The chipped paint on the windowsill mirrored the cracks in Petal’s carefully constructed peace. Sunlight, a rare visitor in her childhood, now streamed through the large window of her apartment, illuminating dust motes dancing in the golden rays. It was a haven, a sanctuary built brick by painstaking brick from years of backbreaking work and a fierce determination to escape the shadows of her past. She’d earned this. She deserved this.
Petal traced the rim of her chipped teacup, the delicate floral pattern a stark contrast to the harsh realities of her upbringing. Orphaned at five, the memory of her parents’ laughter was a fading photograph, a ghost of warmth in the cold, impersonal world of St. Jude’s Orphanage. Adoption had brought not love, but a different kind of cruelty – the relentless servitude of a family who saw her not as a daughter, but as a tireless maid. Years of scrubbing floors, washing mountains of laundry, and preparing meals while they gorged themselves on ic
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