Ashes of the forsaken bride

Chapter 1: The Unwanted Daughter

The sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the dining room, cutting the silence like a blade.

Amara froze, her heart dropping into her stomach as she stared at the shattered crystal lying across the marble floor. It was one of Victoria Cole's favorite vases. Now, it was just a pile of glinting, irreparable pieces.

Footsteps approached from behind—slow, deliberate, and heavy with an unspoken threat. Amara didn't need to turn around to know who it was. She already knew.

"What happened here?" Victoria's voice was cold enough to match the marble.

Amara dropped to her knees, her hands shaking as she reached for the larger fragments. "I'm sorry. I was dusting the shelf and—"

"And you broke it." Victoria crossed her arms, looking down with an expression that could make anyone shrink.

Amara lowered her head, the heat rushing to her face. "Yes."

A faint, mocking smile touched the older woman's lips. "Of course you did."

"Oh my God." Sophia sauntered into the room, her designer dress swishing and her expensive heels clicking loudly against the floor. She gasped dramatically, pointing at the mess. "That's Mother's favorite vase."

"I'm sorry," Amara repeated, the words tasting like ash.

Sophia let out a sharp laugh. "Sorry? Do you think saying sorry magically fixes things, Amara?"

"I didn't mean to break it."

"That's your excuse for everything." Sophia stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with malice. "You never mean to do anything wrong, yet somehow, you always do."

The words stung, mostly because they were a script Amara had been forced to listen to for years. Nothing she did was ever enough. Nothing she did was ever right—not since her mother died.

When Victoria had entered their lives six years ago, twelve-year-old Amara had been naive enough to hope. She remembered her father smiling again, remembered Victoria acting kind, and remembered believing they might actually become a family. She had been completely wrong. The years that followed taught her a brutal lesson: Victoria didn't want a stepdaughter; she wanted an obstacle removed. And Sophia had simply hated her from the very first day.

At first, Amara had tried to fix it. She shared her toys, her clothes, her secrets. Nothing worked, so eventually, she stopped trying. But the hostility never faded.

"What's going on in here?"

The deep voice made everyone turn. Richard Cole had arrived. Amara's father—the man who was supposed to protect her, but never did.

Sophia immediately rushed to his side, wrapping her arm through his. "Dad, look what happened."

Richard glanced at the shattered crystal, his forehead creasing into a deep scowl. "Amara."

She kept her gaze fixed on the floor. "Yes, Dad."

"Did you break this?"

"Yes."

"How careless."

The disappointment in his voice hit harder than a physical blow. It wasn't because it was cruel, but because it was so entirely expected. He didn't ask if she was hurt. He didn't ask how it happened, or if it was an accident. He had already chosen his side, the same side he always chose.

Victoria sighed, running a hand over her hair in a display of martyrdom. "It's fine, Richard. Let's not make a big issue out of it. It's just a vase."

Amara swallowed the bitter laugh rising in her throat. She knew exactly how this game worked. Victoria would play the saint, Richard would feel grateful for her patience, and Amara would still bear the brunt of the punishment.

"Still," Richard said, his tone hardening. "Someone must learn responsibility. You'll clean the entire house tonight, Amara."

She blinked, looking up at him. "The entire house?"

"Is there a problem with that?"

"No." There never was. At least, not one she was allowed to voice.

"Good." Richard turned on his heel and walked away. The conversation was over, the judgment passed.

Watching his retreating back, a stray memory flashed through Amara's mind—a younger version of herself laughing on her father's shoulders, feeling completely safe. Sometimes she wondered what happened to that man, or if he had ever truly existed at all.

By evening, Amara’s arms ached with a dull, throbbing pain. The Cole mansion was massive—three floors, eight bedrooms, and endless hallways that felt designed to exhaust her. Yet, she cleaned every inch of it alone.

As she carried a heavy basket of laundry up the stairs, a burst of laughter drifted from the family room. She paused on the landing, looking through the half-open door. Richard, Victoria, and Sophia were sitting together on the plush couch, sharing snacks and watching a movie. They looked perfect. A real, happy family. One that completely excluded her.

Wrenching her eyes away, Amara hurried up the final flight of stairs. There was no point staring at a life she could never have.

When she reached her room, she pushed the door open with her shoulder. Calling it a bedroom was generous; compared to the luxury downstairs, it was little more than a modified storage closet with peeling wallpaper and a bed that creaked at the slightest movement.

She dropped the basket, sank onto the edge of the mattress, and reached for the framed photograph on her nightstand. It was the only picture she had left of her mother. Margaret Cole smiled back at her, warm and gentle.

"I miss you," Amara whispered to the quiet room.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away aggressively. Crying changed nothing.

A sudden vibration against her thigh broke the silence. Amara pulled out her phone, frowning at the screen. She rarely got texts; most people forgot she existed entirely.

It was an unknown number. Curiosity overriding her exhaustion, she tapped the notification. Her breath caught in her throat at the single sentence on the screen:

Prepare yourself. The Hartwell family has chosen you.

Amara stared at the glowing text, her mind racing. The Hartwells? The most powerful, untouchable dynasty in the city? She of all people? Why would they even know her name?

Before she could process the thought, a second text chimed. This one was from her father:

Come downstairs immediately. We need to discuss your marriage.

The phone nearly slipped from her fingers. Marriage? Her pulse turned into a frantic hammer against her ribs. Whatever was waiting for her downstairs was about to tear her world apart—and she had a terrifying feeling it wasn't a rescue.