THEY PINNED ME TO THE FLOOR AT MY OWN FATHER’S GALA — BUT MY WICKED STEPSISTER DIDN’T KNOW WHO WAS ABOUT TO WALK THROUGH THOSE DOORS

The weeks following the grand reopening of the rehabilitation center were the first time I allowed myself to truly slow down.

I returned to the Sterling estate on a quiet Sunday afternoon. The massive stone house, once a prison of Eleanor’s making, finally felt like it belonged to me again. The suffocating floral perfumes had been scrubbed from the walls, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of lemon oil and old wood.

I walked down the long hallway toward my father's study.

I had kept my promise. Over the last several months, I had hired master carpenters and restoration experts to repair the catastrophic damage Eleanor had inflicted upon the room. The slashed leather armchairs had been meticulously reupholstered. The antique bookshelves were repaired, and every single book was placed exactly where my father had kept it.

I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside.

The late afternoon sun poured through the large bay windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. The room was pristine. It was peaceful.

I walked over to his massive mahogany desk and sat down in his heavy leather chair.

I ran my hands over the smooth wood. For the first time since his death, the crushing, agonizing weight of his absence was not accompanied by the frantic panic of betrayal. I opened the bottom drawer of the desk, reaching into the very back.

My fingers brushed against a small, hidden velvet box.

I pulled it out and clicked it open. Inside rested my father’s vintage gold pocket watch, the one he had inherited from his own father. The glass was cracked, stopped at the exact time he had passed away.

"I did it, Dad,"