"Joshua yanked my hair so hard that I..." - Read Full Novel
Novel: Mango Juice Allergic
Elara Vance signed her own surgical consent form with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking.
Her appendix had burst during her sister's 18th birthday party. She'd called her fiancĂŠ, her brother, her parents. Nobody picked up. Marcus Thorne, the man she was supposed to marry, texted back: *Stop being dramatic. We'll talk after the cake.*
Three days in the hospital. Zero visitors. Zero calls.
She checked herself out, driving home with stitches still fresh across her abdomen. The front door was unlocked. Laughter spilled out like poison.
Her family was gathered in the living room. Marcus sat on the couch with Celeste tucked under his arm. The moment Elara walked in, he jerked away.
"You disappeared for days," Liam snarled. "Couldn't stand seeing Celeste happy, could you?"
Elara said nothing. She just walked toward her room.
Margaret intercepted her with a glass of juice. "We missed your calls during the party. Don't be mad." The glass was cold. It smelled like mango.
Elara froze. Her throat tightened just looking at it.
"I'm not mad." She tried to hand it back.
Robert slammed the table. "Your mother apologized! Drink it!"
Her heart twisted. Tears blurred her vision. She lifted the glass and drained it in one gulp.
"I'm allergic to mangoes," she whispered. "But it doesn't matter now."
Silence. Then Robert's voice: "You should've said something earlier. You're nothing like Celeste."
Celeste's eyes glittered from the couch. "Don't be mean to her, Dad." Her words were honey. Her smile was venom.
Elara's skin began to itch.
She turned to climb the stairs. Marcus grabbed her wrist. "Let's postpone the wedding. Celeste wants to see the Northern Lights. We'll take the whole family."
"Sure," Elara said. "Cancel it."
She nodded. The itching was spreading. Her face felt hot.
As she reached the second floor, Liam yanked her hair. She tumbled down the stairs.
"Celeste is an adult now! Stop ignoring her!"
Pain exploded in her knees. Her chest burned.
Liam shoved her into the storage room. The lock clicked.
"Let me out! I need my allergy medication!" Elara screamed through the door.
"I made a reservation at a seafood restaurant," Liam said, walking away.
"Come on, Joel," Robert added. "She'll be fine in there for a few hours."
The front door slammed shut.
Elara pounded the wood until her fists bled. Her throat was closing. Her vision was fading. She found her phone in the corner.
She called Marcus. He didn't answer.
She called her parents. Nothing.
A text from Liam popped up: *Don't come to Starlight Cove with us. You'll make Celeste sad.*
Elara dialed emergency services.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. She gave them the address. The door finally burst open.
# CHAPTER 2: THE OBEDIENT DAUGHTER
The hospital discharge papers were still warm in her hands when Elara returned to the family home.
Three days after the ambulance.
Three days after her lungs nearly sealed shut inside a storage closet.
She climbed the porch steps slowly, each one a negotiation with her still-healing body. The stitches pulled. Her throat felt raw, scraped hollow from the tube they'd shoved down it.
The front door was unlocked again.
The living room smelled like roses. Celeste's birthday flowers were still arranged on the mantelpiece. A single wilted petal lay on the carpet like a dropped promise.
Margaret emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes went wide, then soft, then calculatingâthree expressions in two seconds.
Elara smiled. It felt strange on her face, like a mask she'd forgotten how to wear.
"The hospital discharged me this morning."
"Already?" Margaret's gaze dropped to the stitches visible at Elara's collar. "Are you sure you should beâ"
"I'm fine." Elara kept her voice light. "I wanted to apologize."
Margaret blinked. "Apologize?"
"For causing drama at Celeste's party." Elara stepped closer, her hands clasped behind her back. "I should have told everyone about my allergy before. That was my fault. I let my emotions get in the way."
Her mother's face cracked into something like relief. "Oh, honey. That's very mature of you."
"I want to make it up to Celeste."
Silence. Margaret studied her like a piece of furniture that had suddenly started talking.
"I'd like to host a belated 18th-birthday gala for her." Elara's smile widened. "A proper celebration. All expenses paid by me."
The word *greed* flickered across Margaret's features. A twitch in her left eye. A small, unconscious lean forward.
"I've been saving for the wedding." Elara let her voice falter. "But the wedding isn't happening, is it?"
Margaret looked away. "Marcus just needs timeâ"
"Of course." Elara nodded. "So I'll use the money for Celeste. She deserves something beautiful."
That evening, she sat at the dinner table for the first time in months.
Robert didn't look at her. Liam didn't speak to her. Celeste smiled from across the table, all porcelain sweetness.
"You're so sweet, Ellie," Celeste said, twirling pasta around her fork. "But I don't want you to overexert yourself. You just got out of the hospital."
"I'm fine." Elara cut her chicken into small, precise pieces. "I want to do this for you."
"You almost died," Celeste said softly. "Maybe you should rest."
"Resting is boring." Elara met her sister's eyes. "And I want to prove I can be a good sister."
Celeste's smile flickered.
Then it returned, brighter than before.
Elara opened the family laptop. She knew the password. She'd always known the password.
She accessed the shared bank account. The one Robert used for "household expenses."
Three hours of digging. She found the pattern she'd suspectedâsmall transfers to an offshore account, routed through a shell company her father had registered in the Caymans.
Twenty-three thousand dollars over two years.
She took screenshots. Saved them in a folder labeled *Gala Budget.*
Elara volunteered to handle the venue booking. Robert gave her his credit card.
"Don't spend too much," he warned.
She drove to a printing shop. Scanned the card. Copied the number. Stored it in her phone.
That night, she found Liam's laptop left open in his room. His crypto wallet was synced to his email.
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Stolen. From their grandmother's inheritance fund. The one their mother didn't know existed.
She copied the transaction history.
Then she closed the laptop and went downstairs to eat dinner with her family.
"Hey." His voice was hollow. "I heard you're planning the gala."
"I am." Elara balanced the phone on her shoulder while scrolling through his bank statements. He'd used his secret credit cardâthe one she'd helped him open last yearâto buy a necklace. Thirteen hundred dollars.
The gift was in Celeste's room now.
"You're being really mature about this," Marcus said.
"I think we should talk. When I'm back from the trip."
She hung up. Opened the hidden camera feed from Celeste's bedroomâinstalled last month when Celeste claimed someone was "stealing her jewelry."
The recording caught her sister laughing into her phone.
"I just had to cry a little and Dad cut her off. Elara's so pathetic. She thinks Marcus will marry her? Please. He's already mine."
She planted the voice recorder behind the living room couch.
Tiny device. Twelve hours of recording. She'd bought it with cash.
That night, she lay awake in her childhood bed, earbuds in, listening.
Crickets. Television static. Her mother's soft footsteps.
Then Robert's voice, low and gravelly: "We need to talk about the trust fund."
Margaret: "Not now. She might hear."
"She's upstairs. She can't hear anything from up there."
Silence. A glass being refilled.
"If Elara kicks the bucket, Celeste gets the trust fund. Problem solved."
Elara's hand trembled against her chest.
She pressed the earbuds deeper.
"Robert, don't say that."
"I'm saying it. The girl's a liability. Always has been. If she dies, we're free."
"From her. From her neediness. From her drama."
The recording continued. Her father's voice. Her mother's silence.
Elara smiled in the darkness.
The first anniversary of her first betrayal.
Ninety-nine days of invisible pain.
She walked downstairs with fresh stitches and a serene smile.
"The venue is booked," she announced. "Waterfront. Open bar. Three hundred guests."
Robert's eyebrows rose. "Three hundred?"
"Only the most important people." She handed him a list. "Your entire business network. The mayor. Two city council members. The editor of the local paper."
He scanned the names. His expression shifted from suspicion to pride.
"You did all this in four days?"
"I wanted to prove myself." Elara tilted her head. "I want to be useful."
Celeste emerged from the kitchen, still in pajamas. "What's happening?"
"Your gala," Elara said. "I'm putting it together."
"You... actually did it?"
Celeste's face twisted. She couldn't find the flaw. She couldn't find the catch.
She forced a smile. "Thank you, sis."
"Of course." Elara touched Celeste's shoulder. "I'd do anything for family."
Elara felt it. A small victory. The first of many.
That night, she sat alone in her room.
The laptop glowed on her desk. Every file was copied. Every password breached. Every secret catalogued.
She looked at her reflection in the dark window.
The stitches were coming out tomorrow.
The gala was in six days.
*One more week,* she thought. *One more week of silence.*
A text from Marcus: *We land tomorrow. Can we meet for coffee?*
She typed: *Busy with the gala.*
She stared at the words. Three months ago, they would have made her cry.
She deleted the conversation.
Her mother had bought mango juice again. It was in the refrigerator, waiting for morning.
She just listened to the house breathe around her, counting the minutes until she could burn it all down.
The next morning, she woke to a notification.
The voice recorder had captured her parents' argument at 3 AM.
Margaret: *"She's changed. She's being nice now."*
Robert: *"She's hiding something."*
Margaret: *"What could she possibly do?"*
Then her father's voice, colder than the tile floor at the hospital:
*"She doesn't know her portion of the trust fund is half of Celeste's. If she finds out, she'll sue."*
*"I won't. But I've been watching her. She's too calm. Too cooperative. Something's coming."*
*"I'm careful. And when the gala is over, I'm writing her out completely. She'll get nothing."*
Her father had given her the final piece.
Now she just needed an audience.
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