Shiver Through Burn

Chapter 9

Unknown Number:

[Door's still open.] 12:00 AM

A smile ghosted on my lips, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness—it was the smile of certainty. I walked over to my bookshelf, reaching for the third book from the top shelf. Hidden behind it was a small metal piece.

I pressed it, and the shelf let out a soft groan before sliding to the side, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled downward into darkness. A place I built not only for safety but for survival. Every step I took echoed as I descended into the basement.

The air wasn’t refreshing—it was thick and stale. But it felt real. Less suffocating than the gilded cage of the Guilermo mansion.

In front of the mirror, I stared at my reflection. The girl staring back wasn’t the one who kissed her father's hand in public or smiled beside him during campaigns. She wasn’t the one who wore white blouses with pearl pins in her hair, who always had to sit with her back straight and her smile measured, lest she be called “ungrateful” or “unladylike.”

No, this girl was raw. Unfiltered. Untouched by politics or pretense. She wasn’t built for photographs; she was built for rage. And tonight, she was breathing.

I slowly removed my wig, letting my real hair fall, tangled and damp with sweat. It clung to the back of my neck like a truth I was never allowed to show. I ran my fingers through it roughly, as if reminding myself that I was still me, no matter how hard they tried to change me.

I pulled on a black tank top, tight against ribs still sore from earlier. My scars were all visible, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to play the perfect daughter for the public tonight. Tonight, I would let myself be consumed by the darkness, and no one would recognize me.

I grabbed a pair of black combat leggings from the cabinet. They fit my body perfectly, built for movement. Every inch felt like armor. I sat down in front of the mirror, the light around me dim and yellow. Shadows danced along the corners of the room, and for a moment, it felt like even the walls were watching.

I opened the drawer beside me and pulled out a small black pouch I never used in public. Inside were makeup products that the perfect daughter, Soreia, would never dare to touch—colors that had been deemed “too dark,” “too rough,” “too unclassy,” and “too rough.” Far from the aesthetics they had forced on me: pale pinks, light nudes, clean brows, tidy long hair, and pearl pins. A delicate doll for display.

I opened a small cracked compact and stared at the deep contour shade. The powder was darker than anything I’d ever worn.

“Don’t use that,” Margarita had once said, holding up a soft peach blush in front of a mirror. “You have to look warm, approachable, and soft. People need to trust our family.”

But I dipped the brush into the contour anyway and dragged it across my cheekbones, making harsh, uneven strokes. I didn’t want to look soft. I wanted to look carved from stone—hollowed and ruthless. Each stroke echoed the voice of my past, of how they molded me into the perfect daughter.

Next came the eyeshadow. The palette was muddy, earthy—almost bruised in color. I pressed it into the hollows of my lids with my fingers, roughly.

“Eye contact, hija. Always maintain eye contact during interviews. Smile when you speak, even if they ask difficult questions.”

I pressed more shadow into the crease of my eyes until it was too dark, until it made me look too different.

The eyeliner came next. I opened the small pen and dragged a sharp, upward line along my lid, then another underneath, tracing my waterline. The line wasn’t clean. It was smudged, but it didn’t bother me at all.

“Control your temper, stay polite and calm no matter what happens.”

I traced the eyeliner further, flicking it outward like claws. Let them think I was dangerous. Let them feel it.

Then came the lipstick. Not the soft pinks I wore for photoshoots. This was darker, matte, and rebellious. I swiped it on with one motion, no corrections. It didn’t need to be perfect; it just needed to exist. Dark. Matte. Just like the night.

“Smile, hija. Let them know you’re ready to be someone’s wife.”

I wiped the corner of my lips with the back of my hand, smearing it even more. Let them see this version of me in their nightmares.

The girl in the mirror stared back.

Not the poster child.

Not the obedient daughter.

Definitely not the future political bride.

This one looked like a threat. This one would be the greatest nightmare of Sebastian Guilermo.

I leaned closer to the glass. My reflection was familiar now, and that terrified me more than anything else. Because I didn’t feel like I was becoming someone else.

I felt like I was returning to who I really was.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t smile.

Because this was the only place where I didn’t have to do what people expected of me.

I stood from the stool and zipped the pouch shut. I grabbed the leather jacket hanging in the cabinet, my fingers lingering on it for a moment.

One last look. I smiled because it was far from perfect—something I had never desired.

I walked toward the other staircase, the connection to another house—the blank house I had built for nights like this. It was a secret passage, unknown even to those who lived in the mansion.

I stopped for a moment in front of the door. Behind it, there were no memories, no stories, no pictures on the walls or laughter echoing in the air. Just an empty house—perfect for a life I had long been hiding.

I gripped the doorknob, turned it, and entered. There was no light except the faint glow of the moon filtering through a broken window. The floor was dusty, the walls cold beneath my fingers as I passed by.

I threw a glance at the garage. It was dark, cold, empty, except for one thing that seemed to have been waiting for me all along.

There, in the dim light, stood my motorcycle—my BMW K1250.

Matte black, sleek in design but fierce in presence. Its thick tires, ready to tackle any road. The engine, a beast capable of pushing over a thousand cc of raw power. The low growl of it, even when not running, sounded like a whisper of danger—a reminder that I wasn’t meant for a quiet, orderly world.

I walked up to it, running my fingers over the cold steel of the tank, feeling every scratch and mark—a story of nights like this.

I put on my helmet, pulled the keys from my leather jacket pocket, and twisted the ignition. In an instant, the engine roared to life, its fierce growl filling the garage, shaking the silence.

I smiled—a smile not for them, but for myself.

I lowered the visor of my helmet, gripped the handlebars, and confidently revved the engine. I rolled out of the garage, the tires pushing the mist off the ground as the darkness swallowed my shadow.

And with each meter of road I covered, I felt it—the realization that I was no longer the girl they had shaped into a perfect image.

I was the nightmare they had tried so hard to conceal.