The Stepbrothers

Smiles fix everything. Or at least, that's what I've always told myself.

I kneel on the cold marble floor, scrubbing at a stain that refuses to disappear. My hands ache, raw from the cleaning solution seeping into my cracked skin, but I don't stop. If I can just get this floor to shine, maybe he won't yell. Maybe Mom will look at me for once. Maybe tonight won't end with the usual silence.

The rag slips from my fingers, and I sit back on my heels, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. My reflection stares back at me in the polished surface — a girl with tired eyes, flushed cheeks, and a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. I force it wider. There. Perfect.

I've lived in this house for six years. I was fifteen when Mom married him. Marcus Vitalo. He swept in like a storm, all charm and expensive suits, promising a better life. I should've known better. The house is a mansion, but it feels more like a prison. The kind of place where the walls echo with secrets.