CHAPTER TWELVE

Maya stood in the silence of her parents' empty house, a grand structure that had once been her childhood home but felt more like a cold, sterile museum of privilege. Her parents, Nathaniel, and his perfect girlfriend had left for the evening—off to some glamorous outing where appearances mattered more than presence. The place was hers, but it wasn't home. It never had been.

Every corner of the house whispered memories she'd rather forget—disapproving stares, sharp words, the constant weight of expectation. Even the decor felt impersonal, more like a luxury hotel than a living, breathing space filled with warmth and life. Unlike the Rez, where doors were always open, homes were filled with laughter, and the air smelled of freshly cooked meals, this house was a monument to achievement and status. It lacked the one thing she had come to cherish: love.

Maya wandered aimlessly through the rooms, letting her fingers trail along the polished furniture. The sterile perfection of it all seemed even more oppressive now that she had experienced something different—something real. Her aimless exploration soon led her to her mother's office.

She stopped at the door, a frown tugging at her lips. This room had always been forbidden, a place she had never dared enter. But as she stood there, the memory of her mother's sharp warnings faded beneath a wave of indifference. What did it matter now? The rules of this house had long since stopped applying to her.

Pushing the door open, Maya stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood. The office was immaculate, not a single item out of place. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that looked more for show than actual use. A large mahogany desk stood at the centre, pristine and commanding, as if its very presence demanded reverence.

She approached the desk slowly, her hand sliding across its smooth surface. It was too big, too polished—like everything else in this house, it screamed of superficiality. Pulling out the chair, she sank into it and wrinkled her nose. The weight of the room pressed down on her, a heavy reminder of the future her parents had once planned for her. If she hadn't been sent to La Push if she hadn't been freed from their grip, she could very well be destined for a place just like this—a sterile office, a life of endless responsibilities, a hollow existence built on performance.

For a brief moment, she felt a flicker of pity for Nathaniel. Whatever her feelings for him now, she couldn't deny that he had been forced to bear the burden of their parents' ambitions alone. The work that should have been split between them had fallen entirely on his shoulders when she failed to live up to their expectations. But that pity faded quickly, replaced by a cold realization: he had chosen his path, just as they all had. And she was done caring.

Lost in thought, Maya began idly pulling open the desk drawers. Most were filled with the usual—documents, neatly arranged office supplies—but one caught her attention. A false panel inside the deepest drawer was slightly ajar. Curiosity prickled at the back of her mind as she tugged at it.

It didn't give easily. She bit her lip and tried again, her determination growing with each failed attempt. Minutes passed before the panel finally gave way with a reluctant creak, revealing its hidden contents. Her fingers brushed against a thick leather-bound book and a manila folder.

Her pulse quickened. The book, heavy and worn, looked like a diary or a ledger, but it could wait. She set it aside on her lap and opened the folder first.

Her eyes scanned the top page—and then froze.

It was her birth certificate.

Maya's breath caught as her gaze travelled down the page, her heart hammering louder with every second. Her eyes locked on the section that listed her parents' names.

Her mother's name was as expected. But the name under "Father" wasn't Mario Cruz.

It was another name—one she knew all too well.

A name she had heard countless times growing up, spoken fondly by her parents, mentioned at dinners and family events. A man who had been a constant presence, always just on the periphery of her life.

It was her father's best friend.

"What the fuck?" she whispered, her voice barely audible as she leaned back in the chair.

The folder slipped from her fingers, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Her mind raced, a chaotic storm of questions and half-formed thoughts.

All those times she had seen him, the way he had smiled at her, the warmth in his eyes—was it all because he had known? Had he known who she truly was while she had lived in ignorance? Had her father—no, Mario—known?

Her chest tightened, and she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as a sharp, bitter truth settled into place.

Nothing in this house was as it seemed.

Nothing ever had been.

Maya sat frozen in the chair, her breath coming in shallow bursts as the weight of her discovery sank in. The birth certificate with its damning truth lay on the floor beside her, a tangible reminder that her entire life had been a carefully curated lie. She clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white, her mind churning with questions that had no easy answers.

Why hadn't they told me? Did they think I would never find out?

Her thoughts spiralled as the name of her biological father echoed in her mind. Every memory of him now took on a new, sharper edge—his frequent visits, the way he had always shown her more kindness than Mario ever had, the fleeting moments of warmth that, in hindsight, felt more like the affection of a father than that of a family friend.

The silence of the room pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. She felt a bitter laugh bubble in her throat, but it never escaped. Instead, she leaned forward and picked up the birth certificate again, her fingers trembling.

Her eyes scanned the paper once more as if reading it again would somehow change the words. But the truth remained, stark and undeniable. She wasn't the daughter of Mario Cruz. She was someone else entirely.

The thick leather book sat on her lap, forgotten for a moment. But now her curiosity reignited. If this was a diary or some kind of record, it might hold even more answers. Swallowing the knot of dread that had lodged itself in her throat, she flipped it open.

The handwriting was elegant, almost too perfect, as if each letter had been written with precise care. The first few pages were filled with musings about social events, family finances, and networking—the kind of superficial details she would expect from her mother. But a few pages in, the tone shifted.

She read slowly, the words sinking in like stones:

"The guilt gnaws at me more than I expected. I thought I could hide it, that time would dull the sharp edges, but it only grows worse. Every time I look at her, I see him. Every time Mario smiles at her, oblivious to the truth, I feel my own betrayal mirrored back at me."

Maya's breath hitched. Her. The entry was about her.

The next passage confirmed it:

"I had no choice. Mario would never have understood. It had to be this way—for her sake, for the sake of the family. If anyone ever found out..."

Her pulse raced as she flipped through more pages, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts. Entry after entry detailed the tangled web of lies her mother had woven, the choices she had made to protect her social standing and her reputation.

And all at Maya's expense.

Her chest tightened painfully as she slammed the book shut. She felt sick, her stomach twisting into knots. She wanted to scream, to break something, to shatter the pristine silence of this cold, sterile house.

Instead, she stood. The chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it back with more force than necessary. Clutching the book and the birth certificate, she paced the length of the office, her emotions crashing over her in relentless waves—anger, sorrow, confusion, and a raw, aching sense of betrayal.

She stopped in front of the tall window that overlooked the perfectly manicured backyard. The view felt artificial, just like everything else here. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—familiar, yet now a stranger in her own eyes.

With a sharp exhale, she muttered, "I don't belong here."

The words hung in the air, and for the first time, they didn't sting. They felt right. She didn't belong in this house or with these people who had lied to her, manipulated her life, and expected her to fall in line without question.

Her real family was elsewhere.

In La Push, she wasn't a secret or a burden. She was Maya, and she was loved for who she truly was, not for some image of perfection her parents had tried to mould her into.

She felt a calm determination settle over her like a steadying breath. She would confront them. Not because she needed their explanations or their apologies—she didn't care about their justifications. She would confront them because they needed to know that their lies no longer had power over her.

With one last glance at the cold, empty room, she whispered, "I'm done."

And she meant it.