That same night.
As Sarah got home, the door clicked shut behind her, and Sarah leaned against it, breathing heavily.
The house was silent. Too silent. The kind of quiet that made you question if you'd walked into your own skin wrong.
She slipped off her shoes and moved slowly into the living room. Everything looked the same—neatly arranged books, flickering shadows from the lamp Layla bought her, a mug still on the table from her morning coffee.
But Sarah wasn't the same.
She could still feel his fingers on her skin.
Still hear the scratch of his voice.
Still taste the fear.
Drake.
She whispered the name like it was a curse, a bruise that hadn't formed yet but already hurt.
He had shown up unannounced again. Said their mother wanted him to check in on her while she was out of town. He always had excuses, thin as paper. She should've said no. Should've made him leave the moment she saw that look in his eyes.
But she didn't. Because he was family. Because the world teaches girls to be polite before they learn to protect themselves.
The nightmare began in the kitchen.
She was pouring juice. He came behind her—too close. At first, it seemed like a clumsy brush. But then he lingered.
"Sis," he said. "You've grown up. You're looking... different."
His words crawled across her skin.
"I don't like this," she told him, stepping away.
He only smiled.
She tried to change the subject. Talk about work. About Layla. About anything. But his eyes followed her like shadows—dark and greedy.
And then, just as she moved past him toward the hallway, it happened.
He grabbed her arm. Tight. His breath hot near her ear.
"You act like you're too good for your own blood now?"
Her stomach turned.
"Let go of me."
But he didn't.
He pushed her against the wall—his hand not violent, but invasive. Forceful. Wrong.
She shoved him. Hard. "Don't ever touch me again."
His face twisted in mock innocence. "Relax. You're always so uptight."
Then, as suddenly as it started, he pulled back. Laughed. Called it a joke.
She stood frozen, trembling. Her heart beating a war drum.
Drake left moments later—cool, collected, untouched.
Sarah waited till she heard the front door click. Then she locked it. Bolted it. Slid down to the floor and sobbed until she couldn't breathe.
That night, she stood under the hot shower for too long. She scrubbed herself red, but she couldn't wash off the feeling.
Her phone buzzed on the sink.
A message from Layla.
Layla: You okay, honey? Missed you today. Can I come over?
Sarah stared at it.
She could tell her. Right now. Layla would drop everything. She would hold her, fight for her, scream until someone listened.
But…
No.
Not now.
Layla already had enough. The mess with Harry, the slap, the shame that clung to her like perfume gone bitter. Sarah saw it in her eyes, even through the screen. And Layla had always protected her—ever since they were teenagers with broken homes and even more broken trust.
Sarah couldn't add more weight to her already full heart.
She typed slowly.
Sarah: Hey. Just got in. Long day. I'm fine, promise. Let's talk tomorrow?
Layla: Of course. Love you.
Sarah: Love you more.
She put the phone down and stared at herself in the mirror.
Eyes red. A small cut on her shoulder from when she fell. A shaking lip she couldn't seem to stop.
But her voice—when she finally spoke aloud—was calm.
"I'm not weak."
She didn't sleep that night.
At dawn, she sat on the edge of her bed, holding an old photo—her and Layla at the beach. Both of them sunburned and smiling, wearing oversized sunglasses and not a single clue about how cruel the world could be.
She had survived worse. She would survive this, too.
But as she watched the sunlight crawl through the blinds, she knew one thing clearly:
Drake wasn't finished.
And if he came back—
She might not be able to fight him off again.
But this time, she would be ready.
And maybe—just maybe—tomorrow, she'd tell Layla.
Because even warriors bleed. And sometimes, silence hurts more than the wound itself.
*
*
*
The next morning came wrapped in silence.
Sarah had barely slept. Her chest felt hollow, her eyes dry. The events from the night before clung to her like damp clothes she couldn't peel off. But she had made up her mind.
She wasn't going to stay quiet. Not this time.
She had tried shielding Layla.
Now, it was time to shield herself.
She didn't bother with makeup. Let them see the tired lines, the faded bruise near her collarbone. Let them see what he did. What he tried to do.
Her fingers trembled as she dialed the number.
"Hello?"
Her father's voice. Warm, unaware.
"Dad," she said. "Can I come over? It's important."
"Of course, princess. Come any time."
Princess.
The word hurt more than it used to.
The Lyn estate stood wide and proud under the morning sun. Sarah had always felt like a guest here, even when she was told it was her home. Her father had remarried quickly after her mother's death. Too quickly. The house was filled with cold marble, designer furniture, and people who never liked her.
But today, she wasn't here to feel comfortable.
She was here to tell the truth.
She stepped inside. Her stepmother, Clarisse, was already in the living room—dressed in silk robes, sipping lemon water like she ruled the world. Beside her, as always, was Vanessa, her daughter—Sarah's stepsister.
And then—her father.
He stood when he saw Sarah. "What's wrong?"
"Where's Drake?" she asked, ignoring the others.
Clarisse raised an eyebrow. "He went out. Why?"
Sarah didn't answer.
She turned to her father and said it quietly. Plainly.
"He touched me."
The room went still.
Her father blinked. "What?"
"Drake. Last night. He came to my house and grabbed me. He wouldn't let go. I tried to stop him. He didn't listen."
Clarisse stood slowly, eyes narrowing. "What are you accusing my son of?"
"I'm not accusing. I'm telling you what happened."
Her father's face darkened. "That's your stepbrother."
Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. "And he's dangerous."
Then, without warning—
CRACK.
The slap came so fast she didn't see it coming. Her face snapped to the side.
"You shame this family," her father hissed. "You bring filth into this house with your lies!" with that said the old man left for his room.
Sarah stumbled back, her hand pressed to her cheek. "I'm telling the truth—"
Vanessa stood now, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
"You always wanted attention," she sneered. "Guess you got it."
Clarisse's voice cut in, sharp as broken glass. "How dare you walk in here, calling my son a monster. Do you know what this could do to our family's name?"
Sarah's voice cracked. "I was trying to protect myself."
"You were trying to destroy us," Clarisse snapped.
And then it happened again—
Vanessa shoved her.
Sarah stumbled into the coffee table.
Clarisse followed, grabbing her hair from behind.
"You little witch!"
"Stop—stop it!" Sarah screamed, but they didn't listen.
Vanessa struck her again. Clarisse yanked her by the collar of her shirt.
It wasn't just rage. It was punishment. It was silence, being enforced with fists.
Sarah finally managed to shove Clarisse off and ran.
Out the door. Down the driveway.
She didn't even grab her bag.
She walked. For hours. Numb. Bleeding. Empty.
She didn't call Layla.
Didn't know where to go.
By the time she reached the park near her childhood home, her knees gave out, and she sat under the old tree. The one with initials carved into the bark. Hers and her mother's.
Her breathing shook.
The wind was soft today. The sky gray, as if it knew.
She whispered into the quiet.
"I miss you, Mom."
Her mother.