The harsh smell of bleach burned Emma Carter’s nostrils as she scrubbed the marble floor for the third time that evening. Her hands were red and raw, her arms trembling with exhaustion. Behind her, laughter—loud, shrill, cruel—echoed from the living room.
“You missed a spot, darling,” sneered her stepmother, Linda, slurring from the wine glass she held loosely in one hand. “And don’t forget the baby. He’s been crying for ten minutes already. Useless girl.”
