A New Life Begins

​Slap! The sound cracked through the drawing-room silence, sharp and brutal. A collective gasp rippled through the line of assembled servants.

​Father’s hand was still raised, his fury making the veins in his neck bulge. He pointed a shaking finger directly at me.

​“If it wasn't for your mother’s memory, I would have put you out of this house long ago, you ungrateful brat! Now, you will apologize to your sister immediately!” he roared, his face a terrifying, boiling red.

​“Father, please, it wasn’t her fault,” Aisha whimpered, clutching his arm with feigned distress.

​“Stop making excuses for her, Aisha,” he snapped, though his voice softened fractionally for her.

​I watched Aisha from the corner of my eye. She was pressed against her heavily pregnant mother, and while she squeezed out tears for her performance, a tiny, triumphant smile pulled at the corner of her lips—a detail only I seemed to catch. Her mother, never one to miss an opportunity, shot me a venomous glare before turning her full attention to comforting her 'distraught' daughter.

​Of course, I said nothing to defend myself. What was the point? He would never listen. This cruel ritual had played out countless times over the years. I had simply given up on trying to appeal to the man who was supposed to be my father.

​This low-life bastard cheated on my mother to defend his illegitimate daughter. The thought was a bitter, comforting mantra in my mind.

​The Defiance

​I let my eyes lift slowly, locking onto his. My silence, usually a sign of defeat, seemed to confuse him. I held his gaze, and then, a cold, hard resolve crystallized inside me. I spoke, my voice dangerously soft, slicing through the heavy air.

​“You’re right. I am ungrateful. Ungrateful to live in the house of a low-life, cheating bastard.”

​The words were like a physical blow. Father stared, momentarily startled, the blood draining from his face. But the shock quickly curdled into incandescent rage. He lifted his hand again, faster this time, aiming another blow.

​Before his palm could connect, my hand shot out and seized his wrist. The contact was solid, jarring. I didn't just hold his arm; I gripped it with an unexpected, fierce strength and looked up into his eyes, my own expression dark and utterly devoid of fear.

​“You low-life, cheating bastard,” I repeated, the insult now a title of contempt. “There is no place in your pathetic world left to disgrace me. You want me gone? Fine. I’ll go.”

​I released his arm and stepped around him, my walk not a retreat, but a deliberate, unstoppable march. The silence I left behind was shattered by his booming rage.

​“Don’t you ever dare come back!” he shrieked, followed by the sickening slam of the front door, shaking the very foundation of the house.

​A New Life Begins

​I ignored the fading sound, my heart beginning to pound—not with sadness, but with pure, exhilarating excitement. Just beyond the gates, under the afternoon sun, stood exactly what I was waiting for: a luxurious carriage bearing the unmistakable Duke Crescent’s Flag on its door.

​The coachman, immaculate and stoic, bowed deeply—a profound, respectful gesture that held more deference than my own father had ever shown me.

​“Duchess,” he stated, his voice a low reverence as he opened the carriage door.

​I hadn't taken a single belonging. I didn’t need any keepsakes from that prison. I simply stepped into the opulent carriage, settling into the plush velvet seat. As the horses started to pull us away, I watched the house that had been my cage shrink in the window’s frame.

​I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t hurt. I was simply amazed by the view of the open road ahead.

​Because starting today, my life of shame and abuse was over. Starting today, I was the Duchess House of Miller’s.

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