Chapter 17: Never Alone Again
"YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT! COME HERE!"
William’s voice thundered through the entire place, and Asteria felt her body move before she could think—running, stumbling, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go.
The walls stretched endlessly in every direction, doors slamming shut whenever she reached for them, the floor tilting beneath her feet like the deck of a ship in a storm.
His hand closed around her hair, yanking her backward so hard that her neck snapped, and she felt the sting of strands being ripped from her scalp.
She cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the darkness. Then his fist connected with her abdomen—once, twice, three times—each punch landing with brutal precision, driving the air from her lungs, collapsing her diaphragm until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except feel the pain exploding through her body.
She coughed, her muscles seizing, her body doubling over as she gasped for breath that wouldn’t come. Her vision swam. Spots danced at the edges of her eyes. And still, his voice echoed around her, bouncing off walls that didn’t exist, filling every corner of the nightmare.
"P-Papa~ n-no more~ no more~ hnnng~"
He didn’t listen. He never listened.
With a vicious twist of his grip, he threw her across the room. Her body flew through the air like a ragdoll—weightless and helpless, utterly without agency—before crashing down onto the cold tile floor.
Her limbs tangled beneath her, her hip striking the edge of a table, her head bouncing against the hard surface. Pain exploded through her skull, white and blinding, shooting down her spine like lightning.
Asteria whimpered, trying to focus her vision, but everything was blurry—swirling shapes and shadows that wouldn’t stay still, colors bleeding into each other like wet paint.
She blinked, once, twice, three times, and slowly her vision cleared. Her father was approaching, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, each step bringing him closer, until he towered over her like a mountain.
She looked up at him, and suddenly everything was too clear—every line of rage on his face, every vein bulging in his forehead, every fleck of spit on his lips as he snarled down at her.
His eyes were black, bottomless pits of fury, and she could see herself reflected in them—small, broken, bleeding.
"Please, Papa~~~ have mercy~~~"
The words came out weak, broken, barely a whisper. She was pleading with him—begging him—trying to make him feel guilt, trying to reach whatever small shred of humanity might still exist somewhere deep inside his chest.
She didn’t believe it would work. She never believed it would work. But she had to try. She always tried.
His face didn’t change.
His shoe rose.
And with one brutal strike against her face, everything went black.
~~~•••~~~
Asteria jolted awake.
Her eyes flew open, her chest heaving, her hands clutching at the sheets beneath her like a drowning woman grasping for land.
For a long, terrible moment, she didn’t know where she was—didn’t recognize the soft light filtering through gauze curtains, didn’t recognize the massive bed she was lying in, didn’t recognize the clean scent of Jasmine and fresh linen that filled the air.
She was in a massive plush mattress bed, covered in white satin bedsheets that felt cool and smooth against her clammy skin. The duvet blanket was thick and comfortable, wrapped around her like a cloud, keeping her warm despite the cold sweat that clung to her body and soaked through her nightclothes.
An IV drip was attached to her right hand, a thin tube running up to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a metal pole beside the bed, the liquid inside dripping slowly like a countdown.
Her clothes had been changed. She was wearing a white sleeping duster now, the fabric soft and fresh, smelling faintly of laundry soap and something floral—honeysuckle.
The fabric was so light against her skin that she could barely feel it, a whisper of comfort after years of rough, threadbare hand-me-downs.
Asteria winced as she struggled to sit up. Every muscle in her body ached—a deep, bone-tired soreness that made even the smallest movement feel like a monumental effort.
Her abdomen throbbed where, in her dream, her father had punched her. Her face tingled where, in her dream, his shoe had connected. She reached up and touched her cheek, half-expecting to find blood, but there was nothing there except skin—bruised, pale, but unbroken.
She calmed her breathing, forcing herself to inhale slowly, exhale slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth. The tension from the nightmare had left her sweating, her skin was cold and pale, her chest was tight with the remnants of fear.
She could feel her heart still racing, still pounding against her ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape.
The door opened softly.
Faye entered, her face lighting up with relief when she saw that Asteria was awake. She was dressed simply—a silk robe in a soft rose color, her hair pinned up loosely, her feet bare against the marble floor. She looked like a painting, like a mother from a storybook, and Asteria had to blink twice to make sure she wasn’t still dreaming.
"Asteria?" Faye’s voice was soft, concerned, carrying across the room like a warm breeze. She walked quickly to the bedside, her silk robe swishing against her legs, and immediately sat down on the edge of the mattress.
The bed dipped slightly under her weight, tilting Asteria toward her. Her hand came up to rest against Asteria’s forehead, her palm warm and gentle, the touch so tender that Asteria almost flinched.
"How are you feeling?" Faye asked, her eyes searching Asteria’s face.
She felt Asteria’s cold skin and immediately noticed her paleness—the way her lips were almost blue, the dark circles under her eyes like bruises, the fine tremor in her hands that she couldn’t seem to stop no matter how hard she tried.
"Do you feel okay now?" Faye asked, her brow furrowing with concern.
Asteria blinked twice, her mind still sluggish, still caught somewhere between the nightmare and reality. She felt like she was swimming through honey, every thought slow and heavy.
"W-What happened?" Her voice was weak, hesitant, as if she was afraid of the answer. She looked around the room, taking in the elegant furniture, the fresh flowers on the nightstand, the soft glow of the lamp in the corner. "D-Did Papa come? Am... Am I... in trouble?"
The questions broke Faye’s heart. She could hear the fear in Asteria’s voice—the genuine terror of a child who had been conditioned to expect punishment at every turn.
She shook her head gently, scooting closer to Asteria on the bed, taking the girl’s cold hand in both of her own. Faye’s hands were warm, so warm, and Asteria felt some of the tension in her shoulders release at the contact.
"After last night, you passed out in Keres’s arms." Faye’s voice was calm, patient, explaining everything carefully, as if she had all the time in the world.
"Your fever flared up, so she carried you here to the guest suite and called the doctor immediately." She paused, her thumb stroking across Asteria’s knuckles in slow, soothing circles.
"The doctor said that your body is deteriorating. The blunt force traumas, the infected wounds, the bruises—they’re all getting worse. Your body can’t keep fighting like this, Asteria."
Asteria’s eyes dropped to her lap. She didn’t say anything. She just stared at her hands, at the IV drip taped to her skin, at the evidence of her own brokenness written in bruises and scars and needle marks.
The white sleeping duster had ridden up slightly, revealing a patch of purple-yellow bruise on her forearm, and she quickly pulled the sleeve down to cover it.
"Asteria." Faye squeezed her hand gently, drawing her attention back. "We should probably get you to the hospital. For proper treatment." She paused, her voice dropping to something softer, almost pleading.
"Please?"
Asteria frowned and shook her head. The motion was small, weak, but firm—a lifetime of refusing help, of believing she didn’t deserve it, of being too scared to accept kindness because kindness always came with strings attached.
"I... I’m okay." Her voice was barely a whisper, thin as paper. "Usually, they heal on their own. After a month... maybe two..."
She had said the same thing to herself so many times over the years that she almost believed it.
The wounds always healed—eventually.
The bruises always faded—eventually.
The pain always became manageable—eventually.
She didn’t need doctors. She didn’t need hospitals. She just needed to endure, to survive, to keep her head down and wait for time to do its work.
Faye felt frustration bubbling up inside her—not at Asteria, never at Asteria, but at the situation, at the Auclairs, at the years of neglect and abuse that had taught this sweet, gentle girl that she didn’t deserve medical care, that she wasn’t worth the trouble, that her pain didn’t matter.
She shook her head, her jaw tightening with determination. "No." Her voice was firm now, gentle but unyielding. "Please. Listen to me." She leaned closer, her eyes locking onto Asteria’s, refusing to let her look away.
"You’re my daughter now. My child. And I only want you to be healthy." She paused, letting the words sink in, watching as something flickered behind Asteria’s eyes. "Please? Just please?"
Asteria saw the worry in Faye’s face—the genuine, motherly concern that radiated from every line of her expression, from the crinkles around her eyes to the soft set of her mouth.
This woman barely knew her, and yet she cared more about Asteria’s well-being than her own family ever had. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have been possible. And yet here Faye was, sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, begging her to accept help.
Asteria slowly nodded. A sigh escaped her lips, resignation mixed with something that might have been gratitude—a small, fragile bird of a feeling, too delicate to name.
"But please don’t tell Keres." Her voice was small, almost ashamed, and she couldn’t meet Faye’s eyes. She stared at their joined hands instead, at the way Faye’s fingers wrapped so protectively around her own. "I don’t want her to think I am very pathetic."
Faye’s heart clenched. She understood immediately—the shame of being seen as weak, the fear of being pitied, the desperate need to appear strong even when you were falling apart inside.
She had seen that same look in Keres’s eyes when she was younger, when she had fallen off her horse and broken her arm and insisted through gritted teeth that she was fine.
She nodded, a soft smile spreading across her face. "Okay," Faye said. "As you wish." She squeezed Asteria’s hand again, a silent promise. "But we’re going to the hospital. We’re getting you treated. No more arguments, okay?"
Asteria nodded, then hesitated. Her brow furrowed, and she looked down at their hands again, her fingers curling slightly around Faye’s.
"But... I don’t have money to repay—"
"No." Faye cut her off gently but firmly, shaking her head. "No, no, no." She reached out with her free hand and tucked a strand of hair behind Asteria’s ear, her fingers lingering against the curve of her cheek.
"A child doesn’t need to repay their parents. That’s not how this works." She paused, her voice softening even further. "I am your mother now. Do you understand? Your mother. And mothers take care of their children. They don’t expect payment. They don’t keep score." She looked directly into Asteria’s eyes, willing her to believe. "Don’t think about anything except your recovery. Let me worry about the rest."
Asteria couldn’t help it. The tears came again—not the harsh, painful sobs of before, but something softer, almost relieved. They spilled down her cheeks silently, and she didn’t try to wipe them away.
She leaned forward and rested her forehead against Faye’s shoulder, her body curving into the older woman’s warmth like a flower turning toward the sun after years in the shade.
"Mama~~~" The word came out broken, cracked, sobbed against Faye’s silk robe.
"M-Mama~~~" She wrapped her arms around Faye, holding on tightly, as if she was afraid the older woman would disappear—would dissolve into smoke and leave her alone in this beautiful room, revealed as nothing more than a hallucination.
"I... I’m scared, Mama~"
Faye understood. She didn’t judge. She didn’t tell Asteria to be strong or to stop crying or to pull herself together. She simply wrapped her arms around the girl and held her, rocking her gently, the way she had rocked Keres when she was small and frightened and needed to be reminded that someone loved her.
"I know, dear." Faye’s voice was soft, soothing, a lullaby made of words. "Mama is here. Don’t be scared. Your Papa Alfonso is here too. We’re both here." She pressed a kiss to the top of Asteria’s head, her lips lingering against her hair. "You’re never going to be alone again. Do you hear me? Never. I promise you."
Asteria nodded against her shoulder, her tears soaking into the silk. She continued to cry—not the silent, suppressed tears she had learned to cry in the Auclair mansion, the kind she swallowed down before anyone could see, but real tears, loud and messy and healing.
"I... I had a bad dream." Asteria’s voice was muffled against Faye’s shoulder, her body shaking with every word. "C-Can I t-tell you?"
Faye smiled, nodding frantically, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on Asteria’s back. "Of course. Mama wants to know. What is it, sweetheart?"
Asteria pulled back just enough to look at Faye’s face. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks wet, her lips trembling. Her sobs grew louder as she tried to speak, the words tumbling out between gasps for air, each one a struggle.
"Y-You’re so good to me." Her voice cracked on the words. "I... I-I’m scared... I’m scared I’m dreaming. Or... Or that this is just an illusion. Or a joke." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, but the tears kept coming, unstoppable.
"I feel like I’m losing my mind~"
Faye felt her own tears prick at her eyes, hot and unwelcome. She blinked them back, refusing to cry—not because she didn’t want to, but because Asteria needed her to be strong right now. She cupped Asteria’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears as they fell.
"You’re not dreaming." Faye’s voice was steady, sure, each word a brick in a wall of safety. She paused, her eyes searching Asteria’s, willing her to believe.
"You’re safe now."
Asteria shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "He’s hurting me... Papa is here and... And he is angry... He is hurting me~~~"
She was slipping back into the nightmare, her eyes going distant, her breathing quickening. Faye recognized the signs—the spiral, the flashback, the way trauma could reach up and pull you under even when you were wide awake.
"The only papa you have in this place is Alfonso," Faye said softly, her lips against Asteria’s hair, her voice a steady anchor in the storm. "And Alfonso has never hit his daughter. He has never raised a hand to Keres, and he would never raise a hand to you."
She pulled back slightly, looking into Asteria’s eyes, making sure she was listening. "Your Papa Alfonso is not cruel. Do you understand? He is kind. He is gentle. He will protect you with his life if he has to."
Asteria nodded slowly, the words sinking into her brain, settling somewhere deep. She repeated them in her head like a mantra, trying to make them true:
Alfonso is not cruel. Alfonso is not cruel. Alfonso is not cruel.
And slowly, like the sun breaking through clouds after a long storm, she felt something shift inside her.
For the first time in her life, she felt light.
She had never cried like this before—never allowed herself to, never felt safe enough to, never had anyone who would hold her while she did.
She had always suppressed her tears, swallowed them down, locked them away in a box somewhere deep inside her chest where no one could see them.
Crying was weakness. Crying was attention. Crying was dangerous. Crying meant her father would notice her, and her father noticing her meant pain.
But here, in Faye’s arms, crying felt like release. Like she was finally letting go of something she had been carrying for too long—a weight she hadn’t even realized she was holding until it began to lift.
She felt weak—utterly, completely weak—but for once, that didn’t feel like a bad thing. For once, weakness felt like honesty. Like she was finally telling the truth about how much she had been hurt, how tired she was, how badly she needed someone to take care of her.
Faye continued to hold her, continued to rock her, continued to whisper soothing words that Asteria couldn’t quite hear but could feel—the warmth of them, the love of them, the promise of them.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, in a place she had protected fiercely for reasons she hadn’t understood until now, Asteria began to believe that maybe—just maybe—she was going to be okay.
