Chapter 1

When my parents divorced, they fought over who got to keep my little sister. As for me, they couldn't get rid of me fast enough.

In the end, I was handed off to my dad.

My mom, clutching my sister's hand, stood by and sneered as she watched my father slap me across the face. "Hit her harder," she said with a smirk. "Beat her to death and save yourself the trouble of raising her."

That was the day I moved into my father's new home and met his new wife. She scooped me up the moment I walked through the door. "From now on, I'm your mother. Got it?"

Years later, I bought her a villa and a luxury car. Meanwhile, the woman who gave birth to me was lying in a hospital bed, weeping as she begged me to save her.

I smiled as I gently pried her fingers off my wrist. "Just die in peace, will you?"

My parents had been divorced for less than six months when my father remarried.

She was three years younger than him and divorced, too.

On the day of the wedding, my father locked me in a storage room and warned me, "You cause any trouble, I'll beat you to death."

When the guests had left and the house quieted down, I slipped into the kitchen.

While making myself dinner, I accidentally knocked over the kettle. Boiling water splashed across my chest. I screamed. The next moment, the opposite door creaked open, and a woman rushed in. "What happened? Where did it burn?"

She scooped me into her arms. She smelled nice, like something faint and floral. "You must be Yara, right?"

I nodded, eyes darting to the dried fruits on her bed. My stomach growled, but I didn't dare take any when she offered.

"Please," I whispered, "don't tell my dad."

"Why not?"

"The bottle broke... He'll hit me."

She paused for a beat, then said, "I won't tell him."

"I don't believe you. Let's pinky promise."

She held out her pinky. "Deal."

I devoured the food like a starved animal. She watched me for a while, then laughed softly. "You know who I am?"

I shook my head.

"Starting today, I'm your mom."

My hands froze. My mind instantly flashed through every fairy tale I'd ever read—Snow White and her evil stepmother, Cinderella and her scheming one. I was doomed.

I stared at her like a deer in headlights. Then she frowned. "What's on your pants?"

Panic surged. I scrambled off the bed, only to see a dark stain soaking through the sheet.

Mortified, I dashed for the bathroom. She caught me by the arm. "Why aren't you using pads? You're on your period."

My face went crimson. It felt like being slapped. "Don't say that word!"

"What word?"

"That... that one."

She blinked. "You mean period? What's wrong with saying it? Didn't anyone teach you?"

I said nothing. She studied my face, and something in her expression changed.

The first time I got my period, I ruined my pants. One of my classmate's moms told me it meant I was growing up. She said it was something to celebrate, that maybe my own mom would make me something special for dinner.

I went home excited. Before I could speak, my mom slapped me so hard my ears rang.

She kicked me to the floor and yelled loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

"Whoring around all day with your ass on display, trying to get some man's attention, huh? If you want it that bad, just forget school! Go dance at a club and see which idiot takes you in!"

I clutched my pants, stammering some kind of explanation, but she cut me off with another slap.

"Who's going to wash that? Me? What do you think I am, your maid? You need to be disgusting every damn day, don't you?"

I was ten that year, and I spent the rest of that day kneeling on the bathroom floor.

"Mom, I'm still bleeding..."

"Bleed all you want. What do you want me to do about it? Get out of my sight, you filthy little thing."

I had never used pads. Whenever I had a period, it was a nightmare of humiliation.

Every month, I shoved tissues in my underwear and hoped it would be enough. If I used too many, she called me selfish. If I bled through, the boys at school would whistle and jeer. My mother would sneer. "Acting like some tragic virgin princess? Please. You were born to be cheap."

Later, I found out she'd taken her anger out on me that day because my sister had a sore on her face, something that would mess up a shoot they'd scheduled.

That night, my stepmother taught me how to use a pad for the first time. She said it wasn't something to be ashamed of.

Then she hugged me tight and looked me in the eye. "From now on, I'm your mom. Got it?"