My sketchpad rested in my lap in the formal living room, surrounded by antique furniture that looked more like museum pieces than anything meant to be lived in. Charcoal smudged my fingertips. It was late—close to midnight—but I couldn't sleep.
Drawing helped.
Tonight, I had slipped past the watchful eye of our housekeeper, Agnes, and curled up on the edge of the tufted velvet couch with a blanket, half-hoping someone would forget I existed.
They usually did.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, Margaret—our mother—had come home from the gala early. Her heels clicked across the marble foyer before I even saw her, the sound slicing the silence. She paused in the doorway when she saw me.
"You're still up?"
Her tone wasn't unkind. Not warm, either. Just... surprised.
I nodded. "Couldn't sleep."
She stepped in, clutching the collar of her mink shawl. Her eyes landed on the sketchpad in my lap. I moved to close it, instinctive, but she stopped me.
"Let me see."
I hesitated, then turned the page around. It was a drawing of her—unintentional, really. I'd been sketching loosely, capturing shapes and shadows, and her profile had formed itself like a ghost across the paper. It was softer than she usually looked. There was something human in her expression.
Mother blinked.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then—quietly—she reached out, touched the edge of the paper. Her voice dropped. "You're very talented, Elena."
I didn't breathe. I wasn't sure I knew how to anymore.
She had never complimented me before. Not like this. Not without a catch.
My mouth opened, but no words came. I could only nod.
And then—
The front door slammed open.
"Of course I forget my key and no one's even waiting for me!" Cassandra's voice screeched through the marble hall like nails across glass.
Mother stiffened.
I shrunk a little, my sketchpad still in hand.
She stormed into view, all glitter and champagne breath, her heels wobbly beneath her as she crossed the marble floor like a queen returning from battle. Her gown shimmered under the chandelier—tight, silver, attention-demanding. Her hair was windblown from the convertible she'd insisted on taking.
Cassandra's eyes locked on mine, then Margaret's. Her lips curled.
"What's this?" Her voice was sharp, edged with something too volatile to hide. "Family bonding?"
Mother stood. "You're late. And drunk."
Cassandra ignored her. Her gaze zeroed in on the sketchpad.
"Were you showing her your drawing?" she asked, with mock sweetness. "Isn't that adorable?"
"Cassandra," Mother warned, but it was too late.
Cassandra snatched the sketchpad from my hands. "Let's take a look at what little Elena's been up to."
I reached out instinctively, but she yanked it out of my grasp.
Her eyes roamed over the drawing—and then the smile slipped.
"You drew her?" she said, incredulous. "You drew Mother?"
She flipped the pad shut and threw it onto the floor like it disgusted her.
"I was just sketching," I said softly.
Cassandra's eyes flared. "Don't play the humble card with me. You're trying to worm your way in. One compliment from her and suddenly you think you're her favorite?"
"I never said that—"
"You didn't have to."
Mother opened her mouth to speak, but Cassandra cut her off.
"Don't pretend you didn't see it. She was just sitting here like a little lost puppy and you praised her. For a stupid drawing." Her voice rose, breaking. "I come home and you don't even look at me!"
"Because you're behaving like a child," Mother snapped.
The slap of that sentence landed hard. Cassandra staggered back like she'd been struck.
And then—just like that—something inside her broke.
"You want her? Fine." Cassandra ripped off her heels, flinging them against the wall. "You want your precious Elena, the quiet little saint? Let's all bow to Saint Elena, the miracle child! The one born to save. What would I even be without her, right? Dead!"
"Stop it," I whispered, horrified.
She whirled on me. "You stop it! You ruined everything! You made me this! You made me the girl who always had to be dying to matter!"
Mother stepped forward. "Enough—"
"No!" Cassandra's voice cracked. "I was the center. I was the light. But now she's the one getting the soft looks and the sweet words and the praise for charcoal on paper?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, black streaks of mascara trailing down like war paint. And for a second, I didn't see the monster she wanted to be.
I saw a girl who was breaking.
"I didn't ask to be sick," she said. "But it was the only time anyone really saw me."
The words silenced us both.
The chandelier above flickered.
Mother turned toward her. "Cassandra, go upstairs."
Cassandra laughed. It was a bitter, hollow sound. "Why? So I can cry into a pillow while you fawn over her drawings?"
"I said—"
"No!"
She picked up the crystal vase from the side table and hurled it across the room.
It shattered against the wall, glass raining like glittering confetti.
I flinched. My heart jackhammered in my chest.
Cassandra turned to me, breath heaving.
"I see you," she whispered. "You think you're better than me. But you're not. You're a glorified organ donor with a pencil."
"Cassandra!" Mother hissed.
But I didn't react. I couldn't.
Because the thing that hurt most… was that some part of me believed her.
Silence fell again. The kind that echoes.
Cassandra wiped her face with the back of her hand, eyes wide and wild. Then she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.
Mother looked at me. For once, her face was unreadable.
"Elena," she said quietly. "Go to your room."
I didn't move.
She didn't repeat herself.
So I picked up my sketchpad, now scuffed and slightly torn. The drawing was still intact, but it looked wounded—like I felt.
As I climbed the stairs, I could still hear Cassandra's muffled sobs down the hall. Doors slammed. Voices rose. A bottle shattered somewhere in her wing.