Mafia Lord's Mute Sweetheart

Chapter 29: Chapter 29 Why do they always blame me?

Jenna stood up so fast her chair scraped against the floor. The sound was sharp, ugly, like nails on glass. She pointed a shaking finger at Daisy. Her eyes were wild, filled with fury.

"You," Jenna hissed. "Stay away from him. Do you understand? Stay. Away."

Daisy nodded quickly. Her throat was too tight to breathe. Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and fast. She did not wipe them away. She did not dare move.

Jenna stared at her for a moment longer, her face twisted with disgust. Then she turned and stormed out of the room, her heels clicking against the floor like gunshots.

Daisy sat alone at the table.

The dishes were half empty. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The room was silent except for the distant sound of birds outside and the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

She did not understand what had just happened. She did not understand why Joseph had said those things. She did not understand why Jenna blamed her. She had only cooked lunch. She had only worn her yellow dress because she was meeting Annie. She had only smiled because she was trying to be polite.

But somehow, it had become her fault.

It was always her fault.

Daisy cleared the dishes slowly, her hands still shaking. She carried them to the kitchen and stacked them by the sink. The plates clinked against each other, too loud in the silence. She washed her hands, dried them, and then walked toward the hallway.

The house was quiet now. The afternoon heat made everything feel heavy and slow, like the air itself was tired.

Daisy walked quickly to her room.

She closed the door behind her and locked it. She never locked her door. Cedric did not like locked doors. He said locked doors meant secrets, and secrets meant betrayal. But today, she needed the lock. She needed to feel safe, even if only for a little while.

She leaned against the door and pressed her hand to her chest.

Her heart was pounding.

She walked to her bed and sat down. The mattress sagged beneath her weight, old and worn. She pulled out her journal from under her pillow and opened it to a fresh page. The pages were soft from use, the edges curled.

Her pen hovered over the paper.

Then she wrote:

Joseph is home. He said if Cedric does not treat me well, he can treat me well. I do not think he meant it kindly. Jenna thinks I was trying to seduce him. I was not. I only cooked lunch. I only wore my yellow dress because I was meeting Annie. I only smiled because I was trying to be polite.

Why does everything I do get twisted into something ugly?

Why do they always blame me?

I feel dirty. I feel scared. I do not want to go to dinner tonight. But I have to. Because if I do not go, they will be angry, and if they are angry, they will punish me.

I am so tired.

I am so tired of being afraid.

She closed the journal and hid it under her mattress, pushing it all the way to the middle where no one would find it.

Then she lay down and stared at the ceiling.

The afternoon sun streamed through her window, warm and golden, falling across her face in soft stripes. Dust motes floated in the light, dancing slowly.

But Daisy felt cold. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She did not know if she would ever feel warm again.

❀┈┈┈┈❀

The whole day, Daisy stayed in her room.

She did not come out for a walk in the garden. She did not even come out to sit in the hallway where the afternoon sun streamed through the windows. She stayed inside, behind her locked door, hidden away from Joseph’s eyes and Jenna’s accusations.

Her room was small.

The bed was pushed against the wall near the window, where a sliver of sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains. There was only a side table, a wooden stool, and a wardrobe with a small mirror that was cracked in one corner. Most of the furniture was old, passed down from servants who had left years ago. The walls were bare and yellowish. No paintings or photographs.

Her room before she had moved into this mansion was big and bright, with windows that faced the garden and walls painted in soft yellow. But after Cedric renovated his room, he had merged half of her space into his to make his own room more luxurious.

Now her room was small enough to feel like a closet.

Daisy sat on the carpet she had knitted herself, her legs crossed beneath her, her yellow dress pooling around her like sunshine. The carpet was patchy in some places and uneven in others, but she had made it with her own hands, and that made it beautiful to her.

In her lap lay the yellow scarf she had knitted during her stay at the hospital. The yarn was soft, the stitches even. She had worked on it for hours.

She ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling the warmth and softness.

Then her mind drifted back to Annie’s words at the cafe.

"You used to be so different before the accident. So strong. So confident."

"You loved making perfume. DIY. You were so creative."

Daisy had not known that.

She remembered her past perfectly: her parents, her childhood, her school days. She remembered her mother’s laugh, her father’s hands, the way they would dance in the kitchen on Sunday mornings. But there were holes and small gaps, things that had slipped away in the crash like water through cracked fingers. She had never realized anything was missing until today, when Annie had told her.

Now it made sense.

Now she understood why she had always felt drawn toward flowers and perfume shops. Why she liked the smell of lavender and rose and jasmine. Why she found herself standing in front of the essential oils at the market, touching the bottles, opening the lids, breathing deep. Why she liked mixing things together, experimenting, creating.

It was not new. It was forgotten.