The Perfect Puppet

The smoke was thick, clawing at her throat like a tightening hand, but Evelina didn’t even cough. She simply stood in the middle of the burning bedroom, watching the flames consume the silk curtains, the heavy mahogany furniture, and the dozens of painted portraits of her late mother, Liliana.

For years, this room had been her golden cage. For her entire life up to this point, her uncle, Earl Alistair Vance, had forced her to stand, speak, and dress exactly like the woman he was obsessively in love with—the woman who had died of a cruel illness right before Evelina’s eyes when she was still a child. Her uncle wanted to turn her into a replica of his lost love, sculpting her psyche like a piece of helpless wood.

“It’s over,” Evelina whispered. Her voice was raspy from the horrific heat, but for the first time in years, it belonged entirely to her.

She felt no fear. Only a wild, intoxicating wave of satisfaction.

She hated Alistair for breaking her will and locking her away from the rest of the world. She hated her mother for her pitiful, naive faith, with which she had waited until her very last breath for a man who was never going to return. And she hated him. Duke Raymond Vance. Her biological father, who had abandoned them in poverty to marry the wealthy Duchess Vivienne and raise her son, Julian, in the luxury of the capital. He had fled to a new life, letting Liliana die in a forgotten village while leaving his own daughter to rot in the private hell of a tyrannical uncle.

A heavy wooden ceiling beam cracked above her head, crashing down onto the floor in a shower of blinding, deadly sparks. Evelina’s legs gave out. As her body hit the burning floorboards and darkness finally began to consume her, she made a silent, furious promise to the void: If I get another chance... I will turn all of you to ash.

Evelina gasped, her eyes snapping open as she bolted upright on the mattress, instinctively grabbing her throat with both hands. Her heart pounded in her chest like wild, and her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. She had expected the searing pain of smoke, the smell of burning flesh, and the suffocating heat destroying her lungs.

Instead, she breathed in cool, clean air. It smelled of lavender, expensive floor wax, and starched linen.

Around her, there was an absolute, almost deathly silence. She couldn’t hear the crackle of splitting wood or the roar of the destructive element. Slowly, her entire body trembling, she lowered her hands and looked around.

She was sitting on a massive canopy bed hung with heavy, emerald velvet curtains. Morning sunlight lazily filtered through the tall, arched windows, illuminating a luxuriously yet austerely decorated bedroom. Dark, polished oak walls, carved furniture, heavy drapes... Evelina felt the blood drain from her face as a freezing knot tightened in her stomach.

She knew this place all too well. This was her bedroom in Earl Alistair Vance’s mansion. The room where she had spent years in captivity.

She lifted her hands in front of her face and jerked them back as if she had been burned. They were... miniature. Her little fingers were tiny, chubby, and devoid of any burn scars or marks of hard labor. Her skin was flawlessly smooth, delicate, and of a porcelain hue. She was wearing a simple, white nightgown made of thin linen that hung loosely on her.

“No...” she whispered. Her voice sounded terrifyingly unfamiliar. It was quiet, high-pitched, and childish.

With a sudden movement, she threw off the heavy duvet and leaped barefoot onto the freezing wooden floor. The bed was so high that her feet didn’t reach the ground—she had to slide down, nearly falling. Her tiny feet barely touched the boards as she dashed toward the corner of the room. There, set in a carved, dark frame, stood a large, oval mirror.

She stopped right in front of it. Her breathing quickened, stinging her throat.

Staring back from the smooth, unblemished surface of the glass was a little girl. She could be six years old at most. She looked like a fragile, porcelain doll. She had long, shoulder-length, fluffy hair the color of the purest, brightest sunshine, flawlessly white skin, and large, bright blue eyes. Yet, in those childish eyes lay a look of pure, adult terror.

Slowly, in disbelief, Evelina lifted a trembling hand. She touched the cool surface of the mirror with her fingers, and then transferred them to her own face. Her tiny fingers traced her soft, childish cheeks, her small, rounded jawline, her smooth forehead. There was no trace of burns. There was no trace of adulthood. She was a child. A mere six-year-old child.

In that exact moment, beneath the touch of her own hands, everything in her mind clicked into one terrifying whole. She remembered.

This was the day. The first day in this dreadful house. Just yesterday evening, Uncle Alistair had taken her from the village parish, right after her mother’s funeral. He had exploited the chaos, convinced the priest that he was her uncle, and taken her away from a place filled with sick orphans. He had brought her here, locked her in this room, and let her fall asleep. In her previous life, she had spent that night sobbing hysterically, curled up in a ball under the bed and begging for her mother to return. This morning, she had woken up as a helpless, crying victim, ready to submit to any command.

But now, everything had changed.

Evelina lowered her hand from her face and squeezed it into a small but rock-hard fist. The terror in her blue eyes slowly began to give way to something else. Something dark, heavy, and ruthless.

I have been reborn, she thought, and a cold, almost inhuman smile crept onto her childish lips, completely out of place on such an angelic face.

Slowly, in disbelief, Evelina lifted a trembling hand and gently touched the smooth, cool surface of the mirror. Beneath the fingertip of her tiny finger, the glass felt almost freezing, perfectly real. She transferred her hand to her own face, exploring her soft, childish cheeks and small jawline. There were no burns. There was no adulthood. She had been thrown back to the exact moment it all began. This was her first day in this cursed palace, the morning right after her uncle had torn her away from the modest world of her late mother.

Then, in a fraction of a second, something terrifying flashed in her bright blue eyes. It was not the gaze of a helpless child—hidden within it was the cold, sharp glint of an adult woman who remembered every single second of her miserable previous life. She remembered the monster within her uncle, the cowardice of her biological father, and the lies that had destroyed her world. It was a history filled with pure trauma and psychological terror. A history she would never, ever forget.

Suddenly, from deep down the hallway, the heavy, measured thud of leather riding boots echoed. The footsteps approached her room relentlessly until they finally fell silent just outside the threshold.

A loud, metallic click of a key turning in the lock rang out, and the heavy bedroom doorknob slowly, inch by inch, began to turn downward.

A Note from the Author:

Dear Readers,

I am putting my latest story into your hands. However, I want to give you a fair warning – this book will be completely different from my previous works. We are entering much darker, heavier territory. This is a tale steeped in intense psychological terror, trauma, and a ruthless struggle for survival, where moral boundaries will be pushed to their absolute limits.

I truly hope that this new side of my writing appeals to you and hooks you right from the very first pages. However, if you feel that this atmosphere is too overwhelming for you, or if you are a highly sensitive reader, I encourage you to check out my other, lighter titles that you might already know.