Nina walked down the narrow, dimly lit concrete corridor that led toward the basement dressing rooms. Her boots clicked against the floor, a sharp, steady rhythm that felt far firmer than the trembling uncertainty she harbored inside. She shook her head, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped her throat.
The weak get eaten by the strongest, she thought, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag until the leather bit into her palm. That's the rule. That's always been the rule in the Hale household.
Her father had made sure she understood it from the moment she could comprehend his cold, dismissive stares. Each glance had been a lesson in invisibility, each silence a reminder of her place in the family hierarchy.
For three years, she had played the part of the quiet, compliant youngest daughter. She had let Lydia take the credit, let her father sign away her contracts without so much as asking her opinion, let them treat her like a shadow that didn't deserve the light.
