TALE OF ALEXIA

ALEXIA'S POV

In the shadows of Alexia’s silent suffering, her father’s cruelty was not just a punishment—it was a ritual, methodically breaking her spirit day after day. Each harsh word and brutal strike left more than bruises on her fragile skin; they etched invisible wounds into her soul, marks no one could see but that she felt with every breath. Education was a forbidden luxury, dignity a concept she had only glimpsed in stories whispered by passing strangers. Stripped of both, she moved through life like a ghost tethered to the living, her every step dictated by commands barked from cold lips and cruel eyes.

She lived in a house that felt more like a prison, its walls closing in with every unanswered question. Who was she beyond the name he spat with disdain? Why did her presence seem like a curse to the man who should have protected her? Her days blurred into one another, filled with endless chores and harsh silences, while her nights were battlegrounds of thought—sleepless hours spent wrestling with mysteries that twisted like vines around her heart. Something about her past was being buried, something important… and she could feel it pulsing just beneath the surface, waiting to break free.

Why had this man, bound to her by blood yet barren of love, chosen her as the target of his wrath? What crime had she unknowingly committed at the moment of her birth that doomed her to a life of torment and silence? These questions echoed through her mind like a cruel lullaby, night after night, as the walls of her world grew colder and closer. She scoured her memories for answers, but they offered nothing—only fragments of a past shrouded in shadows too thick to pierce.

In the sacred hush of her despair, where tears fell unnoticed and screams were swallowed by the void, she found herself clutching to hope like a lifeline. Her prayers, whispered into the darkness, were no longer cries for rescue—they were desperate appeals for meaning. Not just freedom from the pain, but a reason. A reason why a father would look at his daughter and see a burden. A reason why the mirror reflected a stranger’s eyes—haunted, questioning, and utterly alone.

Still, no answer came. Only silence. And in that silence, something stirred… the faint sense that a truth was being hidden from her. And perhaps, it was more terrifying than the pain itself.

No divine voice came, no miracle intervened. Only the cold, harsh reality of her world reminded her of her place—a world where wealth and privilege surrounded her, yet none of it was hers to claim. She lived in a palace of opulence, yet she was a mere shadow within its grand walls. She scrubbed the floors that gleamed under golden chandeliers, her fingers raw from labor, her back aching from the weight of servitude. She watched, silent and unseen, as noble girls glided past her in fine silks, their laughter light as the air, their futures paved with opportunities she would never taste.

Princewill—her so-called father—bore the appearance of kingship. His broad shoulders carried the weight of a name once revered, and his voice could silence a room with a single command. To outsiders, he was a man of discipline, structure, and strength—a patriarch molded from iron. But within the confines of his home, behind the heavy doors and drawn curtains, he ruled not with wisdom, but with tyranny. His was not the power of a just king, but the tyranny of a broken man. Beneath the regal exterior lay a heart rotted by bitterness, a soul twisted by wounds he refused to name.

His love for Florra, the woman who had once held his heart, had curdled into something cruel. Where once there had been longing, now there was loathing—not for her, but for the child she had left behind. Alexia. The living memory of a love lost. A mirror reflecting all he had failed to keep. He could not bear to look at her without the bile of resentment rising in his throat. And so he turned his disappointment into punishment, letting it drip from his tongue like poison.

She became his shame. His burden. A mistake he could not erase. And so, he tried to crush her instead.

But Alexia, though young and bruised by life, carried within her a quiet rebellion. Her spirit—fragile yet unyielding—refused to collapse beneath the weight of his fury. She did not grovel. She did not weep in his presence. Her silence was not submission, but defiance. A storm held behind steady eyes. It enraged him more than any scream would have. He beat her body, but could not break her will. And that, more than anything, drove him mad.

Yet endurance had its price.

Stripped of dignity, Alexia was denied the right to learn, to grow, to question. The world beyond the compound walls remained a distant fantasy—one she could only glimpse in the rustling of leaves or the whispers of the wind. But her curiosity was a fire that no beating could extinguish. She longed for books, for the elegance of words, the wisdom they held. Once, in a rare moment of courage, she had stolen into the study and touched a leather-bound volume, her fingers trembling as if they brushed sacred scripture. It was snatched away before she could open it. The slap that followed still echoed in her ears.

From that day on, she was forbidden to enter the study. Forbidden to touch the shelves. Forbidden to dream.

Her clothing was a constant reminder of her place—threadbare, faded rags that clung to her like a second skin of shame. Where others wore silks and soft cottons, she wore fabric stiff with age, barely enough to shield her from the evening chill. The townspeople whispered when they saw her. Some pitied. Some sneered. None dared to intervene.

But the deepest cruelty lay in the silence that followed her questions.

Who was she, truly? Why had her life turned to ash while others bloomed? Why had this man stepped out of nowhere, claiming fatherhood only to become her jailer?

The memories of her mother came to her in fragments—warmth in a blanket of darkness, a lullaby that stopped mid-note, hands that held her close and then... nothing. A void. As if someone had deliberately severed the thread connecting her to her past.

As the days bled into nights, and nights into endless waiting, Alexia found herself withdrawing into the crevices of her mind—retreating into a place where dreams still lived. In the dead of night, when the stars blinked through cracks in the roof, she would lie awake, imagining a different life. One where she ran barefoot through open fields. One where she read books by candlelight. One where a mother’s voice called her name with love, not contempt.

But even dreams were dangerous here.

Rael—Princewill’s fiancée—was a woman carved from ice. Her gaze was surgical, her words sharp enough to flay skin. She cloaked herself in elegance, but her heart beat in rhythm with Princewill’s cruelty. She watched Alexia not out of concern, but control. Every misstep, every flicker of rebellion, was catalogued, punished, reported. She whispered venom into Princewill’s ear, and he listened. She didn’t need to lift a finger to cause pain—her smile alone could chill the blood.

The woman—Rael—wore sweetness like a mask, flawless and convincing in public, but behind closed doors, her kindness melted away, revealing a cruel heart and a sharp tongue. She had made it her mission to break Alexia, piece by piece, using every opportunity to belittle, insult, and manipulate her. To the world, she played the doting partner and future stepmother. But to Alexia, she was a storm that never passed.

Rael didn’t need a reason to hate her—she simply did. Perhaps it was jealousy. Perhaps it was power. Or perhaps it was just cruelty, pure and unchecked. She saw Alexia as a threat, a nuisance, an unwanted reminder of the life her fiancé once had before her. And Alexia, helpless and silenced, could only wonder why someone who had never known her could harbor such bitterness.

With Rael's Hawk-like vigilance and Princewill’s unpredictable rage, escape was nearly impossible. Nearly.

But not completely.

Alexia knew she could not survive this forever. Her body might endure the blows, but her spirit would not remain caged. Somewhere beyond these suffocating walls, beyond the rot of lies and cruelty, there was truth—waiting to be uncovered. A name. A history. A purpose. And though the cost might be great, even fatal, she would seek it out.

Because something told her—deep in her bones, in her blood—that she did not belong in this prison.

She was not born to be broken.

She was born to rise.

That night, with stars blinking quietly in the vast sky, she sat outside, hugging her knees as a breeze swept over her. It brushed against her skin like a forgotten kiss—gentle, fleeting, but comforting. It reminded her of what she longed for: warmth, tenderness... love.

She stared into the sky, as if the answers might lie among the stars. “Why me?” she whispered. But the sky, like her father, remained silent.

Then something within her stirred—something wild, determined, and desperate. A voice she hadn’t heard in a long time, barely a whisper at first: Enough.

She stood, trembling, heart racing, but for the first time in a long while—she felt alive. She crept into the house, careful not to wake them. Every footstep felt like a rebellion. Every item she packed into that small, worn-out bag felt like reclaiming a piece of herself.

And then, she ran.

She ran from the walls that had caged her. From the silence that had deafened her. From the man who had turned his back on his own blood.

She didn’t want to remain a victim of her past. She wanted to rewrite her story. She wanted to be someone girls like her could look up to. And from the fire of that desire, a dream emerged—she would become a lawyer. A voice for the voiceless