His Wounded Bird

The curtains were closed again.

Suzi didn’t remember when she closed them last, or if it had been her at all. Maybe her mother had done it quietly while Rodrigo shouted at the housekeeper in the hall.

Or maybe the wind had pushed them shut the way it sometimes did in this old house, as if even the weather understood shame.

She sat cross-legged on the carpet in her room, an open sketchpad in her lap and charcoal dust on her fingertips. The page stared back at her, half-finished, like always. A single eye. A curl of hair. A mouth, slightly parted. The kind of face people might stop for. She always stopped before the rest of it came.

Because she never knew how to draw the other side.

Her hand paused near her cheek. The skin there always felt warmer. She didn’t need to look to know it was red today. It always flared up when she was nervous. Or sad. Or simply… breathing.

She scratched lightly at the edge of her birthmark, then pulled her sleeve back down even though no one was watching.

“Suzi?” her mother’s voice was muffled and soft. She never shouted at Suzi, not like her father did. “Come eat something, sweetheart.”

Suzi didn’t answer right away. But her stomach betrayed her with a low, traitorous growl.

“I’ll come in a minute,” she said.

The doorknob didn’t turn. Her mother never pushed. It was the only kindness left in the house.

When the footsteps faded, Suzi set her sketchpad aside and stood. Her mirror had a scarf draped over it. She hadn’t looked at her own reflection in two weeks. Maybe more. But she still checked the scarf, just to make sure it hadn’t slipped.

Downstairs, the house was too quiet. Rodrigo had gone out for a meeting, which meant no slamming doors, no barking orders, no eyes following her like she was dragging shame into every room. Elizabeth was probably in the sunroom, practicing her posture or curling her hair for no one in particular.

Suzi made it to the kitchen and found her dinner waiting for her on a plate. Her mother had cut a roll in half and added a little jam. The gesture hit harder than it should have.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Irina turned from the sink. Her hair was pulled back in a neat twist, but there were silver strands she’d stopped trying to hide. The lines around her mouth had deepened this year. Her eyes flicked over Suzi’s sleeves, the way her sweater hugged her wrists, and then she looked back at the dishes.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she murmured.

Suzi took the plate to the back door, settling on the steps just outside, where no one could see her from the front of the house.

She used to sit out there when she was small, thinking maybe she could make herself so still the world would forget to judge her.

“Elizabeth’s going to the salon later,” her mother said from inside.

Of course she was.

Elizabeth got her nails done weekly. Hair appointments, facials, expensive shoes, new dresses. She had been born with everything that Suzi lacked. Clear skin. Soft, golden hair. A face that made strangers smile. Even their father, the man who only ever sneered when he looked at Suzi, smiled at Elizabeth like she had saved him from some great shame.

Once, Suzi had asked him why he looked at her like that.

He hadn’t answered right away. Then he said, “God must’ve hated me to give me a daughter like you.”

She was fourteen.

Now, at nineteen, she wasn’t sure the words ever stopped echoing.

The screen door creaked again. Her mother slipped outside, holding a sweater of her own. She didn’t sit, just stood near the door, watching the trees.

“Your father has business with the Costellos again,” she said after a moment.

Suzi froze mid-bite. “Why?”

“Debt.” Her mother didn’t look at her. “He promised Elizabeth to someone. Antonio Costello’s son, I think.”

Suzi blinked, uncertain she’d heard right. “He what?”

Her mother nodded slowly, brushing her thumb across the edge of the doorframe. “She’ll go along with it. He told her last night.”

Of course he had.

Suzi sat very still, roll forgotten in her lap. Her sister, being sold off like something on a shelf. All for power, money, status.

But it wasn’t shocking. Not in this house.

“Is he dangerous?” Suzi asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Irina said. “But his name is Maxwell. I remember that much. And your father’s terrified of his father. That should tell you something.”

Suzi felt something strange then. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Just… wonder.

What kind of man married a girl he had never met?

What kind of girl could look into the eyes of someone like that and not flinch?

She reached for the sketchpad again once she was back upstairs, but her hands wouldn’t steady. The page stayed blank.

She didn’t know what she wanted to draw anymore.

Only that no one had ever wanted to draw her.

“Stop pitying yourself, Suzi,” Suzi scolded herself loudly into the empty room.

She closed the sketchbook and shoved it underneath a pile of old t-shirts in the bottom drawer, where even she was too lazy to look for it again. Outside, someone started up the weed whacker. Suzi pressed her palms to her ears and let her shoulders hunch tight.

The marriage thing itched at her brain. Her thoughts spat back and forth between disgust. Her sister as someone’s bargaining chip…what century was this?

Once or twice, they’d gotten along. When Suzi was seven, Elizabeth let her braid her dolls’ hair, their blonde, synthetic heads wobbling and always ending up tangled. But as they got older, Elizabeth turned shiny. Polished. Her smiles became performances and her kindness turned into pity. Worse than cruelty, sometimes.

Now Suzi barely recognized her.

She still loved her sister, though.

She stared at the ceiling. The faint water stains looked like continents, or maybe ink blots. Her fingers twitched. She hated how restless her body got when her thoughts raced. She wanted to run and be still at the same time.

Maxwell Costello.

The name settled weird in her chest.

She imagined him tall and cold. Probably older. Probably the kind of man who looked at Elizabeth and saw exactly what Rodrigo wanted him to see…perfection. Soft voice, perfect posture, pedigree. All the right things in all the right places.

What would someone like that even say to Elizabeth at dinner? Would he kiss her hand like in movies? Would he touch her face and call her lovely?

And what if she didn’t like him?

What if he was cruel?

Suzi rolled to her side, pulling the blanket over her head even though it wasn’t cold. Her room was too quiet again.

A knock echoed down the hall.

Her door cracked open before she could say anything. Elizabeth peeked in without waiting for a response.

Suzi sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall to her lap.

“What?” she asked, instantly defensive.

Elizabeth leaned against the doorframe, a teasing glint in her eyes. She was in a pale blue dress, hair curled, makeup perfect. She looked like a doll Suzi wouldn’t be allowed to touch.

“He is coming tomorrow,” Elizabeth said, crossing her arms.

Suzi blinked. “Who?”

“Maxwell Costello. The fiancé. Or whatever he is.”

Suzi’s stomach twisted.

Elizabeth walked into the room like she owned the air. “Apparently, he is flying in with his father to finalize everything. Dinner at the house. You should probably… not be around for that.”

Suzi stared. “Why?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “No offense, but… you’re a little intense. It’s a whole vibe. And Dad’s already stressed.”

Elizabeth wandered to the mirror, adjusted her earring, and caught Suzi’s eye in the reflection.

“He’s not what I expected,” she said after a moment. “From what I’ve heard, I don’t think he’ll be impressed by fake eyelashes and polite smiles. Which is a shame. I’m good at both.”

Suzi looked down at her hands. “Maybe he wants a real person.”

“Whatever,” Elizabeth muttered.

“Why…why did you say yes to this?” Suzi asked timidly.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Because Dad doesn’t have a spine. And he owes them more money than he’ll ever admit.”

She reached for one of Suzi’s hair clips sitting on the dresser, twirled it between her fingers.

“Besides,” she added, tone light but tight around the edges, “it’s not like he gave me a choice. He sat me down, listed off every debt he’s racked up since last year, and said, ‘This is your chance to save the family name.’” She scoffed.

Suzi’s throat went dry. “You don’t have to do it.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. “Yes, I do. Technically, it should’ve been you since you are the oldest but Dad doesn’t think Max would go for you with your…um…blemish.”

Suzi flinched.

Elizabeth sighed, setting the clip down with a soft clink. “Sorry. That’s just what he said when I argued against him.”

Suzi looked away. “No, I get it.”

“Look, just…stay out of the way tomorrow, okay? And thank your lucky stars that you are not being shipped off to marry some deadly criminal,” Elizabeth said, her eyes dark with sadness.

Suzi didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say.

Elizabeth left without waiting for a goodbye.

The room felt smaller after she was gone.

Suzi stared down at her lap. Her fingers were curled into the blanket, knuckles white.

Stay out of the way.

Don’t be seen.

It wasn’t new. But something about hearing it out loud, right before a stranger came to take her sister’s hand, made it sting worse than usual.

She slid off the bed and padded toward the mirror. Slowly, she peeled the scarf away.

The reflection that met her wasn’t a surprise.

She never expected beauty.

But she didn’t expect the ache either. The sharp kind that crawled up her chest when she saw the angry red swirls on her cheek, the asymmetry.

She let the scarf fall.

Let herself look.

“A monster,” she whispered.

The night before…

Rodrigo Myers poured himself some scotch before noon. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the third glass he set on the table, the one he wiped twice with a cloth that still had a dry-cleaning tag attached.

Everything had to look clean today.

He paced the sitting room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening, adjusting the curtains so the light would hit just right. There was no pretending the house was anything more than what it was, gaudy and cold, but Rodrigo tried anyway.

Because Antonio Costello was coming.

La Viperia.

The name was never spoken above a whisper. The man himself even less. He’d built his empire with blood and charm, and not always in that order. Rodrigo had only met him once, years ago, in a dim cigar lounge where deals were made with nods instead of signatures.

He owed Antonio more than money now. His debt had teeth.

The front gates buzzed. Rodrigo checked his watch, exactly on t