Chapter 1: Bloody Footprints in the Mansion

Mom is the heroine of what you might call a 'pampered wife' romance novel—a story where the main character is adored, protected, and spoiled, at least on the surface. Not that most people in America would recognize the genre, but think of it like a 'trophy wife' romance with a dark twist.

But this wasn't the kind of love story you see on TV, like something out of a Hallmark movie, where the heroine's eyes shine with hope and every problem magically disappears by the next commercial break. No, my mom was the main character in a story that always felt too real—a story where the happy ending dangled just out of reach, no matter how much you wished for it.

I'm the kid my dads only wanted so Mom would finally give in.

The first time I saw Mom, she was wrapped up in Carter's arms—he's the one I called Dad Carter, though not like most families would use it—being coaxed into swallowing her medicine. Her cheeks were flushed, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

That memory is sharp as broken glass, slicing through the haze of my earliest years. I can still smell the antiseptic in the air, feel the chill of the room, hear Dad Carter's voice shifting from gentle to commanding. Mom's eyes never quite met mine; she was so heartbreakingly beautiful and so far away, even as her tears hovered on the edge. That image—her cradled like something precious but breakable, fighting to keep her dignity—has haunted me ever since.

The last time I saw Mom, she was a shadow of herself, leaving bloody footprints as she climbed up from the basement. Her body was wasted away, her skin stretched tight over sharp bones, every step a struggle.

It was the kind of night when the world seemed to hold its breath. The house was too quiet, the shadows stretched long and thin. The basement door creaked open, and there she was—her nightgown clinging to her, streaked with blood. Every step left a mark, a ghostly trail across the cold tile. I remember the air felt heavy, suffocating, like the whole house was bracing for something to shatter. My chest tightened, waiting for the world to split apart.

"Zoey, run. They want to raise another pampered wife."

She took a shaky breath before she spoke, her voice ragged and raw from pain and fear. There was no time for explanations, just that desperate plea. She pressed her trembling hands to my cheeks, her eyes wild and searching, and something inside me snapped. I knew, right then, that she was right—if I stayed, they'd never let either of us go.

I held Mom with one arm, and with the other, I flicked open a butterfly knife, my hand steady from practice. I'd had to learn.

The blade flashed in the dim light, sharp and cold. My grip didn't waver—I knew from too young an age that no one else would ever save us. Mom's breath hitched, but I squeezed her shoulder, giving her a look that said, I'm not scared anymore. I wasn't going to be afraid—not now, not ever again.

"Mom, don't be scared. They're going straight to hell."

The words came out icy, but my heart hammered so hard it felt like it might punch through my chest. I wanted her to believe me, to see I was strong enough for both of us. I wanted her to know I wouldn't let them win—not this time.

I was born into a family that looked perfect on the outside but was twisted underneath. I have three dads.

Not three fathers in the gentle, modern sense—no, these were three men who each wanted to own my mother, circling her like wolves in designer suits. Our house was a mansion—huge, cold, filled with things that cost a fortune but never felt like home. I learned early to move quietly, keep my head down, and never draw attention unless I was ready for trouble.

Each dad is obsessed with my mom. They call her "baby," dress her up in designer gowns, treating her like a living doll.

I've watched them parade her around at parties, showing her off like a prize. They'd brush her hair, adjust her jewelry, and talk to her in voices that sounded sweet, but there was always something sharp underneath. Sometimes, when they thought no one was looking, I'd catch a glimpse of something darker—a grip that lingered too long, a smile that never reached their eyes. It always made my stomach twist.

We had more than thirty staff at the house, each assigned to tend to Mom's every need.