The room remained frozen in a stunned silence after Kara stormed out. The soft music that had once given the evening a celebratory warmth now seemed painfully out of place. Glasses sat untouched. The air was thick with tension and disbelief.
The old woman stood still, one hand still gently touching her reddened cheek. Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, shifted from one guest to another, searching for understanding, or maybe just a sign that what had just happened wasn't as cruel as it felt.
"I… I didn't mean to cause any trouble," she whispered, her voice trembling. "It was just a mistake…"
"She does this all the time," Maya said bitterly, breaking the silence. She walked over and picked up the tray from the floor. "You didn't deserve that."
"Honestly," Sasha added, her arms folded across her chest, "you're lucky that's all she did. The last girl she attacked had to go for stitches."
The old lady's eyes widened in disbelief. "But… I was told she had changed. I was told she was doing better…"
Maya let out a dry laugh, one that carried more pity than humor. "Changed? That's what we all thought. That's why we came. But you know what? It's always the same. The fits, the screaming, the attacks. And now we get it—why all the previous helps were fired. Some of them even begged to stay, even after getting slapped or insulted. But Mr. Alden had no choice. She was the reason they were all let go."
The older woman took a shaky step back, clearly rattled. "I thought she was just troubled. Maybe healing... but this... this is something else."
"She's not just troubled," Sasha said softly. "She's a psycho. A beautiful one, yes, but dangerous when triggered. And the worst part? No one around her really holds her accountable. Not for long, anyway."
The old woman's breath caught in her throat. Her job here had seemed like a quiet one—a fresh start in a quiet home. She had never imagined walking into a house haunted not just by pain, but by unchecked rage.
She slowly turned away, wiping her eyes, trying to compose herself. But in her heart, she knew the truth now: she was not just working in a household with trauma—she was standing inside the eye of a storm that could erupt at any moment.
Kara descended the staircase slowly, the shadows of the dimly lit hallway stretching long across the marble floor. Her steps were soft, almost silent, until she paused midway upon hearing hushed voices drifting from the kitchen.
"...I swear, the girl's not right in the head," the older lady was saying, her voice low but firm. "She slapped me for spilling juice. Just imagine what she could do if she really lost control. And did you hear what happened to the others before us?"
A muffled gasp followed. One of the younger househelps whispered, "I thought she was in therapy. I thought she changed."
"Changed?" another scoffed. "Please. She's just better at hiding it now. The man of the house probably has no idea who he's living with."
Kara stood frozen. The words pierced through her like ice-cold needles, rooting her to the spot. Her breathing quickened, but she didn't make a sound. She moved a step closer, the floorboard creaking beneath her bare foot.
The creak was just enough.
The women in the kitchen turned sharply. Time stood still for a heartbeat as their eyes locked with Kara's. Her face was unreadable, but her presence alone was enough to send a chill through the room.
One by one, they scrambled. Dishes clattered, chairs scraped back. The women bolted from the kitchen in all directions like leaves scattered by the wind, murmuring half-hearted apologies and excuses as they fled past her.
Kara stood alone in the kitchen now. Her lips were slightly parted, but no words came. She walked slowly to the water dispenser, picked up a glass with a shaky hand, and filled it. Her reflection in the kitchen window stared back at her—haunted, tired, and worn.
She took a sip of the cold water and placed the glass down carefully. Then, without a word, she turned and walked out of the kitchen, the silence behind her louder than the gossip she'd overheard.
Kara walked quietly to her room, each step heavier than the last. She closed the door gently behind her and leaned against it, pressing her back to the cool wood. Her hands trembled slightly, and her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths as if she were trying to hold something in—something volatile and dangerous.
The room was dimly lit, golden rays of the setting sun filtering through the sheer curtains. It used to feel safe here. Familiar. But now, even her sanctuary felt hollow.
She moved toward the mirror and stared at herself—really stared.
Her reflection looked composed, but she knew better. The faint red mark from her earlier rage still glowed on her cheek. Her eyes, though dry, shimmered with restrained anguish. She hated that she still had that look—the one that told people, "she's dangerous," even when she wasn't speaking.
Her mind reeled, replaying the moment the old woman mentioned her mother.
Her mother.
That word hit harder than any insult. It was like pulling off a bandage she'd forced herself to forget existed. The word didn't just sting—it unraveled her. Every time someone spoke about mothers, it made her feel defective, discarded. Like her life had a missing piece no one could ever replace.
"She's old enough to be your mother."
Kara grimaced, grabbing a pillow from her bed and pressing it against her mouth as she screamed into it. A deep, guttural, silent scream—the kind she used to let out as a child when the world was too much, when the loneliness consumed her.
"Psycho."
"She hasn't changed."
"Just better at hiding it now."
Their words spun through her head like poison. She dropped the pillow and sat on the floor, curling into herself, arms wrapped around her knees. Her thoughts weren't loud—they were sharp. Like needles pricking at her sanity.
Why do I keep ruining everything?
Why do I lose control when I know I shouldn't?
Why does it hurt so much when they mention a mother I can't even remember hugging goodbye?
She dug her nails into her arms, not to hurt, but to feel something real—something she could control. For a moment, she felt like the broken girl sitting in the ashes again, clutching Ethan's hand and pretending not to cry. Except now she didn't have Ethan. She didn't have anyone. She chased them all away.
Her chest ached as a tear finally fell. Then another.