The Second Chance Of The Rejected Moon (Celine and Bastian) novel Chapter 113

Chapter 113

The hypocrisy of those two women turns my stomach.

Mother?

When had Beatriz Miller ever acted like a mother to me?

I never received a hug from her, a word of encouragement, or even the smallest gesture of affection. The only things I ever knew were insults, humiliation, and the lashes of that switch she struck across my back so many times until it was covered in scars.

And hearing Anne call herself my sister fills me with even greater disgust. I’ve lost count of how many times I tried to get close to her, hoping she’d understand that I wasn’t just the servant living under the same roof, but another member of the family. I always received the same response: slaps, contempt, and false accusations that inevitably ended with Beatriz or one of my brothers punishing me for things I’d never done. She was the one who tore apart the few clothes I managed to get so I could survive the cold, damp winters in that tiny room reserved for the servants. She hid my belongings and always found a way to destroy every little thing that made my life even slightly less miserable.

Beatriz covered my back with scars, and Anne did everything she could to strip me of my dignity. Yet neither of them managed to destroy me completely, and that is precisely what they now have standing before them.

I refuse to let those memories change my expression. Without raising an eyebrow or giving them a single reaction that might satisfy them, I walk over to the sofa and sit beside Sonia with the calm confidence of someone who knows exactly where she belongs in this castle, keeping my expression composed as I watch them in silence.

“Why are you here?” I ask once again as Sonia pours me a cup of tea. I accept it with a small smile and nod in gratitude. “Thank you, Grandma.”

The delicate scent of the herbs rises with the steam, soothing my senses, though it isn’t enough to ease the tension that has settled over the room.

Beatriz returns to her seat with the same practiced elegance she wore when she tried to approach me. Anne follows her example, but before sitting down, she slowly surveys the room. Her eyes pause on the guards, then on Thomas, Jared, and finally Aymara.

My friend meets her gaze without the slightest hint of kindness.

Anne is the first to look away, lowering her eyes to her own hands, unable to withstand that silent challenge.

Both Aymara and I know exactly what just happened.

She caught Alaric’s scent lingering on my friend’s clothes.

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