HIS MOONLESS BRIDE

The Tyrell mansion sat on the most expensive hill in the city, all glass and white stone, the kind of house that looked like it had never been touched by human warmth. ‎Alara Tyrell had lived in it for over twenty years and still felt like an intruder. ‎Her mother’s portrait used to hang in the grand foyer (soft brown eyes, gentle smile). Two weeks after the funeral, when Alara was four, Claudia had it taken down “for re-framing.” It never came back. In its place went a six-foot oil painting of Claudia and newborn Linnea, both of them blond and triumphant. ‎That was the first lesson: dead women disappear. ‎The second lesson came daily. ‎“Alara, the floors are filthy. Do them again.” ‎“Alara, why are you wearing that rag? Linnea’s old dress from three seasons ago is still too good for you.” ‎“Alara, stop breathing so loudly. You’re giving me a migraine.” ‎Claudia never raised her voice. She didn’t need to. Her words were precise and bloodless. ‎Linnea preferred fists wrapped in sugar. ‎She’d “accidentally” spill red wine on Alara’s only good coat. ‎She’d hide Alara’s shoes before school events so Alara had to walk in socks while Linnea posted photos captioned “Cinderella forgot her glass slippers again”. ‎The staff watched it all with tight lips. ‎The older maids sometimes slipped an extra roll onto Alara’s dinner plate when Claudia wasn’t looking, but their eyes stayed down. The newer ones learned quickly: pity the Tyrell bastard and you were fired by morning. A few of the younger footmen and maids openly sneered, calling her “the ghost” behind her back and sometimes to her face. ‎Alara learned to move through the house like smoke, quiet, unnoticed, necessary only when someone needed to blame the broken vase or the missing necklace that always turned up in her room. ‎ ‎Her father came home once in a while. ‎He would stride in smelling of airports and other cities, kiss the top of her head, and say, “You’ve grown, princess,” as if surprised she was still alive. Then he’d disappear into his study with Claudia, emerging only to praise Linnea’s latest pageant win or modeling contract. ‎The last time he’d been home (three months ago), he’d found Alara on her knees scrubbing the marble stairs because Linnea had poured orange juice down them “by accident.” ‎He’d frowned, confused. “Why isn’t the staff doing that?” ‎Claudia had appeared like a shark scenting blood. “Darling, Alara insisted. She says it keeps her humble.” ‎Her father had looked at Alara for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes, then he’d nodded and walked away. ‎That night Alara had pressed her face into her pillow so no one would hear her scream. ‎She was twenty-two now, technically an adult, but the mansion still shrank her to the size of that four-year-old watching her mother’s portrait vanish. ‎On the morning everything changed, she woke to Linnea banging on her bedroom door. ‎“Get up, Cinderella. Mother needs her coffee and the machine is broken again. Fix it.” ‎Alara pulled on yesterday’s jeans and padded barefoot down the endless hallway. The kitchen staff parted for her like water around a rock (some with pity, most with indifference). ‎She was tightening the last screw on the espresso machine when Claudia swept in wearing couture yoga wear. ‎“Really, Alara, must you look like a street urchin before noon? Linnea has a photoshoot this afternoon and I don’t want her embarrassed by her… charity case of a sister.” ‎Linnea appeared behind her mother, phone already filming. “Say hi to my followers, Allie. They love your tragic orphan aesthetic.” ‎Alara wiped her hands on a dish-towel and said nothing. She had learned long ago that silence was the only weapon they couldn’t take from her. ‎Claudia smiled the smile that never reached her eyes. “Your father lands tonight. Try not to depress him. He’s had a difficult quarter.” ‎Translation: Don’t remind him you exist. ‎Alara nodded, turned away, and walked straight into the corner of the kitchen island. Pain exploded across her hip. Linnea’s laughter rang like breaking crystal. ‎“Careful, ghost. Wouldn’t want you to damage the only thing you’re good for" ‎ ‎Alara didn’t answer. She simply limped toward the back door.. ‎ ‎ ‎The house she grew up in never felt like a home. ‎It felt like a museum dedicated to Claudia Tyrell’s ego. ‎Every surface gleamed, every chandelier dripped crystal, every mirror reflected the same two perfect blondes and one dark-haired mistake. ‎ ‎She heard Linnea screaming her name from the marble staircase. ‎“Alara! Mother’s Pilates instructor is coming in twenty minutes and the studio floor is disgusting. Do I look like a maid?” ‎ ‎Alara face-palmed for three more seconds of peace, then walked out. ‎ ‎By the time she reached the Linnea, Linnea was already live-streaming. ‎“Hello darlings,” Linnea sang to her phone, angling it so Alara’s bare feet and frayed sweatpants filled the frame. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence. Say hi to fifty thousand of my closest friends, stepsis.” ‎Alara kept her eyes on the bucket in her hands. Hi, Linnea.” ‎Comments exploded across the screen: ‎lol the servant is ugly ‎is that the stepsister?? tragic ‎does she even own a brush? ‎Linnea read a few aloud, laughing like wind chimes made of knives. “They’re so mean. Don’t cry, Allie. You know I love you.” ‎Alara knelt and began scrubbing the heated marble of the Pilates studio. The lemon cleaner stung the raw patches on her knuckles. She had learned years ago not to wear gloves; Claudia deducted them from the housekeeping budget and blamed Alara for “wastefulness.” ‎Claudia appeared in the doorway wearing five thousand dollars of athleisure wear and an expression of mild disgust. ‎“Really, Alara, must you bleed on my floors? Hilda!” ‎The head maid materialized instantly, eyes fixed on the floor. ‎“Take over. And throw those rags away. They’re an eyesore.” ‎Hilda’s hands shook as she reached for the sponge. Alara stood, wiping her palms on her jeans. “It’s fine. I’ll finish.” ‎Claudia’s smile thinned. “Don’t be difficult. You know how your little episodes upset Linnea’s followers.” ‎ ‎In the kitchen, the younger staff pretended not to watch. Mara, the pastry sous-chef who had once slipped Alara leftover éclairs when she was twelve, now kept her back turned. The new footman, Tristan, smirked openly. ‎“Careful, ghost,” he muttered as she passed. “Wouldn’t want to scare the silverware.” ‎Alara filled a glass with water and drank it standing at the sink because the stools at the island were “for family only.” ‎Her phone buzzed in her pocket (an unknown number). She ignored it. Only bill collectors and her father ever called, and both conversations hurt. ‎At 11:17 a.m. Claudia summoned her to the winter garden. ‎Linnea was sprawled across a velvet chaise having ring-light photos taken. Claudia sat beside the photographer, scrolling. ‎“Darling,” she said without looking up, “your father lands at eight tonight. I trust you’ll make yourself scarce after dinner. He’s exhausted, and your… mood brings him down.” ‎Alara’s throat closed. “I haven’t seen him in four months.” ‎Claudia finally lifted her gaze “Exactly. Let’s not ruin his homecoming with dramatics.” ‎Linnea lowered her phone. “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’ll let her serve the dessert. She’s good at staying invisible.” ‎They both laughed the same practiced laugh. ‎Alara went upstairs to change the linens in the guest suite her father would use for exactly thirty-six hours before flying out again. The sheets still smelled like the hotel in Dubai from his last trip. She pressed her face into them for one second, breathing in the ghost of the man who used to call her “little bear.” ‎Her fingers found the framed photo she kept hidden in the bedside drawer (her fourth birthday, her mother alive, her father’s arms around both of them). She traced the edges until the glass cut her thumb. ‎Downstairs, the front doors opened with their familiar pneumatic sigh. Early. Too early. ‎Her father’s voice boomed through the foyer, warm and distracted. “Claudia? Linnea Where’s my other girl?” ‎Alara’s heart stuttered. She flew down the back stairs, barefoot, hope stupid and reckless in her chest. ‎He was in the grand hall, suit rumpled from the flight, tie loosened. When he saw her, his face did the thing it always did: lit up for half a second, then dimmed with something like embarrassment. ‎“There she is.” He opened his arms. ‎She walked into them carefully, afraid he’d vanish. He smelled like airplane air and the same cologne he’d worn since she was small. ‎“You’ve lost weight,” he murmured into her hair. ‎Behind him, Claudia and Linnea watched like cats at a fishbowl. ‎ ‎