My First Love, My Last Revenge

Jane Bradley POV: The year I turned twelve, my world shattered again. I came home from an errand to find the apartment in disarray. Drawers were pulled out, closets were open. Cathleen was on the phone, her voice a high-pitched screech of disbelief and rage. My father was gone. He hadn't just left. He had taken every penny Cathleen had. Savings, emergency funds, even the money she had inherited from her parents. He had cleaned her out and vanished, leaving her with nothing but debts and two daughters-one of whom was his. When Cathleen finally hung up the phone, she turned to me. Her eyes were wild. "He's gone," she whispered, then the whisper became a scream. "Your bastard father is GONE!" She flew at me, her hands like claws. "This is your fault! You and your worthless bloodline!" She beat me. Not a slap or a push, but a frenzied, desperate assault. She rained blows on my head, my back, my arms. I curled into a ball on the floor, trying to protect myself, but the kicks and punches kept coming. It was only when Amiyah ran in, screaming for her to stop, that the attack ceased. I was a mess of bruises and cuts. Strangely, after her rage subsided, a cold practicality took over Cathleen. She took me to the emergency room, her face grim. While we waited, she spoke to me, her voice flat and cold. "I can't look at you, Jane. Every time I do, I see his face. I see what he did to me. I can't keep you." The familiar, icy dread filled my veins. "No," I begged, my voice hoarse. "Please, Cathleen. Don't send me away." "Where am I supposed to send you? Back to the father who abandoned you? To the mother who threw you away?" "Please," I sobbed, grabbing her hand. Her hand was cold and limp in mine. "You're all I have. You and Amiyah. You're my family." It was a lie, but it was a lie I needed to believe, a lie I needed her to believe. "I can take care of Amiyah," I pleaded, my words tumbling over each other. "I don't eat much. I can work. I can get a job. Please don't throw me away." She looked at my battered face, and again, I saw that flicker of calculation. She was a single mother now, with no money. She needed to work. Who would watch Amiyah? Who would clean the apartment? Who would cook the meals? "Fine," she said, pulling her hand away. "You can stay. For now." We moved from our three-bedroom apartment into a cramped, two-bedroom unit in a bad part of town. Cathleen and Amiyah each got a bedroom. I got the couch in the living room. My life became a relentless cycle of servitude. I was up before dawn to make breakfast. I ate their leftovers standing over the sink. I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. I waited up for them to come home, a hot meal on the table. I was no longer a stepdaughter; I was a live-in slave. The small connection I had with Amiyah began to fray. We were fourteen now, and the chasm between our lives was too wide to bridge. She had friends, school dances, a life. I had chores. She no longer shared her school lessons with me. The algebra books and novels were replaced with fashion magazines and chatter about boys. The bond forged over shared knowledge dissolved into the hierarchy of our new reality. One evening, as I was serving dinner, she looked up from her plate. "Jane, get me a glass of water." It wasn't a request. It was a command. Without a word, I put down the serving spoon, went to the cupboard, and got her the water. It was easier not to fight. Cathleen started dating again. She was a pretty woman, and she was desperate. I would see men come and go, but one started staying. He was older, well-dressed, and drove a nice car. His name was Mr. Harvey. I saw the look in Cathleen's eyes when she spoke of him. It was a look of hope, of escape. And when her eyes fell on me, they held a different look. I was baggage. A reminder of a past she wanted to erase. One night, I overheard her on the phone with him. "Yes, just one daughter. Amiyah. She's a wonderful girl." The lie hit me like a physical blow. I was being written out of the story again. I confronted her after she hung up. "Please," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Please don't leave me behind." She looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Jane, be realistic. He has a new life for us." Suddenly, Amiyah was standing in the doorway. "Mom," she said, her voice petulant. "If Jane doesn't come, who's going to do my laundry? Who's going to make my lunch?" It wasn't a plea for me. It was a complaint about her own future inconvenience. But it was enough. I looked at Amiyah, at the girl I had protected and served for years. And for the first time, I felt something other than a desire to please her. I felt a flicker of gratitude, however tainted its source. The day we moved was a study in contrasts. Amiyah wore a brand-new dress. I wore a shirt I had sewn myself from the remnants of one of Cathleen's old ones. I trailed behind them like a shadow as we walked up to the imposing front door of the Harvey mansion. The house was enormous, a palace of marble floors and soaring ceilings. A boy was slouched on a plush sofa in the living room, scrolling on his phone. He looked up as we entered. "So this is them," he said, his eyes scanning us. He looked at Amiyah, then at me. "Why is she dressed like a servant?" he asked, pointing a lazy finger in my direction. He was younger than me, but his voice was filled with the casual arrogance of wealth. "Kane, that's no way to speak to our guests," Mr. Harvey said, stepping forward. He smiled warmly at Cathleen. He seemed to have already been briefed on my situation, as he showed no surprise at my presence. "This is my daughter, Amiyah," Cathleen said, pushing her forward. "Hello, Mr. Harvey," Amiyah said, her voice sweet as honey. "Please, call me Dad," he said, beaming. He produced a small, beautifully wrapped box. "A little welcome gift." Amiyah opened it to reveal a delicate-looking necklace. Kane snorted. "What about the other one? Doesn't she get a present?" Mr. Harvey looked flustered. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Jane. I wasn't... I didn't know..." "It's okay," I said quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor. "I don't need anything." Amiyah was shown to a room that looked like it belonged to a princess, all pink and white with a canopy bed. I was led to a small, plain room at the back of the house, next to the kitchen. It was a maid's room. But it had a bed. And a door. After years on a couch in a living room, it felt like a kingdom. I was grateful. That night, I couldn't sleep. I tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I passed Mr. Harvey's study, I heard voices. His and his son, Kane's. "You only need to be nice to Amiyah," Mr. Harvey was saying. "The other one, Jane... just stay away from her. Her father was a thief who abandoned her. Her mother threw her away. A girl like that... there's something wrong with her." "I know, Dad," Kane said. "Don't worry. I get it." My hand froze on the doorknob. My blood ran cold. I turned to go back to my room and ran straight into a solid wall of a person. I stumbled back with a small gasp. It was Kane. He must have come out of the study. "Jesus," he hissed, clutching his chest. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing, creeping around in the dark?" "I... I was thirsty," I stammered, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. I kept my head down, my hair falling over my face. He stared at me for a long moment. I looked so pathetic, so frightened, that his suspicion seemed to melt into disdain. "Whatever," he muttered, brushing past me and heading up the grand staircase. I bowed my head slightly as Mr. Harvey came out of the study, then scurried back to my little room, the words I'd overheard ringing in my ears. There's something wrong with her. The next day, the dynamic of the house was set. Amiyah was being tutored by Kane in the lavish living room, laughing and flirting. I was in the corner, polishing the silver, a silent, invisible servant in a house that was not my home.