Fang King’s Witch

Darkness. It stretched endlessly before Cara, pressing in on her like a suffocating tide. The stench of alcohol burned her nose, sharp and bitter, saturating the air as if it had seeped into the very walls. Her instincts—the razor-edged awareness of a woman who had once conquered the world as a tech mogul—told her at once: this place was wrong. This wasn’t her world. She moved with caution, hands grazing unfamiliar walls until her fingers brushed a switch. A faint buzz hummed, and then light burst forth, spilling from the chandelier in stark, snowy brilliance. The scene it revealed made her lips curl in disdain. Heavy curtains drawn tight against the daylight. Empty bottles littering the floor. Ash and cigarette butts ground into the carpet like careless scars. A room that reeked of indulgence and decay. But before she could linger, agony tore through her skull. Memories—alien yet familiar—came crashing down in a torrent. She staggered, clutching her head as if her hands could hold the flood at bay. Flashes of laughter, mockery, cruelty, and shame blurred together until, at last, clarity burned through the chaos. This body was not hers. But the soul within it… was still Cara. The name “Cara Smith” rose unbidden. A name once whispered with envy among the wealthy. Yet the girl herself had been nothing—a pampered fool, unteachable and ridiculed, an example parents held up as a warning. And worse still—she had never even been a Smith. A switch at birth had stolen her place in a family that never wanted her. The true daughter, Isha Michaels, was everything Cara was not: refined, brilliant, adored. A phoenix to Cara’s duckling. Today marked Isha’s return. The Smiths had spared no expense, a glittering banquet prepared for their beloved child. Cara’s nose wrinkled at the sour smell clinging to her borrowed skin. But the closet offered her no salvation—only garish costumes of rebellion: plunging necklines, shredded shorts, fishnets glinting with studs. A wardrobe that screamed of a desperate girl playing at decadence. With no decent choice, Cara covered herself with a long-sleeved top and descended the stairs, her face still painted in heavy makeup that felt like a mask. “Mom. Dad.” Her voice was calm, her posture regal despite the hostility pressing in from all sides. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Their stares bit into her like knives, their whispers dripping venom—shameless, unworthy, a dog among swans. Yet Cara’s gaze never wavered. If anything, her aloof composure only sharpened their outrage. Mrs. Smith’s smile was brittle, her eyes sharp as glass as she tugged the glittering jewel of the night—sweet, radiant Isha—close to her side. “Cara,” she said, the name almost sour on her tongue. “Allow me to introduce your elder sister, Isha.” Cara caught the loathing beneath the practiced courtesy. A knowing smile ghosted her lips as she turned to the girl. “Hello.” Isha did not look at her. Instead, she turned wide, tearful eyes to Mrs. Smith. “Mom… I only have two older brothers. If she’s your daughter… then what does that make me?”