Page 64 of Her Darkest Possession

Amara looks down at her essay, considering.

"College admissions officers aren't interested in the lives around you. They want to know about you," I continue. "About your resilience, your determination. They want to know how you overcame these challenges, not just that you faced them."

"So I should talk more about my accomplishments?" she asks uncertainly.

"Exactly. Like how you taught yourself calculus. Or how you organized that food drive at school after Dad died." I squeeze her hand. "You shouldn't be afraid to talk about how you've grown from everything you've been through, even if you don't want to reference the actual events themselves."

Amara nods slowly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "I've been so focused on what happened to us that I forgot to talk about what I did during it all."

"Exactly." I smile at her, feeling a surge of pride. "Let the world see your strength. And you are strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for."

She takes the pages in her hand. "I can rewrite it tonight. And once that's done, I think that'll be it for this application."

I reach over and smooth a strand of Amara's dark red hair behind her ear.

"You're really close to having a perfect essay," I tell her honestly. "Once you make the changes, there's no way Columbia wouldn't accept you with that kind of personal statement."

Amara's eyes light up with that familiar mix of hope and determination I've always admired. "You really think so?"

"I know so," I say, letting my conviction shine through. "And you'll get in entirely on your own merits. By your own accomplishments."

She tugs at the corner of her paper, a familiar nervous habit. "Just like you did, Miels."

Those simple words hit me with unexpected force. For a moment, I see myself at Amara's age. Determined, driven, and filled with the belief that I could shape my own destiny through hard work and talent alone.

Before everything changed.

"Well," I say softly, though my throat feels tight. "Hopefully not exactly like me."

Amara's face falls as she realizes what she's said. "Oh, Miels, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean?—"

"No, don't apologize." I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently. "You didn't do anything wrong."

I take a deep breath, looking out the window at the perfectly manicured grounds of the mansion. It still feels surreal sometimes, this life I've stumbled into.

"Maybe it's a good thing," I say quietly, "that I had to walk this path first. That I had to see the cruel realities of the world beforeyou did." I turn back to her, managing a small smile. "If nothing else, at least I can help guide you through it."

"It's not fair though. What happened to you." Her voice cracks.

"No, it's not fair," I agree, feeling the familiar heaviness in my chest whenever I think about everything that's happened. "But then again, nothing in this world is fair. Not really."

We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional turning of pages as Amara fidgets with her essay. The quiet between us is comfortable—it always has been. Even when we were little, Amara and I could just exist together without needing to fill the space with words.

Finally, Amara breaks the silence. "I heard from Svetlana about what happened at dinner last week," she says cautiously, watching my face for a reaction.

I stiffen slightly, not expecting this turn in conversation. The confrontation with Valentina is still fresh in my mind. Everything from her venomous words, to the hatred in her eyes, and finally, the stunned disbelief on her face when I pronounced her sentence of exile.

"You're different now," Amara says suddenly, studying my face. "You know that, right?"

"Different how?" I ask, though I already know what she means.

Amara grins. "You're turning into a total bratva queen. A real boss bitch." She nudges my shoulder playfully.

I let out a surprised laugh. "Amara Taylor! Where did you learn to talk like that?"

"I'm seventeen, not seven," she rolls her eyes. "And don't change the subject. You're really coming into your own as Anatoly's wife. Everyone can see it."

"I guess I am," I admit quietly. "But sometimes I miss who I used to be. Part of me would give anything to go back to our old life."