Page 3 of Claiming Pretty

My chest tightened. I knew that handwriting.

It belonged to my father.

A familiar chill slithered down my spine, but my bloodturned to ice when my eyes landed on a single name etched onto the page.

Mona.

My mother.

Ava gasped softly, her fingers clutching the edges of the journal as she quickly closed it. “Ty… you shouldn’t see this.”

Her voice was careful, like she thought I might shatter if I looked too closely.

But I already knew. The weight of the journal, the name, the handwriting—it all fell into place like a grim puzzle. A sick, dreadful certainty settled in my gut.

This was it. The journal my father had kept for his “research.” The one he used to document every monstrous experiment he’d done to my mother.

The world tilted for a moment, rage rising like bile in my throat. I clenched my fists, swallowing hard against the storm brewing inside me.

“Let me see it,” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.

Ava turned to face me, concern etched into her features. “Ty, no. This… this isn’t something you want to read.”

“I don’twantto read it,” I said, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. “Ineedto.”

She hesitated, her brow furrowing as if she was searching for the right words to protect me from myself.

“The truth will set you free?” she murmured, trying to comfort me.

I shook my head, the bitterness seeping into my voice. “No. But lies will imprison you.”

Ava studied me for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

Slowly, deliberately, she placed the journal down on the table between us. Her hands lingered on the cover for a moment, reluctant to open it again.

I didn’t wait. My hands closed over hers, her warm touch grounding me, and together we opened the journal.

Whatever was inside, whatever horrors awaited, we would face them together.

I could barely focus on the words as Ava slowly turned the pages, everything becoming a blur.

But the journal entries seemed to be broken up with strange chapter headings—Silver Moth, The Raven, The Dark Queen.

What the hell did they mean?

“Oh my God, Ty,” Ava said as she stopped at an entry.

Midnight’s Daughter.

I leaned closer, my gaze dropping to the worn page. The ink was faded in places, but my father’s precise, clinical handwriting stood out in stark contrast.

“Look.” Her finger hovered over the list of “ingredients” halfway down the page, pointing it out like it held the key to something she couldn’t yet say aloud.

My eyes narrowed as I scanned the words.

Curare.

Lycorine.

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