Maryna Valmont had spent her entire life surviving. Surviving the cold, indifferent stares of her stepfather. Surviving the suffocating weight of a house that never truly felt like home. Surviving the bruises that weren't always physical, but cut deeper than any wound ever could.
She wasn't allowed to cry. Crying was weakness, and weakness made her an easy target. She learned that lesson early, learned to keep her head down, to keep quiet, to never give them a reason to turn their attention to her. Because when they did, it was never out of love.
Her stepfather, Rick, was a gambler. Not the lucky kind, either. He was the type who always thought the next hand, the next bet, would be the one that turned everything around. He was the kind of man who never knew when to stop. When to walk away. And every time he lost, it was Maryna who paid the price.
Her mother had disappeared years ago. Vanished like a whisper in the wind. No one ever spoke of her, and when Maryna had tried to ask once, Rick had backhanded her so hard she saw stars. That had been the first and last time she ever mentioned her mother's name.
She had no one. No one but herself.
And that was why she had a plan.
Maryna was an excellent student. She worked harder than anyone, stayed late in the school library, and aced every exam. She had been secretly applying to colleges—anywhere far away, anywhere that would take her. She had already received acceptance letters from a few, including one across the country. All she needed was a way to leave without Rick noticing, without her stepbrothers realizing what she was doing.
She had counted the days, had made a plan down to the hour of when she would leave, when she would finally escape. She could endure anything for just a little longer.
But Rick had his own plans for her.
The house had always been a cage, but now, it was a prison. Rick's drinking had gotten worse, his debts piling higher. The poker games were becoming more frequent, the strangers in their house more dangerous. The air in their home felt heavier, suffocating.
And one night, Maryna woke up to find Rick standing at her bedroom door.
His silhouette was a dark blot against the dim hallway light, his breath reeking of whiskey. He didn't speak, didn't move for a long moment—just stood there, watching her. Maryna held her breath, her body frozen under the thin blanket.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.
The next morning, she started packing her things.