I didn't run. I couldn't. My father’s command had rooted me to the spot, and the sheer weight of old habits—of obedience born from fear—forced my legs to move.

I walked to the table like a prisoner walking to the gallows.

"Good," my father grunted, gesturing to the empty chair directly across from Tyler.

I sat down, my hands gripping the napkin in my lap so tight my knuckles turned white. The air in the dining room was thick, smelling of expensive wine and my mother’s roast chicken—smells that should have been comforting but now made my stomach turn.

"Well, don't be rude, Sephina," my mother chirped, her voice high and strained. She was trying so hard to pretend this was normal. "Introduce yourself."

Beside Tyler sat the blonde woman. She was polished, wearing a dress that probably cost more than my car, and completely oblivious to the tension radiating off me.

"Hi!" she beamed, extending a manicured hand. "I’m Skylar. Tyler’s fiancée."

Fiancée? Someone was actually going to marry him? Did she know? Did she have any idea what kind of monster was sleeping beside her?

I stared at her hand, ignoring it. "I’m Sephina."

Skylar blinked, retracting her hand awkwardly, but her smile didn't waver. 

"It is so nice to finally meet you! Tyler talks about you all the time. He says you’ve been… working on yourself."

I shot a look at Tyler. He was sipping his wine, eyes dancing with amusement. Working on myself. That was his code for 'getting over what I did to her.'

"Sephina works at a bakery downtown," my mother added quickly, spooning potatoes onto Skylar’s plate.

Skylar’s eyes lit up. "Oh, a bakery? That is just so... quaint."

Dinner began. It was an agonizing performance. My parents asked about Tyler’s business, about the wedding plans, about the honeymoon in the Maldives. They acted like a happy family. Like I hadn't spent my teenage years crying myself to sleep. Like my suffering never happened.

I stared at my plate, pushing a piece of carrot around, praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

Then, I froze.

I felt something brush against my shin.

At first, I thought it was an accident. But then it happened again. A firm, deliberate pressure gliding up my calf.

Tyler’s foot.

I stiffened, my breath hitching in my throat. I looked up, panic flaring in my chest. I scanned the table—did anyone see?

My father was pouring more wine. My mother was laughing at something Skylar said. No one was looking at me. No one ever looked at me.

I locked eyes with Tyler. He wasn't looking at his food. He was looking right at me, a subtle, sickening smirk playing on his lips while he nodded along to Skylar’s story about floral arrangements.

He was doing it right in front of them. The audacity. The blunt disrespect. He was marking his territory.

I kicked his leg—hard.

Tyler didn't even flinch. He just took another sip of wine.

"So, Sephina," Skylar chirped, drawing my attention back to her. She clasped her hands together, looking like a child about to ask for a pony. "Since we’re all here, I actually have a huge favor to ask."

I didn't answer. I just wanted to leave.

"We’ve been looking for a wedding cake," she continued, oblivious to the fact that I was shaking. "But everything is just so commercial. We want something made with love. And since you’re family—well, we will be family soon—we were wondering..."

She leaned in, eyes sparkling.

"Would you bake our wedding cake? As a gift, of course. It wouldn't be the same if someone else made it."

The room spun. I felt bile rise in my throat.

They wanted me to bake a cake for his wedding. To celebrate the union of the man who destroyed my childhood. They wanted me to labor for hours to create something sweet for a monster.

"No," I said.

The word hung in the air, sharp and final.

Skylar’s smile faltered. "Oh... I... maybe you didn't understand. We would pay for the ingredients, of course, but—"

"I said no," I said, louder this time. My voice shook with a mix of rage and terror. "I won't do it. Find another baker."

Silence descended on the table. Heavy. Suffocating.

Tyler set his glass down. Clink.

"Excuse me?" my father growled, his face turning that familiar shade of purple.

"I can't do it," I said, looking at my mother, begging her with my eyes to say something, to defend me. Please, Mom. Tell them. Tell them why.

She just looked down at her plate.

My father stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floor. 

"You ungrateful brat!" he roared. "Tyler is a success! He is family! And you are a waitress living under my roof!"

He pointed a shaking finger at my face. "You will bake that cake. Or you can pack your bags and get out tonight."

My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked at Tyler.

He wasn't angry. He was delighted. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to that terrifyingly low register I remembered from the dark hallways of my youth.

"Come on, Sephina," he murmured. "Be a good little sister. Like you used to be."

I felt like vomiting. That phrase—good little sister—brought back a flood of memories I had spent years trying to drown.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stay here.

I stood up, knocked my chair over, and ran.