The morning sun filtered through the cracked blinds of the Everhart household, painting dusty golden stripes across the worn kitchen tiles. Serena Everhart was already on her knees by the sink, scrubbing dried gravy off the floor from last night's dinner—one she hadn't even been allowed to eat.
Her hands were red from the soap, her hair pulled into a messy bun that had frizzed from sweat. The only sound in the kitchen was the steady scrape of sponge against porcelain and the soft hum of the old refrigerator.
"Serena!" her mother's voice echoed like a war drum through the hallway. "Did you clean the guest bathroom?"
Serena swallowed the knot in her throat and raised her voice, soft but clear.
"I'm finishing the kitchen. I'll get to it in a minute."
"Now," Eleanor snapped. "Before your brother wakes up. You know he hates the smell of bleach in the morning."
"Yes, Mom."
She rinsed the sponge, dried her hands, and rushed down the hallway, pausing at the mirror for a fraction of a second. What she saw made her heart sink: dark circles, pale skin, the faint bruise on her wrist from accidentally hitting the cupboard door yesterday. She looked like a shadow of a girl, not someone who had just turned eighteen a week ago.
No birthday gift. No cake. Just a longer list of chores and more yelling.
She cleaned in silence—sink, toilet, shower tiles—until her back ached. Then she hurried to set the table for breakfast. Nathaniel, her twenty-six-year-old brother, didn't believe in waking up to an empty table. His eggs had to be just right: over-easy, not too runny. Bacon crispy but not burnt. Juice chilled. Toast lightly buttered.
Serena had memorized every preference, every trigger, every warning sign. Her life was a constant act of emotional landmines.
When the family finally sat down, Serena stood near the wall, watching them eat. She always ate after them, in the kitchen—if there was anything left.
"Coffee," Nate barked without looking at her.
She moved fast, pouring it carefully into his mug. He didn't say thank you.
"You look like a mess," he added with a disgusted glance. "Comb your damn hair. You're not some homeless girl."
Serena gave a tight smile and nodded. She was used to this. At least he didn't throw anything today.
Charles, her father, barely glanced at her as he scrolled through his phone.
"Bank called again," he muttered. "Bloody leeches. I need more time."
Eleanor sipped her tea like a queen in exile.
"You wouldn't need time if you hadn't trusted that slimy investor in the first place."
"That slimy investor was your choice, El."
Their voices rose, and Serena quietly excused herself before she became their next target. She'd learned the pattern—when her parents fought, they needed someone to blame. She was the perfect punching bag.
She retreated to the laundry room, folding shirts and scrubbing stains from Nate's socks. One by one, she stacked the piles of clean clothes. It was the only task she found peace in—quiet, repetitive, unnoticed.
As she folded a navy suit jacket, her heart skipped.
Lorenzo's suit.
She gently ran her fingers over the fabric. She hadn't seen him in months, but she remembered everything—the calm sharpness in his gray eyes, the way he moved like a man who knew the world would bow to him.
He was everything her world wasn't: powerful, elegant, respected.
Her secret crush had started years ago, when she was fifteen. Nate brought him over for drinks after work, and Lorenzo had nodded at her, his voice low and smooth as velvet when he said, "Nice to meet you."
He probably didn't remember. But she did. Every time he visited, she tried to steal glances—how he sipped his scotch, how his cufflinks glinted under the chandelier, how he always smelled like cedarwood and leather.
It wasn't love. It couldn't be. She didn't even know him. But he was an escape. A perfect illusion.
He was kind in her dreams. In her daydreams, he'd pull her out of this house, take her somewhere safe. Somewhere she wasn't just a burden.
Don't be stupid, she told herself as she packed the suit into Nate's closet. He's out of your league. He probably doesn't even know your name.
The door creaked open behind her, making her jump. Nate leaned against the frame, a smirk curling his lips.
"Eavesdropping on our conversations again, Cinderella?" he said.
Serena stiffened.
"I was just putting away your laundry."
He stepped into the room, his tone low and mocking.
"You're always listening. Always peeking around corners with those big, pitiful eyes."
She said nothing. She knew better than to answer back.
He sneered and walked away, but not before muttering,
"Maybe if you were pretty enough, someone would've married you by now."
The words stung more than she wanted them to.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Dishes, windows, floors, errands. No rest. No thanks.
When night fell, she finally crept into her tiny room—barely more than a storage closet—with peeling wallpaper and a rickety twin bed. She changed into her pajamas and curled under the thin blanket, bones aching.
She opened her phone again.
Lorenzo sightings:
New one? Not today. Just memories.
She clicked on the draft email she'd been writing for weeks.
Subject: To the man I could never have.
But she couldn't send it. Would never send it.
Instead, she turned off the screen and hugged her pillow.
In her mind, she was somewhere else—sitting across from Lorenzo in a cozy café. He was smiling at her. Not smirking, not cold—smiling. Maybe even calling her beautiful.
She knew it wasn't real. But real life didn't offer her dreams.
She had to build them herself, brick by fragile brick, inside her head.
Because out here? Out here, she was just a burden.