The Family’s Dark Secret—Me

I was the child my parents abandoned during the kidnapping.
I was seven; my fraternal twin siblings, Joshua and Isabelle, were ten.
Three kids, ten million dollarsand the kidnappers only let one come home alive.
The call reached my fathers study while he handled a high-stakes overseas merger.
So my mother answered.
That life-altering call lasted less than three minutes.
Her voice was cool, detachedlike negotiating a business deal. The twins are non-negotiable. Joshuas a business prodigy, Isabelle a gifted socialite. Theyre the Thorne familys legacy.
Ill pay the ransom, she went on, but I want both twins back unharmed.
The kidnapper laughed, calling her greedyten million wasnt enough for three.
Without hesitation, my mother said: The little one she has less potential. Lets cut our losses. Our liquid assets are tight.
See? Even then, it was the cold calculation of the wealthy.
They didnt choose a childthey chose the highest-return investment.
Later, police raided the hideout.
In the chaos, a bullet grazed my left kneecap.
I survived, but returned to the Thorne family as their only flawed asseta limping, damaged good never to be shown off.

1
My name is Aurora.
A name that means dawn. The light that breaks over the world.
When my parents named me, perhaps they once hoped I, too, would be a shining glory for the Thorne family, just like my siblings.
But after the kidnapping, my very existence became a living, breathing reminder of their shameful decision.
And my name became a bitter irony.
The light never shone on me. I became the Thorne familys deepest shadow.
The day I came home, I was met with an eerie, suffocating silence.
Joshua and Isabelle were swarmed by nannies and therapists, hailed like returning heroes. They were physically unharmed, merely shaken.
My parents clutched them, murmuring endless reassurances. Its okay, my darlings. Its all over now.
And me? I was carried out of the car by our driver, Arthur, my leg encased in a heavy plaster cast. I was left standing alone in the grand foyer like an unwelcome ghost.
My mothers gaze finally fell upon me, but it lingered for only a second before shifting to my leg. There was no pain in her eyes, only a sharp, appraising scrutiny, as if she were assessing the remaining value of damaged goods.
What did the doctor say? Will it scar? Will it affect her walk?
She wasn't asking me. She was asking Arthur.
The old driver shifted uncomfortably. The doctor said the bullet damaged the ligaments, maam. Im afraid her walk might always be a little affected.
Affected. That one word was a verdict, a final judgment that cast me into a permanent, icy exile.
My father sighed, walked over, and gave my head a perfunctory pat. His tone was one of weary charity. Aurora has suffered, too. Go to your room and get some rest.
From that day on, my left leg became a forbidden topic in the Thorne household.
No one ever mentioned it. No one ever asked if it hurt. No one ever offered a word of comfort when a rainy day sent a dull ache through my joints and drained the color from my face.
They simply, silently, made sure that in every family portrait, I was seated in the front, my leg hidden by the long folds of a skirt.
Or theyd simply crop the photo from the waist up.
Gradually, in all the photos released to the public, the Thorne family consisted of only four members: the loving parents and their perfect, beautiful twins.
I became the hidden one, the flawed secret they kept locked away from the light.
My brother, Joshua, inherited our fathers business acumen and charisma. He was the undisputed heir to the Thorne Corporation, a master of social graces since childhood.
My sister, Isabelle, was a perfect copy of my mothers artistic flair and social ambition. Trained in ballet and piano, she was the most dazzling jewel of high society.
They were the familys legacy and future.
I was the accident and the burden.
A private driver took me to and from school, but my parents never attended a single parent-teacher conference. My grades were average, and theyd say, Auroras health is delicate. We shouldnt ask too much of her. As long as shes happy and healthy, thats enough.
It sounded like love, but the real translation was: Shes a cripple. We dont expect her to amount to anything.
One year, on my birthday, our cook, Mrs. Gable, made me a bowl of longevity noodles.
Isabelle drifted into the kitchen, wrinkling her nose in disgust. What is that smell? Mrs. Gable, I thought I told you, I cant stand onions or cilantro.
Mrs. Gable quickly explained, Its for Miss Aurora, maam.
Recognition dawned on Isabelles face, followed by a light, dismissive laugh. Oh, right. I forgot it was your birthday.
Her eyes swept over me, her gaze lingering on my leg with undisguised contempt.
Honestly, do you even have the right to celebrate a birthday? Mom and Dad have been ridiculed behind their backs for years because of you. What gives you the right to celebrate anything?
You know, she added, her voice a cruel whisper, it would have been better for everyone if youd just died with those kidnappers.
She turned and sauntered away, a graceful, poisonous swan.
I was left alone, staring at the steaming bowl of noodles, my appetite gone.
My hand, holding the fork, was frozen mid-air.
A hot flush crept up my neck as I bit my lip, hard.
A disabled daughter was an indelible stain on the Thorne familys reputation. In their eyes, I should just be grateful to be alive; I had no right to ask for more.
But I had my own light, didn't I?

2
From a young age, I secretly asked my teachers to help me enter art competitions.
I taught myself to sketch, to paint with watercolors, to capture life in quick, fluid lines.
Last year, one of my pieces made it to the finals of the Continental Young Artists Prize. I didnt win, but it was enough to plant a small seed of confidence in my chest.
My gaze fell, and a tear traced the curve of my eyelashes, splashing silently into the bowl.
But when I excitedly presented a portrait Id painted of my parents to them, they barely gave it a glance.
My father was on the phone, and he just laughed apologetically to the person on the other end. Sorry about that, my youngest just ran in to cause a scene, waving some scrap of paper around. Anyway, as I was saying, I think the East End project would be perfect for Isabelle. Shes a real prodigy, you know
My mother came in with a tray of tea, set it down, and then unceremoniously pushed me out of the room.
Go play somewhere else. Why must you always be underfoot? Cant you just stay quietly in your room?
The painting fluttered from my hands and landed on the floor like a butterfly with a broken wing.
My fathers words, my mothers shovethey were like two ringing slaps across my face.
I went back to my room, picked up the painting my father had called a scrap of paper, and tore it to pieces, shred by shred.
The vibrant colors, the lines and shadows I had been so proud of, now felt like knives in my heart.
Stop being a fool, Aurora, I told myself.
In this house, even your breath is a burden. What worth could your art possibly have?
In that moment, I understood with chilling clarity: they werent just ignoring me.
They were wishing I would disappear.
From that day on, I shed every last illusion of familial love.
All I needed was a chancea chance to leave this place for good.
The only lifeline I could grasp was my art.
Last year, my painting Aurora had been a finalist in that prestigious competition.
It depicted an abandoned warehouse. Sunlight streamed through a broken window, creating sharp, distinct beams of light. In one of those beams, a tiny, overlooked dandelion stubbornly pushed its way through a crack in the concrete floor, crowned with a fluffy white head.
That was me.
After the competition, I received a private message from Elysian, one of the countrys top art galleries.
They wanted to represent me exclusively and promised to protect my identity with an anonymous pseudonym.
I signed the contract without hesitation, under the name Echo.
With my first advance, I hired the best physical therapist in the country. My leg, under systematic treatment, could never be fully healed, but my walk transformed from a noticeable limp to a subtle inconsistency, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it.
The steadily growing numbers in my bank account were the foundation of my escape plan.
I was a patient spider, silently spinning my web, waiting for the perfect moment to trap them and shed my old skin.
That moment arrived on my twentieth birthday.
The Thorne family was hosting a grand charity gala to celebrate the 30th anniversary of the Thorne Corporation.
The highlight of the evening was a charity auction.
My brother, Joshua, as the heir apparent, would give the keynote speech.
My sister, Isabelle, would donate one of her own oil paintings, Swan Lake, to be auctioned off, burnishing the familys philanthropic reputation.
And I, once again, received a warning from my mother.
Aurora, tonights guests are very important. You will behave yourself. Find a quiet corner and stay there. Do not wander around.
My mother stared at my face, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. I looked far more like her than Isabelle didand prettier, too. What a pity
She handed me a drab, gray, outdated evening gown, her tone leaving no room for argument.
And another thing. Dont wear any bright colors. We cant have you upstaging your sister. Remember, tonight is about Joshua and Isabelle.
I looked at my reflection in the mirrora ghost in muted colors, dressed for a funeral.
I understand, Mother, I said calmly.
Resistance was futile. In this house, I had long ago mastered the art of obedience.

3
The ballroom was a glittering sea of couture gowns and whispered secrets, the air thick with the scent of champagne and ambition.
Joshua, immaculate in a custom-tailored suit, stood on the stage, his speech punctuated by waves of applause.
Isabelle was a vision in a stunning scarlet gown, a blazing flame that captured every eye in the room. Her painting, the amateurish Swan Lake, was lauded by the auctioneer with absurd hyperbole. It was finally sold for half a million dollars to one of my fathers business partners, earning her a standing ovation.
She linked her arm through our fathers, smiling like a triumphant queen.
I sat in the most inconspicuous corner, sipping my juice, an invisible spectator at their carnival.
Suddenly, a stir at the ballroom entrance.
The true prince of the citys elite had arrived: Damian Blackwood, the formidable head of the Blackwood Group.
Dressed in a stark black suit, he moved with a cool detachment that set him apart from the clamor.
The moment he entered, my father, with Joshua and Isabelle in tow, hurried to greet him, his smile a sycophantic display.
Mr. Blackwood! Your presence graces our humble event!
Damian offered a curt nod, his gaze sweeping the room without interest. His deep-set eyes held no ripple of emotion. He was clearly unimpressed by the Thorne familys fawning.
The auction continued.
Our next item is quite special, the auctioneer announced. On the large screen behind him, a new painting appeared.
The entire canvas was cast in oppressive, gloomy tones, save for a single dandelion bathed in light, its life force so palpable it seemed ready to burst from the frame.
The name of the painting was Aurora.
My eyes widened. I stared, unblinking.
That was my painting. The one I had anonymously donated through Elysian Gallery.
I never imagined it would appear here, at my own familys gala.
My palms grew slick with sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This piece, titled Aurora, the auctioneer said, comes from an anonymous artist known only as Echo. The bidding will start at one hundred thousand dollars.
The words were barely out of his mouth when Isabelle, sitting with her circle of socialites, let out a derisive snort.
Echo? Never heard of her. She fanned herself languidly and rolled her eyes. Some no-name artist crawling out of the woodwork, trying to get her work into an event like this. And look at itits a chaotic mess. An absolute eyesore.
Her brother, Joshua, frowned beside her. The composition and theme are so provincial. It lacks sophistication.
My parents didnt even bother to spare it a glance. In their world, a painting with an unknown artist and a somber style had no place at their meticulously curated event.
As expected, a dead silence fell over the room. No one raised a paddle.
The awkwardness was thick enough to taste.
I clenched the fabric of my dress, my nails digging into my palms.
Just as the auctioneer was about to declare the piece unsold, a cool, clear voice cut through the silence.
Three million.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Every head turned. The man holding the paddle was none other than the unapproachable, unimpressible magnate himselfDamian Blackwood.
My father nearly bit his tongue in shock.
The sneer on Isabelles face froze, melting into sheer disbelief.
Damian lowered his paddle. His voice was calm but carried an undeniable weight of command.
I am quite fond of this painting. I trust no one will object.
No one had wanted it a moment ago. Now that the prince had spoken, who would dare challenge him?
The auctioneers voice trembled with excitement. Three million going once! Three million going twice! Three million, sold! Congratulations, Mr. Blackwood!
Amid the thunderous applause, I lifted my head. My gaze traveled across the sea of faces and met Damian Blackwoods.
He was looking in my direction.
No, not at me. At the painting projected on the screen behind me.
His focus was intense, scorching, like a man who had finally found a long-lost, priceless treasure.
After the auction, Damian didnt linger. He ignored my fathers invitations to stay and Joshuas attempts to offer him a toast. He walked directly to a staff member and asked in a low voice:
I would like to meet the artist, Echo. Do you have her contact information?

4
The news that Damian Blackwood wanted to meet Echo detonated in the Thorne household.
My father immediately saw it for what it was: a golden opportunity to latch onto the Blackwood dynasty. He mobilized his entire network, trying to uncover the identity of this mysterious artist.
Isabelle, abandoning her previous disdain, began obsessively studying Echos style. She even bribed an employee at Elysian Gallery for information.
She presented a few printouts of my paintings to our mother, her voice brimming with manufactured confidence. Mother, look. This Echos style is actually quite similar to mine. Perhaps Mr. Blackwood saw a reflection of me in her work.
My mother was thoroughly convinced. The very next day, she hired the citys most renowned art tutor to teach Isabelle how to replicate my paintings.
They discussed it openly in front of mehow to become Echo, how to leverage that identity to get close to Damian Blackwood.
Joshua was more pragmatic. He found me, his tone laced with a condescending generosity. Aurora, you like to draw, dont you? See if you can find out anything about this Echo in your little art circles.
He assumed my liking to draw was nothing more than childish scribbling.
He had no idea that the Echo he was desperately searching for was the very sister he held in such low esteem.
I lowered my eyes, hiding the storm of emotions within me. I dont know anyone by that name, I said softly.
A week later, Isabelle had produced a technically proficient but soulless copy of my work. My father pulled some strings to have the painting delivered to Damian Blackwood, strongly hinting that Isabelle was, in fact, Echo.
However, recognizing that Isabelle was still a novice, my father had a rare thought for me. He instructed me to paint a copy as well, as a backup plan.
Of course, from the weary sigh he gave, it was clear he had no faith in this backup. In his mind, if the brilliant Isabelle couldnt pull it off, what hope did a failure like me have?
Standing nearby, Isabelle let out a snort of laughter. She tapped my blank canvas with her freshly manicured nails, her eyes dripping with scorn. Dad, are you serious? Her? This cripple has never succeeded at a single thing in her life. The garbage she paints will just end up embarrassing the Thorne name.
My father sighed again, not refuting her. He clearly agreed. Its just a backup. Better than nothing, I suppose.
I kept my gaze down, my long lashes hiding the universe of feelings in my eyes. I simply gave a soft, Mm.
To be considered a backup plan was the highest honor the Thorne family had ever bestowed upon me.
I locked myself in my small studio for two straight days.
They thought I was struggling to copy, ineptly mimicking the real Echo they could never hope to be.
They didnt know. I was Echo.
I didnt copy anything. I painted something entirely new.

5
It was a painting of dandelions again.
But it was no longer the single, lonely flower struggling through concrete from my painting Aurora.
This new piece was set against a backdrop of a vast, open field under an endless, brilliant blue sky.
The focus was a cloud of dandelion seeds, scattered by the wind. Each seed, with its tiny parachute, was soaring fearlessly into the distance, toward a new world filled with unknown promise and hope.
Every single seed was rendered in exquisite detail, radiating a life force so vibrant it felt as if they might fly right out of the frame.
I named it Nirvana.
As I laid down the final brushstroke, I exhaled a long, slow breath. I knew that after this painting, nothing would ever be the same.
When I gave the painting to my father, he was already impatient. Are you done yet? What took you so long? Isabelle finished hers ages ago.
He took the canvas, glanced at it dismissively, and the furrows on his brow deepened. What is this mess? I told you to copy Aurora, not paint a bunch of fluffballs. It looks nothing like it! I knew I couldnt count on you.
Isabelle, standing beside him, covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. See, Dad? I told you. What could she possibly accomplish? This looks worse than something I drew when I was three. If Mr. Blackwood sees this, hell think Echo is insane.
My mother walked over, took one look, and averted her eyes in disgust. Forget it. Dont even take it out of the house; its an embarrassment. Aurora, just stay home. Dont come along and cause trouble.
I looked at the floor and whispered, Okay.
My obedience was their reassurance.
They took Isabelles soulless copy and my painting, which they considered trash, and headed to the private gallery where they were to meet Damian Blackwood, their hearts full of confidence.
I, as the creator of the backup plan who might be asked a few questions, was ordered to come along.
My mother chose the most unremarkable gray dress for me, instructing me repeatedly, When we get there, you tell them Isabelle was kind enough to guide your painting. Do you understand? Dont say anything else, and dont you dare steal your sisters spotlight.
I nodded like a puppet, devoid of emotion.
They had no idea. I wasn't there to be a prop.
I was there to reclaim everything that was mine.
The private gallery was quiet and elegant. Damian Blackwood sat in a rosewood chair, steam curling delicately from the teacup before him, slightly obscuring his handsome face and adding to his air of detached nobility.
He didn't look at us. His gaze was fixed on the painting beside himmy Aurora, now exquisitely framed.
My father rubbed his hands together, his voice dripping with sycophantic charm. Mr. Blackwood, weve found her for you. Weve brought you Echo.
He pushed my sister, Isabelle, forward.
Isabelle immediately adopted the air of a reserved, slightly shy artist. She gave a small nod. Mr. Blackwood. Its a pleasure. I am Echo.
Damians gaze finally lifted from the painting and landed on Isabelle. It was a flat, clinical look, the way one might inspect an inanimate object. It made the smile on Isabelles face twitch and stiffen.
You painted this? he asked.
Yes, Isabelle said, feigning composure as she began reciting the lines her art tutor had drilled into her. My inspiration for Aurora came from a rather unpleasant experience. The dandelion represents the will to strive for the light, even in the darkest of circumstances
She didnt get to finish. Damian cut her off.
Is that so? He picked up Isabelles copy from the table. After a single glance, he let out a short, sharp scoff and casually tossed it to the floor.
The glass in the frame shattered with a piercing crack.
The color drained from Isabelles face.
This painting, Damian said, his voice as cold as ice, has a passable form, but the brushwork reeks of vanity and impatience. It is utterly devoid of soul. The person who painted this wasn't thinking of art, but of what it could buy them.
You, he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, call yourself Echo?

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