Chapter 2

Hello.

My name is Stella.

I am not Molly. I am her protector. I was born in the darkness of a foster home closet when Molly was six.

Our foster father, a man whose real daughter was living in a mansion, came into her room that night. He smelled of cheap beer and sweat. Molly was small, fragile. She prayed for a hero.

No hero came.

So I did.

When he put his hands on her, I took over. I don' t remember the details, only the feeling of a heavy lamp in my small hands and the sound of something breaking. His arm.

He never touched her again.

I am the part of her that fights back. The part that survives.

For years, I only came out when she was in danger. When other kids at the orphanage beat her, I beat them back harder. When a teacher tried to shame her, I shamed them until they cried. I was her secret weapon, the rage she couldn' t express.

Molly was the light. She believed in goodness. She believed that people could change. She believed that if she were just good enough, patient enough, loving enough, her real family would finally see her.

When the DNA test proved she was the true Hewitt heiress, she cried with joy. She thought her suffering was over. She thought she was finally going home.

I went quiet then. I let Molly have her dream. I watched from the inside as she tried so desperately to win the love of the Hewitts.

I watched them dismiss her, mock her clothes, her manners, her very existence.

I watched Andrew, her brother, look at her with contempt.

I watched her "parents" dote on Nicole, the imposter, while treating their own blood like a stray dog they were forced to feed.

Molly endured it all. She smiled through the insults. She accepted the blame for things she didn' t do. She kept hoping.

She thought love was the answer.

She was wrong.