From Neglected Girl To Unstoppable Heiress

Carolina POV

A few days later, Estrella was discharged. The hospital became a flurry of activity, all centered around her. Hulda bustled around Estrella' s room, carefully packing her cashmere sweaters and silk pajamas into a monogrammed weekend bag. She fussed over every detail, ensuring Estrella' s comfort.

Carleton, ever the pragmatic one, had his sleek, black sedan pulled directly to the hospital' s main entrance, defying all parking regulations. He stood guard by the door, impatiently checking his watch, as if Estrella' s delicate constitution couldn' t bear another moment inside the sterile walls.

Victoria, ever the doting older sister, refused to let Estrella tie her own sneakers. She knelt, her brow furrowed with concern, meticulously lacing them up as if performing a sacred ritual.

On the drive home, Hulda sighed dramatically. "I just wish Carolina had been there. It' s so unlike her to be so disrespectful. After all we' ve done for her." She tapped her perfectly manicured nails against the dashboard.

Carleton grunted in agreement. "She' ll get what' s coming to her. This time, she' s gone too far." The words, casual and inevitable, hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

A strange mix of emotions swirled within my hovering spirit. Dread, yes, a faint echo of the fear I once felt. But also, a profound weariness. What could they do to me now that they hadn't already? What else could they take?

This favoritism, this lopsided affection, it wasn't new. It had been the air I breathed since birth. Estrella, the delicate, beautiful younger sister, born premature after a terrifying car accident that had nearly taken Hulda' s life.

I remembered it vividly, though I was only four. The screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber. I had been in the back seat, unhurt, but Mother had been rushed to the hospital, bleeding. Estrella, a tiny, fragile package, had been born too early. Seeing her minuscule form in the incubator, hooked up to a tangle of tubes, had broken my parents' hearts. My father had blamed me.

"If you hadn' t distracted your mother, this never would have happened!" he' d bellowed, his hand connecting sharply with my cheek. "You' re a curse, Carolina! A curse on this family!" Hulda, pale and weak, had watched with a silent, defeated look in her eyes. It was then, I realized, that I had become the family scapegoat.

Another memory, sharp and vivid, pierced through the dullness of my non-existence. I was perhaps seven, clutching a worn, velvet-bound sketchbook, filled with my childish drawings. It was my most prized possession. Estrella, then five, had demanded it.

"I want to draw in it!" she' d shrieked, her voice rising to a terrible pitch.

"No, Estrella, it' s mine," I' d pleaded, pulling it away. "I' m drawing something for Grandma."

She' d immediately collapsed to the floor in a fit of manufactured tears, wailing about how I never shared, how I was always mean to her.

Mother had rushed in, her face contorted with anger. "Carolina! What are you doing to your sister? Give her the sketchbook at once!"

"But it' s mine!" I' d tried to explain, tears blurring my vision. "I was drawing…"

Estrella, still sobbing, looked up with wide, innocent eyes. "It' s okay, Mommy. Carolina can keep it. I just wanted to draw a picture for her." The lie was so perfectly crafted, so self-sacrificing, it made my stomach churn even now.

Later that evening, Father returned home. He hadn' t even taken off his jacket before Mother, her voice dripping with indignation, recounted my alleged cruelty. His face had darkened. He' d grabbed me by the arm, dragging me to my room.

"You ungrateful child!" he' d roared, his belt already in his hand. "How dare you upset your sister? You don' t deserve to be in this house!" The blows rained down, hard and fast. I cried, begging him to stop, but he just hit harder, convinced my tears were crocodile tears.

Mother and Victoria stood in the doorway, watching, their faces impassive. Not a single word of protest, not a single gesture of comfort.

After that, I stopped fighting. I stopped explaining. I simply endured. And now, in death, I was enduring the same cold abandonment.