I dip the scrub brush into the bucket of soapy water, and look at how much of the foyer still needs to be done. Too much. Sometimes, it seems my life can be measured in the number of times I've cleaned this same stretch of faux wood. I rub the floor with the brush, leaving overlapping arcs of tiny bubbles, a pattern that shows where I’ve cleaned. The small of my back is already aching from how long I've been bent over.

It’s ridiculous that I'm still scrubbing floors by hand. My stepmother refuses to buy the standard cleaning robot that everyone else has to handle chores like this. She says the robots don't do as good a job as a person can. I guess that's easy to say when the person doing the cleaning isn’t you. I realized long ago that she doesn't buy one because this way, I’m on my knees.

She never liked me. After Father died, she didn't have any incentive to pretend she did.

In the end, the reason why doesn't matter, does it? I'd still be down here scrubbing even if she just particularly liked the way I did it.

I let my mind drift as I scrape at a particularly stubborn spot. I've found the best way to get through chores like this is to not focus on them. I'm brought right back to reality as my stepsisters walk down the hall towards me.

They’re hard to miss. They're always talking a mile a minute about the current gossip. I don't know how they're always so caught up on every situation. It's almost a superpower. I half-listen as they draw closer. There’s no better source for what’s going on socially, after all.

"He'll take one look at me and he'll be done for!"

"Please!" A snort. "I deserve to be chosen much more than you do. You're always putting your foot right into your big mouth. How would a Singarti Prince ever take you anywhere?"

A Singarti Prince? They must be talking about the upcoming cotillion.

"Oh, are we talking about big mouths now? At least a foot is all I stick in mine, my dear sister."

Oh. Low blow. I stifle a snicker.

Her sister gasps. "You—"

As they walk into the foyer, I look up just in time as one of their big feet move towards the bucket. It all happens in slow motion. I open my mouth to warn her, but it's too late. This is going to get ugly. The bucket tips over with a thud, spilling dingy, soapy water across the floor in an impressive arc.

My hands and knees are soaked instantly. So are my stepsisters' over-priced shoes, and the holographic components sputter out as water hits them. In my opinion, it's an improvement on the garish, multi-color, flashing shoes, but no one cares about my opinion.

A moment of silence as we all take in the mess and the collateral damage.

Their heavily-made-up faces are frozen in shock. Then the shock gives way to disgust and anger. Here it comes. I brace myself. They both turn their eyes to me. And now I can predict every word they’re about to say, like I’d read the script beforehand.

"Why are you sitting right in the middle of the foyer, you idiot!"

"What if one of us had tripped over your stupid bucket?"

"The floor isn't even clean! You're a safety hazard on top of being too stupid to even clean a floor without missing spots!"

"There are spots because I haven't finished cleaning here yet," I retort grimly.

"Don't talk back to me!"

I sigh, standing up to right the bucket.

"Don't you make that face at us!"

"Yeah, you ugly, worthless waste of space! You're lucky we even let you stay here! Ungrateful brat!"

"You're right. I am ever so grateful," I say, my face deadpan. Probably it would be smarter to stay quiet and just take it, but I'm only human. Sometimes the smart thing is not nearly as satisfying as the stupid thing. My response only gets me more of their over the top theatrics.

They sputter as they start repeating insults and yelling in an attempt to get a rise out of me. But now I'm so not in the mood. Ignoring them, I move to another spot with my bucket and lay a towel down for my knees. I'll just scrub now and wipe up the mess after it's clean. At least I won't have to dip my brush again.

I don't respond to them as they keep throwing insults at me. I know it won't last as long if they don't get a response. They eventually tire, soon after I stop feeding into their crazy vitriol. Right on cue. My shoulders relax a little as they finally walk out the door. I'm so tired of having to constantly walk on eggshells.

My father would never have let this happen if he was alive. But he's been gone a long time now. The old, familiar ache in my chest makes itself known again. I know now that it will never fully go away. And I don't want it to. As long as I feel that ache, I’m still connected to my father. It’s the only thing of his that I have left.

I push the scrub brush harder against the floor. The rhythmic rasp is soothing. I used to rail against the unfairness of it all when I was younger. That was before I knew that fairness is just a construct, used to keep children in line. It doesn't really apply in the real world.

It didn’t apply to my parents.

When my father met my mother, she was a Vegas show dancer and one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. I can still see the stars in his eyes when he used to tell me about her and how much he thought I resembled her.

I remember staring at myself in the mirror, looking for her in me, trying to pose like she did in the pictures I saw of her. I wanted to be like her so badly. Wanted to have some connection to that fantasy mother I'd never met.

When they were married, it was a small scandal. After all, men of wealth don't often marry dancers. But he loved her and didn't care what everyone else said of the match. He knew he wanted her, and he wasn't going to let anyone dissuade him.

And, if life was fair, they'd have had a long and happy marriage. My kind, romantic father and the beautiful dancer he fell in love with.

But life isn't fair.

That isn't how it ended. Father didn't have nearly enough time with her. Mother died in childbirth. She left the world when I came into it, so I never even knew her.

After some years passed, Father decided to remarry, telling me I needed a female figure in my life. I didn't agree, but for once, he didn't listen to me and did what he thought was best. He married my now-stepmother.

He didn't love her.

Even as a child, I knew that. Which means Stepmother knew it too. He'd been so broken by the loss of the love of his life, he purposefully married for political reasons the second time. I don't think he ever wanted to be that vulnerable again. Stepmother married him for her own reasons, not the least of which was probably the fact that Father was very wealthy. I wonder now if she regretted it, if she did have some feelings for Father.

He was considerate of his new wife's feelings, but he kept a picture of my mother in a drawer in the bedroom and a small holographic image of her in his pocket, always. He used to take it out to show me when she wasn’t home. I saw the look on her face one day when she caught him doing it. Anger, but also pain.

Part of the reason she doesn't like me is because I look so much like my mother, the woman Father loved so much. The fact that he loved me when he was, at best, only fond of her doesn't help matters.

If Father hadn't died so suddenly, so unexpectedly, he might have made better plans for me in case of his death. I think he knew he'd made a mistake after a few months of marriage. But he didn't live long enough to do anything about it.

So here I am.

I finish wiping the floor dry and stand up, peeling off my gloves. I push my musings aside. None of that matters now. I'm finally eighteen. It won't be long before I can get out of here and get started on my dream.

I have the acceptance letter to Parsons tucked away safely so no one finds out.

I don't trust my stepmother or my stepsisters. I don't know what they would do if they found out, but it wouldn't be anything good. So I'm making sure they don't find out, at least not until everything is a done deal that even they can't mess up. All I need to pursue my love of fashion design is for one of the alumni to recommend me, to act as my sponsor.

I worked so hard to be the best in my class, staying up late, working weekends, using every spare moment I had to work on my designs. When I got that acceptance letter, I cried. It was the culmination of all my hard work.

It's my ticket out. My ticket to freedom, my ticket to become what I've always wanted to be—a fashion designer.

I hold on tight to that hope whenever I’m down. I hold it up like a shield now as I put the cleaning supplies away and walk to my room.

My room is small, smaller than anyone else's room in the apartment. Probably meant to be a closet since it's so much smaller than the other bedrooms, but I don't care. Having a space to call my own is enough, even if it is tiny. A place I can retreat to and be by myself.

Before I enter, I look up and down the hall and listen. I’m all alone. I ease the door closed behind me, and go over to my bed. I don't want anyone to find out about what I'm working on. My stepsisters would tear it up or steal it out of spite alone, if they knew. They don't know about my dream, and I want to keep it that way. They don’t need any more ammunition to hurt me with.

I lift the mattress and carefully pull out the dress.

Scraping together the money I needed to buy the cloth, the buttons, the thread...was difficult, to say the least. But so worth it. I smile as I touch the few virtual reality parts I was able to salvage from some second-hand stores. The purples and greens of the faux flames at the hem will add movement to the skirt and contrast nicely with the navy blue of the fabric to give the dress the punch that it needs. I still have a lot of work to do on it before it's ready.

I sit on the floor with the wall at my aching back for support, then take out my sewing kit and get to work. This dress needs to make an impression. It's going to be my calling card, an example of the work I'm capable of doing. I hope so, anyway.

If I can just find a way to get to the cotillion, maybe I can find that sponsor I need.

I could have gone with a pretty—and safe—sheath gown, but I need a dress that will get major attention. I picture walking into the high-society event and someone noticing the standout design of the dress. How they would walk across the room to ask who made the dress, their tone admiring. They'd jump at the chance to sponsor me, to help me start my career.…

I sigh as the daydream dissolves. I know that specific sequence of events is pretty far-fetched.

A girl can dream! I stare down at the hem with a critical eye. Maybe I should add—

The door slams open with a sound like a shot. The dress is in clear view, though I clutch it to my chest, protecting it as I’d protect a helpless infant.

My stepmother glares at me. Her face is blotchy red.

My heart is pounding. My mouth goes dry and my stomach flips over.

Caught.

I'm caught.