THE DEVIL THEY KNEW, THE ANGEL HE MET

AMELIA'S POV The words echoed, a phantom chorus in my sleep: "Laid to rest." "This will be your stepmother." "You have to respect her the exact way you would respect your mom." "Don't you dare raise your hands at her." "Your mother is dead. I'm the one here now." "Amelia!" The sharp voice tore me from the recurring nightmare. For four years, ever since my mother died, this dream—or rather, this collection of haunting memories—played on a loop. My name is Amelia Jones, daughter of the late Mrs. Jones and Mr. Jones. Four years ago, he remarried, and just like that, I acquired a stepmother. "Amelia!" The voice called again, irritation prickling at me. I pushed myself up, pulling on a pair of pants and a bralette. Sleeping naked was the only way I found peace, a brief reprieve from the relentless replay of the past. The familiar routine of the dream no longer surprised me. I moved toward the door, opened it, and descended the stairs, following the source of the persistent voice. "Ame—" "Call my name once more, and I swear I'll break two of your front teeth this morning." My words cut Mrs. Caroline Jones off before she could finish. You might wonder why I don't just yell from my room. The simple truth is, I detest shouting. I'd rather endure the inconvenience of going downstairs than bellow like an irrational creature. I turned, ascended the stairs, and slammed my door, the sound rattling through the house, ensuring everyone had heard my displeasure. A glance at the clock showed it was past six. Work started at seven forty-five, and I couldn't be late. I needed to be there precisely on time. My morning routine began in a frantic blur. As for who I am: I'm Amelia. My father is the CEO of what was once one of the most successful businesses in town, though it's now clearly faltering. So, yes, I come from money, but I’m far from an heiress—no one would want to inherit a collapsing empire. Despite my family's wealth, I work at The Ace Company Limited, the biggest firm in both town and city. And true to their name, they are indeed excelling in their field. I work for my boss in the financial department, though it's more accurate to say I work under her. None of us have ever seen the true owner of The Ace Company Limited. My boss receives all our work, and at the end of each month, she accounts for it during a Zoom call with the CEO. Even with the CEO's physical absence, the company never falters; it remains at its peak.Rumourss circulate: some say my boss is the CEO's secretary, others his personal assistant. I doubt it, though; she never acts high and mighty or shows any sign of such a connection. That's enough about my work for now. I also have two step-siblings: a boy and a girl. The girl is around seventeen; how she reached that age and who her biological father is doesn’t concern me. The boy is about four, as my stepmother was pregnant with him when she married my father. You probably want to know more about me, deeper than this. I define myself in two words: ruthless or wicked—suit yourself with the English word—and nice. I am ruthless and nice. I dressed in a red silk shirt, black trousers, and 2-centimeter heels. My bag slung over my shoulder, and I headed downstairs. Breakfast was already served. It was seven-ten. I could eat in ten minutes, drive in fifteen, and grab my daily coffee with the extra ten. I settled at the table. "You have no shame. You'll eat her food after shutting her up the way you did," my father stated, and the spoon slipped from my fingers. "You're a wicked soul. I shouldn't eat with a devil. You killed your mother, you know that, we all know that, and yet you have the gall, the stomach, to eat. So shameless," he ranted, his voice rising. "You can't just keep leeching off my money like this. You bought that car with my money. Give me the keys." He demanded, but I remained silent, staring at him, letting his idiocy wash over me. "Honey, calm down," his wife interjected softly. "No! She uses my money for unnecessary things while she keeps yours. Tell me, why are you even working when you're still feeding off my money?" he continued. Just then, Agnes, his second child, entered. "Good morning, Dad," she said, taking a seat at the table. "Morning, my sweetheart. How was your night?" he asked her in a tone he reserved only for her, treating her like a little child. "Great," she replied, serving herself. My father then looked at me, a look of utter disgust contorting his face. I checked my watch. Time had flown. I exceeded my allotted dining time by five minutes and hadn't even touched my food. While he ranted, I had met his gaze, eyeball to eyeball, and he seemed to flinch under my stare. I stood without a word, feeling his eyes track my every move. "I'm done here," I announced, leaving the room without another syllable. "Keep it in mind, I will collect those car keys from you! You used my money to buy it, so I have every right!" he shouted as I walked out of the house. This is a typical morning. Tomorrow, his tirade will likely be about something other than the car. Still, I’ve been dealing with it for four years now, and I’m still dealing with it. Most of the time, when my father throws a tantrum, I don't reply because my eyes speak volumes for me.