Born Wicked

I was born wicked.

My foster mother gave the only chicken drumstick to my younger brother.

"He needs it more," she said. "Studying is exhausting."

I nodded silently.

Then I slipped into the backyard and strangled our only hen.

Its fluttering wings stilled within moments.

I carried the still-warm body to the well and dropped it in.

My foster father’s palm cracked across my face.

The sting burned.

They threatened to sell me.

To the butcher in town who reeked of animal fat.

That night, I crept into the butcher’s home.

The strike of a match illuminated the smirk on my lips.

The pigsty crackled to life in the flames.

The squeals of panicked hogs woke the entire town.

No one dared marry me after that.

My foster parents locked me in the woodshed.

Three days. Three nights. Not a drop of water.

As I listened to the chickens clucking and dogs barking outside, I smiled.

If no one wanted to live—

Then we’d all go together.

I pulled out the hidden poison and emptied it into the village well.

The entire village retched and writhed.

Even the dogs foamed at the mouth.

That was when my real parents arrived—the wealthiest couple in the country.

The village chief groveled at my feet.

My foster mother clung to my mother’s leg, wailing.

"That child is a devil reborn! You must keep her chained!"

My mother dismissed it as bitterness.

Until we returned to their gilded mansion.

Luna Roscente, their adopted daughter in her princess dress, pointed at me with trembling fingers.

"Sister," she whispered, "Daddy’s yacht arrives next week. You won’t take it from me, will you?"

Her eyes were red-rimmed, like a rabbit’s.

I tilted my head, studying her.

"Just a yacht," I said flatly.

Luna stomped her foot.

Tears spilled on command.

"It’s my eighteenth birthday gift!"

She threw herself into my mother’s arms, sobbing.

My father frowned at me.

"Stella, apologize."

I watched their intertwined figures.

Then smiled faintly.

"Sorry."

My tone was crisp.

From an angle I couldn’t see, Luna smirked.

Victory curled her lips.

My mother whisked her away to try on gowns.

My brother, Liam Anderson, blocked my path.

"Remember," he said coldly, "Luna is the priority here."

I nodded obediently.

"Understood."

Then I sought out the butler.

Got the yacht captain’s number.

When he answered, my voice was soft.

"I’m Stella Anderson."

"That yacht will never sail."

His breath hitched.

I continued, "Your daughter is adorable. Third grade at Elementary School, right?"

"If the yacht sinks, insurance won’t cover lives."

"Of course," I added, "my father will reward your... cooperation."

Silence.

Then his ragged exhale.