My Funeral, His Destruction Stage

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ittle pale from her fever, clung to my side, a tiny porcelain doll in a pristine white dress. I tried to introduce her to my parent

cool, distant, as if I were an unex

sensation I' d grown up with in this hous

ped around Fernanda, who, in turn, held the hand of her daughter. Fernanda' s voi

face as he looked at Fernanda. It was a stark contrast to the cold mask he wore

y mother rushed forward, embracing Fernanda warmly. "Fernanda, dear! So glad you

charming, so well-behaved!" My mother cooed, producing a beautifully wrapped doll from behi

ion, beamed, her face alight with triumph. She

hen hurt. Her eyes, usually so bright, dulled. She was scared. I could feel her tre

family, choosing an outsider, a usurper, over their own blood. The

isy' s hair. "Let' s go." I turned to leave, th

lly noticed me, a flicker of something in her eyes, quickly gone. "Y

manners? Look at Fernanda' s child, so poised. Not like some wild animal." He then turned to Fernanda' s

r, beside her, looked utterly relaxed, a king in his own court, completely at ease in the bosom of my family. The room was a

voice pierced the festive din. Her low

her innocent pain was unbearable. My heart, already bruised and battered

nnounced, my voice fl

e air. He cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping over the room, landing on me. "We need t

he Moon dynasty, regardless of who it hurt. I glanced at Carter. He wouldn' t meet my eyes. In that averted glanc