Chapter Text
I was sixteen the night my father decided I wasn’t enough.
Ross Turner didn’t need to shout to make his point. His silence was worse. His gaze was sharper than knives, lingering like he was measuring me, calculating all the places I fell short. Jace sat across the table from me, quiet, his jaw tight. He didn’t need to say anything—I could already feel the comparison. He was everything my father wanted. And me? I was the mistake.
“You’re useless like this,” Dad finally said, his voice even, steady, like he was delivering a business order instead of ripping through me. “Sixteen years wasted. I should have started you years ago. You’ll begin training immediately. I won’t wait until eighteen. I won’t make that mistake again.”
The words landed like a punch, knocking the air from my chest. I tried not to flinch, but my hands curled into fists under the table. Jace’s eyes flicked toward me, something unreadable in them—pity, maybe—but he didn’t speak. He never did when it came to Dad. Neither of us did.
Jace was my brother, older by two years, and already molded into everything Ross Turner wanted. He was the heir, the golden boy. Strong, disciplined, sharp-edged. I wasn’t. And that was the problem.
That night marked the end of whatever childhood I thought I had.
Training began before dawn. My body wasn’t ready for it—the weight of the blows, the sting of barked orders, the endless drills until my lungs burned and my legs gave out. But giving up wasn’t an option. Not in this house. When I stumbled, he called me weak. When I cried, he called me pathetic. And when I bled, he told me to get used to it.
Taylor never noticed, not really. She was my best friend, the only piece of normal I had. She thought my dad was strict in the usual way, the way parents could be sometimes. She’d text me asking why I was so tired all the time, why I skipped sleepovers or bailed on plans. If she knew the truth—the bruises under my clothes, the aching in my bones—she never said. And I never told her.
Jace tried, in his own quiet way. He’d slip me water when I was too exhausted to move, whisper advice on how to get through a drill without breaking. But he couldn’t protect me from Dad’s standards. No one could.
Because Ross Turner didn’t see me as his daughter anymore. He saw me as a project. A tool. A soldier to be sharpened before I was ready. And even if I didn’t realize it then, the moment he decided I was “useless” was the moment he began to carve away pieces of me.
Sixteen years old, and already I was learning that survival in my family wasn’t about living.
It was about becoming something else entirely.
By the time my father finally called it a night, I couldn’t move. I was sprawled on the cold basement floor, sweat clinging to my skin, my arms trembling so hard I could barely lift them. My body felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to me anymore. Every inch of me ached, my knees bruised, my palms stinging raw from the rope burns.
I had thought training meant practice. Drills. Maybe even something that looked like discipline. But this wasn’t training—it was punishment.
Dad stood over me for a long moment, his shadow stretching across the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if I could stand. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. He just turned, his footsteps steady and sharp, and climbed the stairs. The heavy door shut behind him with a final thud.
Like I wasn’t his daughter.
Like I was nothing worth staying for.
The silence was crushing. My chest heaved as I stared at the ceiling beams above me, the sting in my throat building until I pressed my lips together hard to stop the sob. I refused to cry. Not where he might hear me.
The door creaked open again. My head snapped toward the stairs, bracing for him—but it wasn’t Dad. It was Jace.
He moved down quickly, two steps at a time, until he was crouched beside me. His eyes darted over my face, my bruises, the way my arms shook. His jaw clenched, like he was angry—but not at me. Never at me.
“Mil…” His voice cracked, and he reached out, brushing damp hair off my forehead. “God, I’m so sorry.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat almost too much. “He thinks I’m useless.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, broken and small.
Jace shook his head fiercely. “Don’t you ever believe that. Not for a second.” His voice was low but firm, like he was daring me to argue. “You’re strong, Mila. Stronger than you even realize. He—” He stopped, biting his lip, fighting with the truth. “He doesn’t see it. But I do. I’ve always seen it.”
I let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Strong doesn’t feel like… not being able to get off the floor.”
His eyes softened. He sat all the way down beside me, pulling me gently into his arms. My body leaned against him before I even thought about it, too exhausted to fight. His shirt was damp with my sweat, but he didn’t care. He held me like I was breakable and precious all at once.
“You will get up,” he whispered into my hair. “Even when you don’t think you can. That’s who you are. You keep fighting. That’s what makes you stronger than him.”
The words made my throat burn. I wanted to believe him, to soak up every ounce of the certainty in his voice. But the ache in my body and the hollow space in my chest told me otherwise.
Jace tilted my chin until I met his eyes. His were shining, almost glassy, though he was holding it back. “Listen to me. You’ll be okay. You’re not alone in this, alright? You’ve got me. Always.”
Something inside me cracked then, the tears spilling over before I could stop them. I hated crying in front of anyone, but Jace didn’t flinch. He held me tighter, one hand rubbing my back like he used to when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.
For a moment, I let myself sink into it—into him. Into the one person who made me feel like I wasn’t drowning in this house.
When he finally helped me to my feet, my body shook with the effort, but I stood. Not because I felt strong, but because Jace’s hand was steady at my side, holding me up until I could hold myself.
And maybe that was enough.
Sixteen, and already I understood: my father would keep breaking me down. But Jace would keep reminding me there were still pieces worth saving.
he next morning, every muscle in my body screamed when I moved. My arms ached when I reached for the alarm, my legs felt like lead when I swung them out of bed. There were bruises on my knees, rope burns on my palms, and a dull throbbing in my ribs where Dad’s hand had shoved me down one too many times.
I stood in front of the mirror and tugged the sleeves of my hoodie over my wrists. The fabric scratched against the raw skin, but I pulled it tighter anyway. If Jace noticed at breakfast, he didn’t say anything—just slid the cereal box toward me, his eyes soft, protective, like he was still carrying last night in his chest.
Dad didn’t even look at me.
My phone buzzed on the table. A text lit up the screen.
Taylor : morningggg Mil !! want me 2 walk w/ u today?
I stared at it for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. My body was exhausted, but Taylor didn’t know that. She never did. To her, I was just tired from school, stressed from life in a strict house. Not broken down by midnight training sessions in the basement.
I forced my fingers to type back: yeah, sure. meet u in 10.
When I stepped outside, the sun was already climbing, warm against my face. It felt wrong—too bright for the heaviness in my bones. Taylor waved from the sidewalk, all smiles, her blonde hair catching the light like she’d never known anything darker than a math test or a crush.
“Hey!” she grinned, looping her arm through mine the second I reached her. “You look exhausted. Did you stay up all night again?”
I laughed softly, even though it came out more like a sigh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
She nudged me playfully. “One of these days, you’re gonna crash in class and drool all over your desk. I’m calling it now.”
Her voice was teasing, light, everything my world wasn’t. I nodded, letting her chatter fill the silence I couldn’t. I didn’t tell her about the bruises under my sleeves, or how my ribs hurt when I laughed. I didn’t tell her that the reason I was tired wasn’t homework, but my father deciding sixteen years was too long to wait before he broke me.
With Taylor, I didn’t have to. She saw me as normal. And for the few minutes walking beside her, I let myself pretend I was.
But the soreness in my body reminded me with every step: normal wasn’t mine to have. Not anymore.
That night, my muscles were screaming again, but the basement was empty this time, and I let myself crawl to my room instead of collapsing on the floor. The house was quiet, except for the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.
“Mila! Dinner!” my mom’s voice called from downstairs. It sounded normal enough, but my stomach twisted. Dinner had never been simple in our house.
I trudged down, my hoodie still hiding the bruises on my arms. The smell of steak hit me immediately, thick and savory, and my stomach dropped. On the table, everyone else had a juicy, cooked-to-perfection steak. I had a salad. Just lettuce. No dressing. No meat.
I poked at it with my fork, trying not to look up.
“Why… why do I get salad?” I asked quietly, hoping my voice didn’t betray my shaking hands.
Dad’s gaze landed on me like a hammer. “You need to lose weight, Mila. You’re wasting time sitting there. At your age, you should be disciplined, not soft.”
I felt a pang in my chest, sharper than any physical pain from training. I barely had the words to respond, but before I could, Mom chimed in.
“Yes, honey, your father’s right. Eating like everyone else isn’t going to help you reach your potential.”
I looked at her, eyes wide, searching for any hint of softness or hesitation. There was none. Just agreement.
I turned my fork in my salad, the cold leaves tasting like nothing, my appetite gone entirely. Jace sat beside me, his own plate full, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he placed his hand over mine briefly, just a ghost of contact, a quiet lifeline. His eyes were full of worry, almost pleading.
“You’re okay,” he whispered when he thought I wasn’t looking. “I know it feels like shit now, but you’re strong. You’ll make it through.”
I nodded, forcing a small smile I didn’t feel. I didn’t dare speak, because anything I said could set Dad off. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. I pushed the salad around my plate, each bite a reminder that I was trapped—not just in this dinner, but in a world where love and food came with conditions, where Jace could only give me quiet support instead of protection.
And still, I ate.
Because there was no other choice.
I poked at the salad once, then shoved my fork down with a clatter and stood abruptly. “I’m done,” I muttered, my voice tighter than I intended. Without another word, I stormed out of the kitchen, the silence behind me so heavy it felt like it followed me up the stairs.
I didn’t hear Dad’s footsteps immediately, but they came fast enough. Before I could reach my room, he was there, the air thick with anger. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm, yanking me back. I tried to pull away, tried to say something, but he was faster, harsher. The pain hit, sharp and burning, but I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t.
When it was over, I slumped to the floor of my room, tears burning my eyes, hands shaking. My body ached, my pride was in tatters, but the rage inside me was hotter than anything else. I swallowed the sobs, forcing them down.
I stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across my walls. I can’t stay like this. I won’t.
That night, in the quiet aftermath of pain and fear, a decision formed in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t Mila anymore. She was soft, weak, scared. I would bury her.
From now on… I would be someone else. Someone strong. Someone unbroken. Someone who wouldn’t let anyone—no one—control her again.
I clenched my fists, feeling the first, tentative sparks of the fire that would consume me, reshape me. And even though the tears still fell, even though my body still ached, I smiled a little.
Mila was gone. And in her place… something new was beginning.
That was also two years ago.