound of my father’s footsteps didn't just echo; they thundered, vibrating through the floorboards and up into the soles of my feet. It was a familiar sound—the heavy, rhythmic approach of a man who believed every room he entered was his by divine right. In my past life, that sound would have made my stomach twist into knots. It would have made me stand a little straighter, breathe a little shallower, and prepare my mind for whatever failure he was about to blame me for.

But tonight, as I stood over Elena’s crumpled, "bleeding" form, I felt nothing but a cold, clinical curiosity. I was a scientist watching a predictable chemical reaction.

"What have you done?!" my father’s voice boomed, shattering the silence of the living room.

He didn't look at me. He never looked at me first. His eyes went straight to Elena, who was currently whimpering on the floor, her hands cradled against her chest, smeared with that vivid, incriminating red.

"Elara... why?" Elena sobbed, her voice a masterpiece of frail, broken glass. "I just wanted to know where you were... I was so worried... and you just... you snapped..."

My mother appeared behind my father, a silk robe fluttering around her like a shroud. She let out a piercing, theatrical gasp that rivaled Elena’s. "My baby! My poor, sweet girl! Elara, you monster! Look at what you’ve done to your sister!"

They moved in a synchronized wave, pushing past me as if I were a piece of unwanted furniture. My father knelt beside Elena, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and "paternal" love—a love I had never seen directed at me, not even once. My mother was already reaching for the landline, her hands shaking.

"I'm calling the doctor! No, the police! This is assault!" my mother shrieked.

I stood perfectly still, my arms hanging loosely at my sides. I looked down at my hands. The blood—Elena’s blood—was starting to dry, turning a dark, brownish-red. It felt tight on my skin, like a second layer of guilt they were trying to force me to wear.

I didn't defend myself. I didn't cry. I didn't even speak. I just watched them.

"Explain yourself!" my father roared, finally turning his gaze toward me. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging with the sheer pressure of his anger. "She just got back! She’s been through hell, and you attack her in her own home? Are you so jealous, so pathetic, that you can't stand to share the air with her?"

"Look at her, Silas," my mother spat, gesturing toward me with a trembling finger. "She doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. She’s a sociopath. She’s always been jealous of Elena. Even as children, she couldn't stand that Elena was the one everyone loved."

Elena let out another soft, jagged moan. "Don't, Mom... it’s okay. She’s just... she’s not herself lately. Maybe she needs help. Professional help."

The threat was clear. "Professional help" was code for an asylum. In my past life, they had used that threat to keep me compliant. If I didn't sign the papers, if I didn't do what they wanted, they’d lock me away where no one could hear me scream.

I looked at Elena. Beneath the curtain of her blonde hair, she tilted her head just enough for me to see her eyes. They weren't crying. They were shining with a cruel, triumphant light. She thought she had won. She thought the "universe" had handed her the same victory it gave her last time.

But she didn't know about the man in the glass tower. She didn't know about the cashmere coat still draped over the chair in the hallway, smelling of sandalwood and rebellion.

"Are you finished?" I asked.

My voice was quiet, but it cut through my mother’s hysterics like a scalpel. The room went silent. Even Elena stopped whimpering for a second, caught off guard by the sheer lack of emotion in my tone.

"What did you say?" my father hissed, stepping toward me. He was a head taller than me, his shadow looming over me like a dark cloud.

"I asked if you were finished with the performance," I said, meeting his gaze. I didn't look up with the eyes of a daughter. I looked at him the way Orion looked at a flawed gemstone—ready to crush it. "Because while Elena has been practicing her stage falls, she forgot one very important detail."

"You dare—" my father began, raising his hand.

I didn't flinch. I didn't move an inch. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Father. Not unless you want to be the lead story on the morning news."

I slowly reached into the pocket of my dress. My father froze, his hand still hovering in the air. I pulled out my phone. The screen was dark, but as I tapped it, a light flickered on.

"You see," I said, turning the phone so they could all see the interface. "I've been on a very long call with a business associate. And since I’m a very thorough designer, I record all my professional interactions. It’s a habit I picked up... recently."

I hit the 'Play' button.

The speakers of the phone were high-quality—another gift from Orion’s firm. The silence of the living room was filled with the sound of my own voice.

"Let go," the recording played. My voice sounded bored, cold, and utterly calm.

Then, the sound of Elena’s high-pitched, melodic pout: "Hey sis… don’t be like that."

Then, the unmistakable wet sound of a struggle—not a physical fight, but the sound of someone gripping a wrist. And finally, Elena’s scream: "Ahhhh! Ahhhh! How could you do that to me?!" followed by the heavy thud of her throwing herself onto the floor.

I paused the recording.

"The audio is quite clear, don't you think?" I asked, tilting my head. "It’s amazing how much the microphone picks up when someone is standing so close. It even caught the sound of your breathing, Elena. You sounded quite healthy for someone who’s supposed to be in shock."

Elena’s face went from pale to ghostly white. The "blood" on her hands suddenly looked like what it was: a cheap, desperate prop.

My mother staggered back, her hand over her heart. My father’s hand dropped to his side, his fingers twitching. The rage was still there, but it was being eclipsed by something else: the fear of scandal.

"You recorded her?" my mother whispered, her voice trembling with genuine horror. "You... you set this up?"

"No, Mother," I said, stepping toward Elena. My sister tried to scramble backward, her "injured" hand suddenly working perfectly as she pushed herself away from me. "Elena set this up. I just made sure there was a witness. Since you and Father are so fond of the security cameras, I’m sure you’ll find that the footage matches the audio perfectly.

Unless, of course, someone edited the tapes?"

I looked at my father. He knew. He knew the cameras would show Elena grabbing me. He knew the "assault" was a lie.

"Give me the phone," my father commanded, his voice trembling with a different kind of fury. "Give it to me, Elara. Now."

"No," I said.

The word was a strike. It was the first time in two lives I had told him 'No' without trembling.

"This recording is currently being uploaded to a private cloud server," I lied—though I knew Orion would have it done in seconds if I asked. "If anything happens to me, or to this phone, it goes straight to the press. Along with a few other things I’ve discovered. Like the fact that our 'Saintly Elena' seems to have a very strange habit of carrying fake blood in her pockets."

I walked over to the sofa and picked up Elena’s small, discarded clutch. I opened it and pulled out a small, glass vial. It was half-empty.

"Stage blood," I said, holding it up to the light. "Excellent quality. It looks almost real under the dim lights of the living room. But it doesn't smell like iron, Father. It smells like corn syrup and red dye."

I dropped the vial. It shattered on the marble floor, the red liquid splashing against my father’s expensive shoes.