Aurora Rodriguez POV:
The drive to the Hamptons estate was agonizing. I was dressed in a simple, dark gown – a deliberate choice to stand in stark contrast to the expected celebratory attire. My hair was pulled back tightly, my face devoid of makeup, revealing the faint bruises that still lingered. Let them see what they had done.
As we neared the estate, my heart ached. The familiar winding driveway, the old oak trees, the scent of salt air and blooming hydrangeas. This was my sanctuary, the place where I had spent my happiest moments with my mother. Now, it was being defiled by Kenton and Celestine.
The party was in full swing. Laughter, music, the clinking of glasses – it all felt like a grotesque parody of joy. I walked through the familiar rooms, now redecorated with Celestine' s tasteless, gaudy art and furniture. Her scent, a cloying floral perfume, hung heavy in the air. She had erased every trace of my mother.
I saw Kenton and Celestine at the center of the room, surrounded by a fawning crowd. She was dazzling in a shimmering emerald dress, her hand tucked possessively into Kenton's arm. He looked… happy. Or at least, he looked like he was playing the part convincingly. He leaned down, whispering something in her ear, and she giggled, a sound that grated on my nerves.
My breath hitched. The love in his eyes when he looked at her was undeniable. The kind of raw, consuming desire I had always craved from him, but never received. It was a physical blow, worse than any whipping. He had never looked at me like that. Never.
I remembered when I found out. A little over two months ago. I had gone to Kenton's apartment, a surprise visit. I walked in, calling his name, only to hear whispers from his study. I froze, a cold dread seeping into my veins. The door was ajar. And through the crack, I saw them. Celestine, in his arms, her head nestled against his chest. And Kenton, whispering words of endearment, words he had once whispered to me. But the look in his eyes, the absolute adoration, the palpable hunger… it wasn't for me. It was for her. His father's fiancée. My future stepmother-in-law.
I had heard enough. I had seen enough. The world had tilted on its axis then, burying me under its weight. And I had retreated, pretending everything was fine, planning my public execution of our engagement.
Now, seeing them openly, brazenly celebrating their twisted love in my mother's home, the rage inside me solidified into a glacial resolve. This was no longer just about pain. It was about absolute annihilation.
I slipped away from the crowd, making my way to the back of the house, to the room that used to be my mother's studio. It was locked. Of course. Celestine probably feared my mother's ghost haunting her tacky art.
I found the groundskeeper's shed, a place I knew well from childhood. Inside, among dusty tools, was a small, heavy axe. My fingers closed around the rough wooden handle. It felt oddly comforting.
Returning to the studio, I swung the axe, splintering the aged oak door with surprising ease. The sound was deafening in the quiet wing of the house. I stepped inside. Celestine had trashed it, replacing my mother' s delicate watercolors with garish abstract pieces. But in the corner, shrouded by a white sheet, was a familiar shape. My mother' s easel. And underneath it, a small, worn wooden box. Her ashes.
Celestine hadn't dared touch them. Not yet.
A wave of grief, raw and visceral, washed over me. This was all I had left of her. And they had dared to desecrate her space, to mock her memory. This was unforgivable.
I heard footsteps approaching, the muffled sounds of concern from the guests, followed by Kenton's angry voice. "Aurora! What are you doing?"
I turned, the axe still clutched in my hand. My eyes, I knew, were wild. My heart was shattered, my soul ablaze. What was I doing? I was burning it all down.
"What am I doing?" I echoed, my voice sounding strangely calm even to my own ears. "I'm saying goodbye. To everything you took from me. To everything you destroyed." I raised the axe, not to strike any person, but to strike the very foundation of their twisted world. The axe came down, again and again, on the walls, the furniture, the abhorrent art.
Kenton burst into the room, his face a mixture of fear and fury. "Stop it, Aurora! What are you doing? You're destroying your mother's home!"
"My mother's home?" I screamed, a raw, primal sound tearing from my throat. "This stopped being my mother's home the moment she walked in!" I pointed the axe at Celestine, who stood trembling behind him, her emerald dress a stark contrast to her pale face. "She poisoned it! You poisoned it! You all poisoned everything you touched!"
Celestine sobbed dramatically, clutching Kenton' s arm. "She' s insane, Kenton! Look at her! She needs help!"
"Yes, Celestine," I said, my voice dangerously low. "I am insane. Insane with grief, insane with rage. Thanks to you." I turned back to the easel, to the wooden box. My mother's ashes. The thought of Celestine ever touching them, ever daring to breathe her foul air near them, made me physically ill.
A new plan, born of desperation and the coldest fury, crystallized in my mind. I would fake a complete breakdown. They wanted to control me? They wanted to call me insane? Fine. I would be their worst nightmare.
With a chilling scream, I poured the contents of the wooden box, my mother's ashes, into a silk scarf. Then, with a savage roar, I flung the remaining ashes from the box at Kenton and Celestine, a ghostly cloud of desecration. "You want her?! Take her memories! Take her spirit! Just leave me out of your twisted games!" I shrieked, my body shaking with what looked like pure madness.
Kenton recoiled, gasping, as the fine grey dust settled on his expensive suit, on Celestine' s glittering dress. Their faces were aghast. They thought I had lost my mind. Good. That was the point.
"Aurora, stop!" Kenton pleaded, horror in his eyes.
I ignored him, my gaze sweeping over the opulent, stolen rooms. "This house is cursed!" I shrieked, my voice cracking. "With your lies! With your betrayals! With your filth!" Clutching the silk scarf to my chest, I pulled out a cigarette lighter from my pocket, a habit I had picked up in my wilder days. I flicked it open, the small flame dancing in the flickering light. "It needs to be cleansed! Purified by fire!"
And then, with a wild, maniacal laugh, I set fire to the heavy velvet curtains. The flames licked upwards, hungry and eager. The screams began then, not mine, but the horrified cries of the guests. Chaos erupted.
"She's burning the house down!" someone shrieked.
Kenton stared at me, his face a mask of utter devastation, a mixture of horror and betrayal. He lunged for me, but it was too late. The flames were already spreading, consuming the expensive fabrics, the tasteless art.
I ran, clutching the scarf, my mother's essence, to my chest. The smoke was thick, acrid. The heat intense. I didn't care. The house was burning. Their shrine of lies was burning. And as the flames consumed everything, a strange sense of peace settled over me. This was not the end. This was the beginning.
