The Girl in Winter Chapter 4 — The Beautiful Prison
Before Jeanette left, they showed me my "room." A beautiful room, really — all soft pinks, pillows, makeup kits on the vanity, shelves filled with books I could read, racks of pretty clothes for girls my age. Toys, decorations, even a little speaker for music. It was the kind of room you see in magazines or movies.
But that wasn't real.
That room was only there for Jeanette to see before she left. After she was gone, the beautiful room became forbidden. My real room? A tiny, freezing space in the servants' wing, barely larger than a closet. No windows. No decorations. Just an old mattress on a metal frame, and a thin blanket that smelled like dust.
I should've known better. I did know better. But when you're desperate and alone, you take hope wherever it pretends to be.
I was afraid, of course. Afraid because I knew I wasn't part of the family — not really. I wasn't one of them, not their blood, not their kind. But I didn't have a choice.
It was either live here, or live in the street. And even that option wasn't really mine — the Virel family mansion had been signed away to the Walthers before my parents died, and no one could explain why.
So I stayed.
And that's when the nightmare really began.
The night Jeanette left, Maria came to my tiny room, smiling like she always did — sweet, like sugar hiding something rotten underneath.
"You're part of this family now," she said softly, brushing my hair behind my ear. "But family means work. You're going to help us, right? That's only fair."
I nodded. I didn't know what else to say. "I'll help you. I promise. Whatever you want."
But I didn't understand yet what that meant.
It started small — cleaning, organizing, dusting the endless hallways of the mansion.
Then it became cooking.
Then insults.
Then slaps.
Violence came casually, like a habit. Maria slapped the back of my head when I made mistakes. Henry wasn't violent, but his words were sharp enough to leave bruises I couldn't show. "Useless," "Waste of space," "Filthy orphan."
And their precious daughter, Ella, enjoyed inventing new ways to humiliate me. Once, she came into my so-called room and threw trash onto the floor. "It's good for you," she sneered. "You should stay close to your kind."
I spent my sixteenth birthday scrubbing floors, ignored by everyone. No cake. No candles. Just me, wet rag in hand, on my knees while they ate dinner in another room.
The beautiful room I'd been shown that first day? That was nothing but a lie. A set decoration for Jeanette, like a theater play.
This became my life. Day after day. Week after week. Year after year.
I lasted nearly three years like that.
Sometimes Jack or Jeanette visited to check on me. And every time, the Walthers played the perfect family. Maria would smile, Henry would shake their hands, Ella would call me "sister" sweetly in front of them.
No one saw the bruises I hid under long sleeves.
No one noticed the bags under my eyes.
Not even Jack, with all his gentle kindness.
And Dorian… Dorian never touched me. Never insulted me. But he also never defended me. His silence was another kind of betrayal.
By the time I was eighteen, I didn't even recognize myself anymore.
Then came the party.
January 4th. My birthday.
I was nineteen now — a woman, or something close to it. But instead of celebrating, I was cleaning floors and carrying trays during the Walthers' party, dressed in dull, shapeless servant clothes.
And then it happened.
A tray of food — gravy, meat, wine — crashed down on my head. Someone had "accidentally" dropped it. I stood there, dripping in front of their guests, red-faced, humiliated.
The laughter that followed hurt worse than the slap.
Maria was laughing.
Henry was laughing.
Ella was laughing.
Dorian just watched. Like always.
Something inside me broke that night. Snapped clean in two.
After cleaning myself up, I went to that tiny room of mine, gathered what little I owned: my necklace, the only photograph of my parents, a spare change of clothes.
And then I left.
Out the back door, into the cold dark night. No goodbyes. No second thoughts.
I ran.
I didn't know where I was going.
I only knew one thing for certain:
I wasn't staying here another night.
Not one more second.
Not with them.