On Natalie's lips, scarlet blood had congealed into a dark stain, like a silent flower of death. The bruises on her back were hidden beneath her rough fabric dress, more like unmentionable marks of captivity. She whispered, her voice fractured but imbued with an iron resolve: "Maria, I stopped being worthy of being a lady long ago." She refused the maid's plea to report them, a mocking curve playing on her lips. "They simply don't care," she scoffed. She cast aside the blue gown, as falsely serene as a lake, opting instead for the simplest grey. This was not humility, but a declaration of war. Downstairs, Grandpa Parsons' birthday banquet was a cacophony of merriment, light and shadow dancing, concealing countless unspoken lies. Every step Natalie took down the staircase felt like treading on broken glass, her eyes holding silent defiance, yet a cold scrutiny simmered deep within. "Natalie, why aren't you wearing the dress I picked out for you?" Her adoptive mother, Mrs. Parsons, shot her a look that was an ice pick aimed straight at her heart. Alex's father, a man whose words were laced with venom, was as cruel as ever, adding with a sneer: "She doesn't deserve it. Some people are just born without any sense of elegance." Monica, the 'true' daughter, covered her mouth to conceal a triumphant laugh, her smugness glaringly obvious under the opulent lights. Their contempt was like layer upon layer of shackles, seeking to nail her down once more. However, Grandpa Parsons' world-weary eyes, usually so insightful, were now burning with fury. His usual benevolent kindness was gone, replaced by the calm before a storm. "Who is this injured girl? Didn't you tell me she was studying abroad? Is this how you treat her?" Each word he uttered landed with resonant force, tearing straight through the meticulously woven lies of the Parsons couple. As they stammered out their denials, Grandpa's voice was sharp and decisive, imbued with an undeniable authority, like a sudden verdict: "This marriage, I will decide. If Natalie wants it, it is hers." Monica's face went ashen, as if all breath had been suddenly choked from her, while Alex's jaw tightened, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes. This momentary shift in equilibrium made a subtle intent to kill blossom in Natalie's heart. At dinner, a bowl of unsettlingly thick lentil soup sat before Natalie. Her adoptive mother, Mrs. Parsons, smiled, a knife-edge glinting in her eyes: "I made this especially for you." Natalie stared at the soup, a chill spiraling from her spine straight to her brain. Memories surged like a tide, terrifyingly vivid: two indistinct girls, forcing her head into a bucket of murky, brown liquid, their mocking laughter echoing in her ears: "Drink it all up!" Now, the same suffocating sensation, the same deadly threat, permeated the dining table. "Drink the soup," her adoptive father's voice coiled around her, like a cold serpent's tongue. Natalie picked up her spoon, her fingertips icy cold, fear and resolute determination intertwined in the depths of her eyes. This bowl of soup was poison, and also her hunting ground. Natalie was once the Parson family's cherished daughter, but her world was shattered when Monica was