The Heart They Stole: Rebirth of the Scapegoat Bride

Chapter 10: The Rot in the Roots

“You fool! Do you know how expensive those shoes are? There are only three pairs in the entire world!” my mother shrieked. Her voice hit a frequency that made the crystal chandelier above us hum in protest. She wasn't looking at Elena’s "bleeding" hands anymore. She was staring at the red stains soaking into the hand-stitched leather of my father’s footwear.

My father looked down, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. The vanity in this house was a sickness; they cared more about the rarity of their leather than the soul of their daughter.

“It’s okay,” my father said, his voice tight but controlled. “I can always buy another pair.”

I let a small, sharp smile touch my lips. No, you can’t, I thought. I remembered the financial records from the first life. In exactly one week, the Silas Company’s main offshore account would be frozen due to a "clerical error" that I had spent months fixing in my previous existence. Last time, I had worked forty-eight hours straight, redesigning a line and securing a bridge loan from the Grant family to keep my father out of bankruptcy.

This time, I was going to let the ship hit the iceberg. I wanted to see if he really didn't need me as much as he claimed.

“You dare smile? You evil, ungrateful child!” my mother shouted, taking a step toward me. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated loathing. “I don't know what possessed me to give birth to something as cold-blooded as you.”

“You gave birth to an evil child, Mother. Which makes you the source,” I replied. My voice was a calm, steady blade. “If I’m a monster, I learned from the best.”

The air in the room felt like it was charged with electricity. Elena, sensing the spotlight was sliding away from her and onto my defiance, decided to double down. She let out a soft, guttural cry and collapsed again, her body hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“Ahh... my head... everything is spinning...” she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut in a practiced display of fragile exhaustion.

In my past life, my father would have moved mountains for that sound. He would have carried her to her room and called the city’s top surgeons. But tonight, the air was different. The shattered vial of stage blood was still glistening on the floor, and the recording on my phone was a silent threat hanging over his head.

My father didn't move. He didn't reach for her. He just looked down at her with a look of profound irritation.

“Elena, enough,” he said, his voice flat. “Why would you put on an act with something that clearly isn't blood? Please, stop fooling around and get up.”

I froze. A jolt of genuine shock went through me. I never thought I’d hear my father speak to his "golden daughter" with such naked disdain. In my first life, she could have burned the house down and he would have apologized for providing the matches.

Elena’s eyes snapped open, the "fainting" spell vanishing instantly. She looked at him with a mix of betrayal and confusion. “But Daddy... She pushed me... I’m in pain...”

“Oh, Silas, don’t say that!” my mother interrupted, rushing to Elena’s side and glaring at my father. “You know Elena wouldn’t do something like that. She’s traumatized! She’s probably just confused from the shock of being attacked!”

“She had a vial of stage blood in her purse, Lydia!” my father snapped, his patience finally breaking. He wasn't defending me; he was defending his ego. He hated being made to look like a fool, and Elena’s clumsy performance had done exactly that. “The footage is a mess. The press would have a field day with this. Get her to her room.”

The living room went deathly silent as my father wavered. Elena’s voice was like honeyed poison, dripping with just enough hurt to make him doubt the evidence of his own eyes.

“How can you believe Elara like that, Daddy?” Elena whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “I was the one gone for so long, suffering while she lived in luxury... and this is how you treat me the moment I come home?”

“No, it’s not like that,” my father stammered. I watched his resolve crumble. Even with the stage blood vial lying shattered on the floor, the sight of his miracle daughter crying was enough to blur his vision.

Elena looked at me, a tiny, jagged smile flickering in the depths of her eyes—a silent boast that she could still pull his strings better than I ever could.

“How can you say I was faking it?” she asked, her voice cracking. “If I’m faking, then prove it. Prove I’m not in pain.”

I didn't hesitate. I didn't wait for her to finish her sentence or for my father to come to her defense. I reached for a bottle of high-proof rubbing alcohol sitting on the side table—left there by the maid for the cleaning of the crystal.

In one swift, violent motion, I unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid directly over her open palms.

“AHHHHH!” Elena shrieked, a sound of genuine, bone-searing agony that was miles away from her earlier stage-screams.

The alcohol hit the raw, shallow cut she had made on herself earlier. I knew that cut was real; she was dedicated enough to her craft to actually nick her skin. But because it was a thin, old cut she’d been reopening all week, it hadn't been bleeding enough for her "performance," forcing her to use the fake blood.

But now, the alcohol was stinging the nerves, and she was thrashing.

“Stop it! Elara, stop!” my mother screamed, but I ignored her.

I stepped forward and grabbed Elena’s wrist, my grip like iron. I squeezed, my thumb pressing directly into the center of her palm, forcing the edges of the shallow wound to tear further apart.

“You wanted blood, Elena?” I hissed, leaning into her ear so only she could hear the ice in my voice. “Here. Let’s make sure it’s yours this time.”

Fresh, bright red blood began to well up from the center of her palm—real, metallic-smelling, and pulsing. Elena’s face went white, her eyes widening in actual terror as she realized I wasn't the sister who would cry and beg for a chance to explain.

I was the sister who would finish what she started.

“There,” I said, dropping her hand as if it were trash. I turned to my father, who was staring in horror at the real blood now dripping onto the floor. “Now she’s bleeding. Are you happy now, Father? Or do you need me to open the other one so you can be sure?”

The silence that followed was heavy with the scent of alcohol and the copper tang of real injury. Elena was shaking, clutching her hand to her chest, her eyes darting toward the camera. But she knew. She knew the camera had already seen the vial.

She had wanted to play a game of pain, and I had just given her exactly what she asked for.

I looked at my father one last time, my expression dead. “She’s your daughter. You deal with the mess she made. I’m going to bed.”

I walked past them, my shoulder brushing my father’s as if he were nothing more than a ghost. As I climbed the stairs, I felt the ring on my finger hum against my skin.

One cut for the thousand you gave me, I thought.