"SHE'S NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE," THEY WARNED HIM — HE SMILED AND SAID "I'LL DECIDE THAT"

"SHE'S NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE," THEY WARNED HIM — HE SMILED AND SAID "I'LL DECIDE THAT" "She is not worth the trouble," my stepmother’s voice, a silken cord woven with poison, drifted from the drawing-room. I was standing just outside, in the shadow of a great stone archway, my designated place for the evening. To be present, but not seen. A living ghost in my own home. "Look at her, Valerius," she continued, her tone shifting to one of feigned pity, a weapon she wielded with surgical precision. "Plain, quiet, and utterly devoid of the necessary sparkle. We will be lucky to marry her off to a country vicar with a crumbling parish."My father, Lord Valerius, murmured something inaudible, a sound of weak protest swallowed by the grandeur of the ballroom beyond. I did not need to see him to picture his expression: the familiar pinch of discomfort around his eyes, the slight downturn of his lips, the weary resignation of a man who had long ago traded his spine for a quiet life. He would not defend me. He never did.