Chapter 36 - Midnight Frustrations

As the sound of Lisbeth’s footsteps faded, Ayra sank back onto the bed, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself together. 

The room felt suffocatingly quiet now, the echoes of their argument still ringing in her ears.

Her hands shook as she rubbed her face, trying to steady her breathing. Every word Lisbeth had said replayed in her mind, cutting deeper with each repetition.

For the first time, Ayra felt a burning hatred toward her sister. It wasn’t just anger or frustration - it was something darker, something more final.

She thought of her mother. Of the quiet strength and teachings she’d tried to pass on to Ayra; of the way she’d always managed to keep her safe even when everything was falling apart.

She thought of her mother's death. Her cold, stiff corpse lying forlornly on the asphalt, blood pooling beneath her.

And now Lisbeth had trampled all over her memory, reducing her to nothing more than a failure.

And Ayra found within herself a rapidly blooming hatred and disdain for Lisbeth and their father. 

....

Hours later, Ayra found that she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, clutching her blanket as though it might somehow protect her from the thoughts swarming her head. 

However, no matter how tightly she closed her eyes, Lisbeth’s voice continued to cut through the darkness like a serrated knife.

Her sister’s words had been sharp before, sure, but this time they carried undertones far, far heavier. Something Ayra couldn’t shake. 

It wasn’t just the usual spiteful remarks or subtle - Okay, sometimes very obvious and blatant digs. There was something in the way Lisbeth called out their mother. 

The disdain in her voice, the scoff that followed. It was hateful, cruel even, and it didn’t just sting. It burned.

Ayra threw the blanket off her legs in frustration, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She sat up, gripping her knees, her jaw clenched tight. 

Why? Why had Lisbeth gone there? Their mother was the one thing she thought they both still cared about.

But no, that wasn’t right. Lisbeth hadn’t cared about much of anything besides herself for years. She was always chasing the next thing - the party invite, the perfect outfit. 

Lisbeth didn’t give a damn about family legacies or “duty.” She’d laughed at the concept every chance she got. And now she wanted to talk about honor and responsibility? It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Ayra raked her hands through her hair, trying to figure it out. Was this just Lisbeth being Lisbeth? 

Perhaps there was something more to it. She felt a knot form in her stomach. She and Lisbeth went way back. 

They were sisters, so perhaps it was a no brainer, but the hate and hostility from Lisbeth had begun after their mother died. Ayra could hazard a guess why. 

Perhaps she hated the fact that their mother has died in part because of Ayra. Trying to protect Ayra as it were. 

Secondly, while Lisbeth had always been closer to their father, Ayra had been his undisputed favorite. Ferdinand would never admit it but it was rather plain to see. 

With a huff, Ayra swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wasn’t getting anywhere like this. 

The faint moonlight slipping through the curtains outlined her small desk and the scattered papers on it. But it wasn’t enough to distract her.

“I need something to clear my head,” she muttered, grabbing the cardigan draped over the chair and slipping it on.

The house was dead silent as Ayra padded down the hall. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the hardwood, but the faint creaks of the old house felt louder than they should’ve. 

She hated how empty everything felt, like the house itself was holding its breath.

The kitchen light buzzed faintly as it came on, flooding the room with its cold, artificial glow. Ayra blinked against it, her eyes adjusting as she made her way to the fridge.

It was all muscle memory - grab the milk, find a glass, pour, sip.

The cool drink soothed her dry throat, but it didn’t do much for her swirling thoughts. Leaning against the counter, she stared at the floor tiles, her mind pulling her back to Lisbeth.

Her sister’s anger wasn’t new, but this wasn’t just anger, was it? It was more than that. Obsession, maybe. 

With Ayra’s choices, with her compliance. But why now? What was the point? Lisbeth never cared about anyone else’s life, let alone their family’s 'reputation'.

Unless… unless she was scared.

The thought struck Ayra like a slap. Lisbeth? Scared? It sounded ridiculous even in her own head. Lisbeth didn’t do fear. 

She was the picture of poise, always. But Ayra couldn’t ignore the way her sister’s voice had cracked, just for a second. It wasn’t much, but it was there.

“Fear,” Ayra said under her breath, testing the word out loud. She frowned at the sound of it. Fear of what, though?

Her gaze shifted to the window over the sink, its dark glass reflecting her faintly. She couldn’t see anything outside, but the shadows beyond seemed to press against the house like they were waiting.

Just as she was taking another sip of her milk, a faint creak reached her ears. Ayra froze, the glass pausing mid-air. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Her eyes darted to the doorway. Her chest tightened. She set the glass down as quietly as she could, her breathing shallow as she strained to listen.

Nothing.

Still, the unease in her chest only grew. She tiptoed toward the hall, peeking her head out, her heart pounding in her ears. The hallway was empty, just as it had been minutes before.

Returning to the kitchen, Ayra’s nerves refused to settle. She gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white, and let out a shaky breath. 

It wasn’t just the noise unsettling her. It was everything - Lisbeth, the argument, the past few days.

Lucian’s face flickered in her mind, uninvited. His calm, steady presence had been a lifeline more than once. And yet, she didn’t trust him. 

Not completely. He was too… controlled. Too much like Lisbeth in that way.

“God,” she muttered, pressing her palms against her temples. Everyone around her had layers upon layers of motives, and she was stuck trying to peel them all back while her own life felt like it was crumbling.

The memories of the past few days began to resurface—her escape, the chase, the men with guns, the safe house with Lucian. And now this. It was too much. 

She felt like a pawn on a chessboard, moved by forces she didn’t understand, surrounded by players with their own agendas.

Her thoughts flicked to Lucian, his calm yet commanding presence. The way he had treated her with unexpected warmth, the quiet way he had offered her comfort without demanding explanations. 

Lucian was an enigma—cold and calculating one moment, almost tender the next.

She shook her head, trying to push the thought of him aside. He was another complication she didn’t need.

Then she froze as something occurred to her belatedly. 

If... Just what if this was all a ruse to push her to Lucian? Lisbeth would make her life here a living hell and Lucian would give her warmth and 'kindness'. That sort of stuff. 

If it were, it was only natural she would gravitate to Lucian due to some sort of suspension bridge effect. After they got married, Lucian would have no need to keep up his 'warm and caring' persona. 

Ayra ran a hand through her hair. She had no idea what to believe. Would The Director of all things resort to such a cheap trick?

She thought not.