Wingless;

1. Escape

Note: This book does not intend to body shame, demean, or target anyone. It's told from the perspective of someone who's been bullied because of her body shape. My intention is not to hurt or offend, but to shed light on how cruel societal standards can be. I have personally experienced the agony of being compared to others, and I am staunchly opposed to it. Every person carries their own unique beauty, and that deserves to be celebrated. Please remember: this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Enjoy the journey. <3

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Ximara Lyris Adler peered into the broken mirror in her bedroom. Her reflection was fractured like a dream falling apart under pressure. The tight dress her mother had chosen for her hugged every curve of her body, with seams straining at her hips and chest. She tugged on the fabric, her fingers trembling in frustration.

This wasn't just another night at her parents' house. This was a reckoning.

Voices came floating up through the floorboards from downstairs: her mother, Carin, bartering with a wealthy gray-haired suitor, whose hungry gaze had made Ximara's skin crawl earlier that afternoon. Her father Ryan laughed as well, a forced laugh, bartering her future like livestock at an auction.

"You're lucky he'll take you, looking like that," Carin had sneered earlier, her words slicing deeper than any blade.

Ximara's jaws tightened. She clutched the crumpled paper in her hand, a sketch of soaring walls and open windows, a building she envisioned as her sanctuary. Her designs had always been her rebellion against their cruelty, her shield against the world's impossible standards. But sketches were no longer enough.

Tonight, she planned to act.

With a deep breath, she grabbed her duffel bag from the closet. She moved fast, heart pounding, stuffing clothes, papers, and her sketchbook of dreams into the bag. The zipper grated loudly in the stillness.

She glanced at the window. The humid North Carolina night pressed against the glass, as though urging her to step through. She pushed the sash open, swung one leg over the sill, and dropped softly onto the damp grass below.

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Carin sat stiffly on the floral sofa, facing Remus Hargrove. His silver hair glistened under the chandelier as he sipped his bourbon, his thin lips curling into a smirk.

"She's got a good head on her shoulders," Carin said sweetly, her voice concealing steel. "Also talented. She has an incredible talent for drawing building interiors. She'd make an excellent wife, keeping your home in order and providing you with a family."

Remus's gaze sharpened. "I'm sure she's... nice," he said slowly, the condescension dripping from his voice. "A sturdy girl like that ought to hold up well."

Ryan forced a laugh, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "She's a gem, alright. "She just needs the right man to polish her up."

Carin's smile thinned. To her, Ximara's body was not her daughter's to own; it was a problem to be solved, a bargaining chip for comfort and silence from the neighbors.

When she rushed upstairs to get her daughter, her heels clicked like gunfire on the hardwood. She shoved the bedroom door open.

"Ximara!"

The room was empty. The curtains fluttered mockingly in the open window.

Her eyes narrowed. "That ungrateful little-"

She stormed back downstairs, hissing to Ryan, "She's gone. Packed up and ran away like a fool!"

Ryan pressed a hand to his temple. "She will crawl back when she realizes what she has thrown away."

But Ximara wasn't coming back.

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The train station smelled of diesel and damp concrete. Flickering lights cast shadows on Ximara, who sat on a cold metal bench, clutching her duffel to her chest. She waited for the train that would take her to New York, an escape she had long desired.

A prickling sensation spread up her neck, as if unseen eyes were on her. She scanned the platform: a half-asleep ticket clerk, a lone traveler buried in a newspaper. It was just nerves, she told herself.

Her parents had hammered away at her self-esteem for years, until shame had settled deep within her chest. Her curves and softness had become their favorite weapon. They ignored a rare medical condition that made losing weight dangerous. She was an unwelcome burden, a flaw in their eyes.

They wanted her to shrink. She decided to live.

The train horn broke through the silence. She hurried aboard, her heart racing, and settled into a window seat. Pines and shadows blurred past as the train lurched forward, carrying her away from the house that had never been a home.

Her sketchbook sat heavy in her lap, reminding her that she wasn't just running; she was chasing a future she'd created for herself.

For years, she had admired Arthur Vance, the world-famous racer whose posters once adorned her walls. She may have had a silly crush, but he had demonstrated that passion could overcome any obstacle. His success stories inspired her to achieve fame at a young age, and as a result, she grew to admire him and eventually developed a crush.

She whispered a vow to herself: if she couldn't have Arthur, she would build a life with his courage at its core. She knew she was way out of Arthur's league, but she admired him nonetheless, and if she could find love in the future, she was sure it would be someone like Arthur Vance.

She rested her head against the glass as the train's rhythmic clatter soothed her nerves. For the first time in her life, the chains were not around her wrists.

They were behind her now, rusting and forgotten, and she would never wear them again.

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2. Safe Place

My hands trembled as I hesitated between pressing the doorbell and turning around. Will he accept me? I knew he loved me dearly, but he loved Mom more. What if he supported her? What if I had simply traded one battlefield for another?

Taking a shaky breath, I finally mustered the courage to press the glowing button. The sound echoed faintly inside, accompanied by shuffling footsteps. My heart raced as the lock clicked. When the door opened, relief washed over me, releasing the tension in my shoulders.

There he was, the one person who never made me feel like I was too much or not enough.

"God, I've missed you so much," I said, wrapping my arms around my grandfather, Alistair.

Alistair was more than just my paternal grandfather; he was my anchor and secret ally. He was in his seventies, but he still had broad shoulders and sharp eyes, and he carried himself with the same confidence that must have defined his youth. Some people mistook him for my father, and I could understand why. He hadn't slowed down, hadn't surrendered to age. Where others relied on their children, he stood strong on his own.

His New York apartment was a testament to that independence, every inch of it the product of his own relentless work, not inheritance.

But no matter how much comfort the place provided, I couldn't ignore one fact: Alistair never broke his promises. If Mom had already cornered him and he had promised to send me back, he would keep that promise regardless of the cost to him-or me. And that thought terrified me.

I wasn't going back. I turned them down. I refused to be sold into a marriage with a man who was older than my grandfather. They described it as a blessing, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It sounded like a life sentence to me.

"Mara, what are you doing here, baby?" Alistair asked, his voice thick with concern as he rubbed my back.

I melted into his embrace, allowing his steadiness to soak into my bones. This was exactly what I had been looking for.

Pulling away, I looked at him with a teary smile. "You look younger than last time. Don't tell me you're seeing someone?" I teasingly raised my brows dramatically.

He scoffed and pretended to be offended. "At my age? Please. The only lady in my life is the one in my coffee mug." His mock sternness crumbled into laughter, and I joined him, the tension easing a little.

We settled onto the sofa, the cushions sinking under his weight. His sharp gaze didn't give way as he leaned in. "Now, Mara. Why are you really here? My gut tells me this isn't a casual visit-and you know I'm rarely wrong." His tone was gentle, but it left no room for evasion.

I sighed, knowing that resistance was pointless. "Fine. I'll tell you everything. But you have to promise you won't automatically take Mom's side."

His eyebrows arched. "I don't take sides. I accept truth. Even if it hurts."

I clenched my jaw, hating that he was right. This was Alistair, inexorably honest.

"Then promise to fully hear me out before you make your decision," I said.

He gave me a single nod. "Go on."

So I did. I told him everything-how my parents had arranged my marriage to a stranger decades older than me, a man who saw me as nothing more than a transaction.

My throat felt raw after I finished. "So I had to leave, Ali. What options did I have? Am I such a disappointment to them that marrying me off to the highest bidder is their best option?" My voice cracked, revealing the emotions I usually kept suppressed. "Elizabeth and Rogan are their pride. What about me? I'm just a burden. A mistake."

His arms wrapped around me again, strong and secure.

"That's insane," he snarled. "How could Carin and Ryan stoop so low? I never forced your mother's hand; I always allowed her to choose. And yet she dares to bind her own daughter with chains I never put on her." His voice quivered with contained fury, making the air feel electric.

Tears threatened to spill. "What else can I do, Ali? They make me feel worthless. Don't I have the right to choose my own life? I just want the opportunity to create something of my own-my career, my future. But they keep trying to rip it away."

Alistair gently squeezed my arm to ground me. "Listen to me, Mara. You will not marry someone you do not want. Not while I am breathing. Do you hear me?" His voice was steel encased in velvet. "I'm glad you came here. From now on, you stay with me. Nobody, including Carin, gets to decide otherwise."

"Really?" My eyes stung as I looked up at him. "You're not mad at me for running away?"

"Mad?" He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "The only thing I'm upset about is your parents' foolishness. If anything, you were courageous. Besides..." His eyes softened. "I've been lonely without your grandmother. "Having you here is good for me as well."

When Grams' name came up, a wave of sadness ran through my chest. I miss her more than I can express. She had always been gentle, but she frequently sided with Mom out of habit. Perhaps if she was still alive, I would not have dared to come.

"Thank you, Ali," I whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Trying to lighten the mood, I added, "Anyway, tomorrow I'm job hunting. If you decide to kick me out, at least I'll have rent money."

He laughed heartily. "Throw you out? "You would have to drag me to court before that happened." He gave me a playful wink before standing. "Now, no more worrying tonight. You've had a long day. Rest."

"Which room am I taking?" I asked cautiously.

His apartment had four bedrooms, two of which were off-limits, the master bedroom where he and Grams used to sleep and the bedroom that was like a time capsule of her belongings. That left the kitchen-side guest room and the large one with the balcony, which I had secretly always admired. The thought of that balcony made me both excited and nervous. Someone daring-or reckless-could hop across to the neighbor's side. I silently hoped he would let me take it anyway.

"You can choose, but for tonight, use the balcony room," he said kindly. "I'll have the maid freshen the other one tomorrow, in case you want it."

"No need," I said quickly. "I prefer the balcony room."

As I gathered my bags, another worry struck. "Ali... what if Mom calls you?"

He gave me a sly smile, as if he'd been expecting that question. "I know how to handle Carin. She has forgotten that I raised her. She's still my child, no matter how grown she thinks she is."

The reassurance relieved a tightness in my chest. For the first time in years, I felt like someone had my back.

"Thank you," I whispered, hugging him tightly.

"Good night, my child," he said with a sincere tone.

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My gaze shifted to the sliding glass door, which I had been thinking about all evening.

Curiosity tugged harder than caution. Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I opened the door.

The air was cold and it bit my skin but I stepped out.

I leaned against the railing, closed my eyes, and let the night hold me.

Then movement drew my attention.

On the adjacent balcony, a man stood shrouded in smoke, his back to me. His posture was heavy, and his shoulders were taut, as if he were carrying invisible chains. For a moment, I thought he was going to turn. My pulse stuttered.

I quickly averted my gaze, staring out at the endless array of city lights, pretending I hadn't noticed him. However, the chill that had crept down my spine refused to leave.

I tightened my grip on the railing, closed my eyes, and allowed the icy wind to whip across my face.

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3. Striking Presence

I turned away from the balcony railing and felt the cool night air on my skin. My thoughts returned to why I was here. I never imagined I'd have the courage to stand up for myself. But today I didn't have a choice.

If I hadn't slipped out that window and left my parents behind, they would have continued to believe their cruelty was justified, that their impossible expectations were a fair price for my life.

I felt a surge of pride that I had finally taken a stand. But beneath it was a deeper fear. They would probably hate me now. Perhaps they always did. All those years of bending over backwards, chasing a sliver of approval, hoping to see pride in their eyes was all gone.

Unlike my siblings, Elizabeth and Rogan, I'd never been enough. My little sister, fifteen years old, could fall down again and again and end up in their arms. They'd have her back. Me? I was the black sheep that didn't fit their perfect mold, or society's stifling standards. I'd been on my own as long as I could remember.

I tried to love my body and its curves. I was successful on most days. When I looked in the mirror, I saw strength rather than shame. But when it's your own flesh and blood who are supposed to love you no matter what, and they begin chipping away at your confidence as if it's some unsightly stain that needs scrubbing, even the thickest armor begins to crack.

If a stranger had mocked me, I'd have fought back with sharp words. But it wasn't about strangers. This is my family. And sometimes fighting them didn't mean yelling louder; it meant walking away, not out of defeat, but out of love for myself.

Standing on that balcony, I made a promise. I was done living for them. Starting tomorrow, I'd build a life on my own terms. Not because of stupid decisions, not to spite anyone, but for me. For once, just me.

My gaze blurred as a tear slipped onto my hand. I wiped it away quickly. "God, these stupid emotions," I muttered. No matter how tough I tried to be, the floodgates always seemed to open when nobody was looking.

I suddenly felt the prickling sensation of someone watching me. My skin tightened, and my breathing stalled. I slowly turned toward the neighboring balcony.

Was the neighbour still here? He hadn't left?

That man stood with his back to me, leaving a trail of smoke in the darkness. His posture was casual but heavy, as if the entire world was on his shoulders. Something about him made the air feel strangely still and sharp.

Before I could recover from my unease, a woman's light and carefree laugh floated out. She stepped into view, blonde and slender, the type of perfect that didn't have to try. The man turned to her, flicked his cigarette over the railing, and followed her inside. The glass door slid shut behind them with a snap of the lock, forming a boundary.

I stood there, torn between brushing it off and allowing old insecurities to sink in. She embodied everything my parents wanted me to be: thin, poised, and effortless. I clenched the railing, then forced myself to let go. "Get over it, Ximara," I whispered. Their story was not the same as mine.

I slipped inside, shut my own glass door, and twisted the lock with more force than was required. But as I turned away, I heard a faint shuffle coming from the hallway beyond my room.

Alister. It had to be. But he was always in bed by nine.

Padding out softly, I found him at the kitchen table, stirring a spoon in a glass of water. His shoulders slumped in a way I hadn't seen before.

"Ali, why are you still awake?" I asked gently.

He flinched and then gave me a warm, distracted smile. "Oh, Mara. Haven't you gone to bed yet?" He reached for the tin of cookies and held it out.

I forced a grin and waved it off. "No thanks. Already carrying enough curves, remember?"

He started arguing, but I interrupted him. My eyes narrowed on the pills by his glass. "Ali, what medications are you taking?"

His expression faltered and the mask slipped. For a moment, he sat there silently, then sighed, shoulders sinking. "I can't sleep since your grandmother passed away. Every night I hear her laugh, feel her touch in my head. I miss her so d*mn much, Mara. I just want to see her again." His eyes glistened as his voice broke.

"Oh, Ali..." I rushed to wrap my arms around him, his body feeling frailer than I remembered. "Why didn't you tell us?"

He chuckled weakly, wiping away his tears. "I'll see her again."

"I know," I said softly, squeezing his hand. But then came the word that chilled my blood.

"Soon," he murmured with a faint smile that never reached his eyes.

My throat tightened. I wanted to tell him not to say or think that. But before I could respond, he changed the subject. "So, about that job hunt. Rowan Architects are top-notch. You have an interview there tomorrow, right? Seven sharp. "This could be your big break."

Rowan architects. The mere mention of the name piqued my interest. If I nailed this, I'd accomplished everything I'd been working for. "Yes," I replied, lifting my chin. "I am ready."

"Good." He gave me a grin, then tilted his head. "So, how was the balcony view?"

I hesitated. "Peaceful... until the neighbor lit a cigarette."

Ali frowned. "Is he back?"

"Yeah, but don't worry. He went inside."

Ali's gaze darkened with thought. "That man is like a ghost. Shows up once in a blue moon. I wonder what has brought him back now."

I shrugged it off, and he chuckled before shooing me to bed.

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That night, exhaustion should've knocked me out cold. But around midnight, I awoke with a pounding heart and shallow breathing. It was not a dream. There was no sound. Just a suffocating sense that something was wrong.

The air felt heavy, pressing down. My skin prickled as if unseen eyes lurked in the darkness.

"You're imagining things," I said quietly, pulling the covers tighter.

But then, I swear I saw it. A faint shadow slid across the balcony door.

I bolted upright, my heart racing. The door was securely locked.

Still, sleep never returned. I lay awake till dawn, staring at the ceiling, trying to believe it was only nerves. Yet deep down, I wasn't so sure.

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