The Silent Investor

Chapter 1: The Art of the Cut

“You’re not wearing that to the rehearsal dinner, are you?”

My mother’s voice sliced through the humid air of the guest room like a blade. It wasn’t a question; it was an indictment. I was standing in front of the warped mirror attached to the back of the closet door, tugging gently at the hem of the only decent dress I had brought with me.

It was ruined.

All my clothes had holes in them. Precise, deliberate slashes, just big enough to render the fabric unwearable, just cruel enough to make me question my own sanity for a split second. But the moment I had lifted the lid of my luggage that morning, smelling the distinct scent of lavender detergent mixed with the musty odor of this house, I knew it wasn’t an accident. The tears in the fabric were too clean. Too intentional.

Now, she stood behind me, arms folded, the same smug tilt to her chin she had worn when I was eight and she told me I’d never be as pretty as my cousin Charlotte.