Chapter 4: The Aftertaste of Betrayal
That night, the halls of the house grew quiet, but Jiha couldn't sleep. Her stomach churned and her skin prickled with heat. The rash had already started spreading across her arms, angry red welts climbing like flames up her skin. She curled up in bed, clutching her blanket, her breathing shallow.
Her throat itched. Her chest tightened.
She had tried to say no. She had said no.
But no one had listened.
Downstairs, the after-party laughter still echoed faintly through the walls. Glasses clinked. Her father's voice rose in a cheer. Jiha tried to sit up, but her vision blurred. Her tongue felt swollen. Panic gripped her like cold fingers around her lungs.
She stumbled to the door, tried to open it — but the handle wouldn't budge.
Locked.
Her stepmother had turned the lock after dinner, brushing it off with a falsely sweet smile. "You must be tired, dear. Rest. You don't want to be sulking during our celebration."
Jiha had thought it was just overprotection. But now, alone and gasping, it felt like something far worse — control.
She knocked weakly. "Help… someone…"
No answer.
She sank to the floor, body burning, tears running hot down her face. Her hands scratched at her arms, desperate to relieve the itching. In the silence of her room, her cries were muffled. Forgotten.
When morning came, Jiha was found slumped beside the bed, skin blotched and lips cracked. A maid screamed.
Her father rushed in, face pale. "Jiha?"
Doctors were called. Medications administered. The house buzzed with tension. But as Jiha lay in bed recovering, her stepmother hovered nearby with a hand over her heart.
"I had no idea she was actually allergic," she whispered to her husband, loud enough for Jiha to hear. "She was so dramatic at dinner, I thought… Oh, this is my fault. I should've believed her. But you saw how rude she was. I just wanted her to feel included."
Her father said nothing. He looked tired, ashamed. But not at her.
He was ashamed of her.
Jiha turned her face away.
The doctor confirmed her allergy. It wasn't mild. It was serious. Even dangerous. And yet no apology came. Not from her father. Not from his wife.
That evening, Jiha sat by the window, her skin sore but her mind sharper than ever. The betrayal had carved something new in her — not bitterness, but clarity.
She knew now: she couldn't rely on anyone else to protect her.
She would have to protect herself.
Even if that meant pretending to smile while quietly building walls inside her heart. Even if that meant learning to survive in a world where love came with conditions and silence was mistaken for obedience.
Because Jiha wasn't going to be their puppet. Not forever.