Eliza McCall POV
The water was scalding, a shock to my frozen system.
I stood naked on the tiled floor of the industrial laundry room, shivering violently despite the steam rising around me.
Two maids in starched gray uniforms worked with a detached efficiency, treating me less like a child and more like a task to be completed.
They didn't speak to me. They spoke over me.
"She has the smell of that place on her," one muttered, pouring a harsh-smelling soap over my hair.
"The Boss wants every trace of it gone," the other replied, scrubbing my arm with a coarse cloth. "He doesn't want the Missus reminded."
I bit my lip, the metallic tang of blood a small, sharp point of reality. I would not cry out.
I was an object to be sanitized. A memory to be erased.
They gave me a uniform that was too big—a gray dress that hung on my skeletal frame like a shroud.
"Stay here," the first maid ordered, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Don't wander. Mr. Abernathy will deal with you."
They left me in the damp room, the silence ringing in my ears.
My stomach cramped, a sharp, twisting knot. I hadn't eaten in two days. The fear of punishment was heavy, but the primal demand of hunger was heavier.
I crept toward the door, pushing it open a crack.
It led to a hallway connected to the garage.
I heard a low, vibrating growl.
I froze.
Kylie was there.
She was sitting on the hood of a red Ferrari, her legs swinging with casual arrogance.
The Doberman, Zeus, was pacing in front of her.
He was a muscle-bound beast, his ears cropped, his eyes fixed on me like a predator spotting prey.
"So, you're the stray," Kylie said.
It wasn't a question.
She hopped off the car and sauntered toward me.
Up close, she smelled of vanilla and sugar—a sickly sweet contrast to the harsh soap burning my scalp.
"I'm Eliza," I whispered.
"I know who you are," she sneered, leaning in close. "You're the mistake. Daddy Derek can't stand the sight of you. You know that, right?"
My chest tightened. "He's my father."
Kylie laughed. It was a sharp, cruel sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
"He wishes you'd never been found. Mom wishes it too. You remind her of what happened."
She snapped her fingers.
Zeus lunged forward, barking ferociously.
I stumbled back, falling hard onto the concrete floor.
Kylie yanked the leash back at the last second, laughing as I scrambled away on hands and knees.
"Stay in your place, stray," she said. "This is my house now."
I ran.
I found myself in the kitchen.
It was a war zone. Chefs were shouting, pans were clattering.
The smell of roasting garlic and rosemary hit me like a physical blow, dizzying and overwhelming.
My mouth watered painfully.
I saw a tray of hors d'oeuvres being prepared.
Satay skewers with peanut sauce.
Panic flared in my chest, eclipsing my hunger.
"Wait!" I rasped, stepping forward.
The head chef, a large man with a red face, turned to glare at me.
"Who let you in here?"
"The peanuts," I said, pointing frantically at the sauce. "My mother... Eleanora... she's allergic. Severely."
I remembered it from before the kidnapping. It was one of the few memories I had, a precious fragment of a life stolen from me.
The chef stormed over to me.
He didn't listen. He saw a dirty, unwanted child interfering with his work.
"Get out!" he roared.
He shoved me.
I stumbled backward, my hip hitting a metal prep table hard. A sharp pain shot through my leg, making my vision swim for a second.
"Mr. Abernathy!" the chef yelled. "Get this stray out of my kitchen!"
Abernathy, the house manager, appeared. He looked like an undertaker, gaunt and solemn.
"I told you to stay in the laundry room," he hissed, gripping my ear and dragging me toward the exit.
"She's allergic!" I cried out, tears streaming down my face. "Please, you have to listen!"
"The menu was approved by Mrs. McCall herself," Abernathy said coldly. "You are a liar and a nuisance."
He threw me out the back door onto the service patio.
It was raining.
I huddled under the overhang, looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the dining room.
It was warm inside. Golden light bathed the table, casting everything in a halo of perfection.
Derek sat at the head.
Eleanora was to his right. Kylie was to his left.
They looked like a royal family, untouchable and complete.
Servants placed plates in front of them.
I held my breath, watching Eleanora.
She didn't touch the satay. She waved it away with a smile.
She wasn't allergic.
Or maybe she had outgrown it.
Or maybe I remembered wrong.
My memory, the only connection I had to her, was a lie.
I watched them eat.
Derek cut Eleanora's steak for her, a tender, intimate gesture.
Kylie laughed at something he said.
He smiled at Kylie. A genuine, warm smile.
The father I wanted was right there, giving his love to a girl who didn't share a drop of his blood.
My hunger became a sharp, twisting agony.
I looked at the large dumpster near the edge of the patio.
I knew I shouldn't. I was a McCall.
But my body didn't care about names. It only cared about survival.
I crawled toward the bins.
I found a half-eaten roll and a cold piece of chicken.
I shoved the food into my mouth, not chewing, just swallowing in desperate gulps.
My stomach seized almost immediately. My body, unaccustomed to real food, rebelled. I collapsed on the wet pavement, a wave of nausea washing over me, leaving me weak and dizzy.
"What is this?"
The voice was ice.
I looked up.
Derek was standing in the doorway.
He held a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.
He looked at me, curled on the ground near a trash can.
He didn't look concerned. There was no pity in his eyes, only a cold, simmering fury.
"You are eating from the garbage," he stated.
"I was hungry," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"A McCall does not behave this way," he said, his voice sharp with disgust.
He turned his head sharply. "Abernathy!"
The house manager ran out.
"Get a doctor," Derek said. "Not because I care for her health, but because I won't have the family name embarrassed by a coroner's report."
He stepped closer to me.
He crouched down, his expensive shoes inches from my face.
"I heard you in the kitchen," he said softly, his tone deadly. "Making stories about my wife's allergies to get attention."
"I thought—"
"Eleanora isn't allergic to peanuts," he said. "Burt was."
The name hung in the air like smoke, choking me.
"You remembered his allergy," Derek said, his voice dripping with contempt. "It seems you truly are his daughter."
He stood up and walked away, leaving me in the rain.
He didn't see the heartbreak.
He only saw the enemy.
