Chapter 2

The dinner party had reached its crescendo.

My mother, Eleanor, drifted elegantly among the guests with a crystal wine glass in hand, soaking up their praise and flattery.

"Eleanor, you truly are an absolute saint of a mother. You've sacrificed so much for Freya over the years," an elegant woman murmured, clutching my mother's hands, her eyes rimmed with red.

My mother sighed softly, letting a single, perfect tear slip from the corner of her eye. "As long as Freya lives... I would gladly give my own life for hers."

Just then, Maria, our maid, hurried over carrying a silver tray. Looking somewhat uneasy, she lowered her voice and said to my mother, "Ma'am... the attic. I thought I heard some strange banging noises up there. Should I take the spare key and go check?"

My ethereal form shuddered violently.

A flicker of hope—one I found utterly absurd even to myself—suddenly swelled in my chest.

Mom, if you just nod your head, if Maria opens that door, you'll all see me.

Even if I was already dead, at least I wouldn't have to lie there rotting in that cold, pitch-black corner like a dead dog.

My mother's brow instantly furrowed, her previously gentle gaze turning razor-sharp. "Banging? What kind of tantrum is she throwing now? Ignore her! Dr. Evans said she's just going through a phase of extreme psychological resistance. She's making noise on purpose to get our attention."

"But Ma'am..." Maria tried to protest.

"No buts!" my mother cut her off coldly. "Absolutely no one is allowed to open that door!"

Maria lowered her head helplessly and retreated with her tray.

Floating in the void, I watched her walk away and let out a quiet sigh.

It was so close.

Mom, you were just one step away from finding your daughter's corpse.

I turned my gaze to the other side of the hall.

Though Freya still looked a bit pale, she seemed in much better spirits. Surrounded by a group of relatives, she was smiling and answering their questions.

But her eyes kept darting nervously toward the ceiling.

I knew it. She was worried about me.

Slipping away when no one was looking, Freya carefully made her way toward the attic stairs.

"Freya..." I murmured, drifting to her side. I instinctively reached out to grab her, but my ghostly fingers passed right through her shoulder.

Freya reached the landing and tried the locked doorknob.

"Freya, what are you doing up here?"

A deep, authoritative voice suddenly rang out behind her. It was my father, Arthur.

Freya jumped, spinning around with a guilty look. "Dad, I just wanted to check on Maeve. She's been locked up here all day... I'm a little worried."

My father's face darkened. He stepped forward and firmly grabbed Freya's wrist.

"Your top priority right now is to stay relaxed and prepare for tomorrow's surgery. Stop worrying about that ungrateful brat!" His tone dripped with impatience.

"But Dad, Maeve..." Freya's voice hitched with the threat of tears. "She isn't being ungrateful, she's just terrified. You locked her up there and took her phone away. She's going to break down."

"Break down?" My father let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter as he pulled my EpiPen from his pocket. "If she were truly breaking down, she wouldn't have the energy to smash things up there. I'm telling you, this whole 'allergic reaction' act is just an old, tired trick of hers to steal your thunder."

"She's pulling the same stunt again," my mother said, stepping onto the landing. Her voice was laced with pure disgust. "Just like when she was eight. She couldn't stand that we spent all night nursing your fever, so she deliberately ate almonds to trigger her hives, which ended up shocking you into a seizure. She's been downright venomous since she was a child."

Floating in mid-air, I was paralyzed by a chill far more bone-deep than death itself.

The EpiPen in my father's hand—the only thing that could have saved my life—was now being waved around as ironclad proof of my "dark, twisted nature."

It was true. When I was eight, I did intentionally eat almonds.

I did it because I had long since become an invisible ghost in this house.

I naively thought that if I got sick too, maybe my mother would put Freya down for just five seconds to hold my hand.

I never anticipated it would scare Freya into a seizure. I never, ever wanted to hurt her.

I was just begging for a single scrap of their attention.

But in the eyes of the parents who were supposed to love me, that incident became a brand, a lifelong death sentence.

The most agonizing tragedy of all was... they had guessed my desperate yearning, but they twisted it into something vile.

And now, I had paid the ultimate price for their prejudice with my life.

The guests finally departed, and the massive estate returned to silence.

My mother, Eleanor, rubbed her aching temples.

"It's finally over."

Yet my father, Arthur, didn't look entirely relaxed despite the successful end to the banquet. He glanced up toward the attic, his eyes darkening.

"Why is it so quiet up there?"