THE LIE THAT WORE A RING - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
You are reading THE LIE THAT WORE A RING, Chapter 6: Chapter 6. Read more chapters of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING.
Alina believed in small moves.
She didn’t storm into the lives of Dominic’s children with declarations of love or authority. She didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. She smiled.
Always.
A sweet, measured, delicate smile that never reached her eyes.
At breakfast, she placed Sophie’s favorite jam on the table before the little girl could ask. “I remembered,” she said softly, brushing a stray curl behind Sophie’s ear. The child blinked up at her with cautious surprise, unsure whether to be grateful or wary.
When Nathaniel left for school, she made sure his favorite jacket—always forgotten, always needed—was waiting by the door. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached,” she teased lightly. He didn’t respond.
But he noticed.
The staff started warming to her, slowly. They couldn’t help it—Alina was gentle, never raised her voice, always left tips of appreciation for the smallest efforts. She complimented the food, praised the polished floors, remembered birthdays.
She became indispensable.
But under the surface, she was watching everything. Every eye roll from Nathaniel. Every moment Sophie clung to her memory of her real mother. Every late-night whisper behind her back.
And then she began her work.
The first move came one rainy afternoon, when Dominic wasn’t home.
Nathaniel was in the study, doing homework with headphones in. Alina entered quietly, carrying hot cocoa.
She placed it beside him and said nothing.
He looked at it, then at her. “You don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t care.”
Alina sighed softly, then sat across from him.
“You think I’m pretending?”
“I think you’re trying to win,” he replied bluntly. “Like this is some kind of game.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Then maybe you should stop treating me like a player, and start asking why I’m even in the game.”
He stared at her, clearly confused by her calmness.
She smiled again, gentle, motherly, practiced.
“Your father is a good man. And he’s tired. He wants peace. I’m trying to give that to him. For you, too.”
Nathaniel said nothing. He looked away. But a seed had been planted.
Doubt.
The second move came through Sophie.
Alina began telling stories.
At bedtime, when Dominic was busy with work calls, she’d sit beside Sophie’s bed and tell her tales about lost princesses, lonely girls who found families in unexpected places. She'd use soft voices, little pauses, gentle expressions.
And then she’d say things like:
“Some people never stop missing someone they love… but that doesn’t mean they can’t love someone new.”
Or,
“Your mom must’ve been very special. That’s probably why your dad was brave enough to love again.”
Sophie began to ask questions. About Alina’s past. Her mother. Her dreams.
And Alina would share pieces—true enough to be believable, false enough to hide the parts that mattered.
Every word wrapped Sophie tighter in a story only Alina could tell.
The third move came through Dominic.
Late one night, after dinner and laughter and forced family closeness, she sat with him in the study.
“You know,” she said softly, “I worry Nathaniel resents me. He’s too old to adjust easily.”
Dominic rubbed his eyes. “He’ll come around. He just needs time.”
“But it’s hard,” she whispered. “I’m trying. So hard. And I worry it’s not enough.”
He took her hand. “You’re doing more than enough. You’ve been a gift to this family.”
She pressed her head to his shoulder and smiled, where he couldn’t see her face.
She wasn’t just gaining his affection.
She was becoming his truth.
In the mornings, the house seemed perfect.
The children adjusted—slowly, unevenly—but visibly.
Dominic was at peace again. Alina was praised.
But behind every kind gesture, every cup of cocoa, every gentle bedtime tale… she was slowly redrawing the lines of loyalty in the house.
One smile at a time.
And soon, they wouldn’t even notice the shift.
Until it was too late.
She didn’t storm into the lives of Dominic’s children with declarations of love or authority. She didn’t yell. She didn’t scold. She smiled.
Always.
A sweet, measured, delicate smile that never reached her eyes.
At breakfast, she placed Sophie’s favorite jam on the table before the little girl could ask. “I remembered,” she said softly, brushing a stray curl behind Sophie’s ear. The child blinked up at her with cautious surprise, unsure whether to be grateful or wary.
When Nathaniel left for school, she made sure his favorite jacket—always forgotten, always needed—was waiting by the door. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached,” she teased lightly. He didn’t respond.
But he noticed.
The staff started warming to her, slowly. They couldn’t help it—Alina was gentle, never raised her voice, always left tips of appreciation for the smallest efforts. She complimented the food, praised the polished floors, remembered birthdays.
She became indispensable.
But under the surface, she was watching everything. Every eye roll from Nathaniel. Every moment Sophie clung to her memory of her real mother. Every late-night whisper behind her back.
And then she began her work.
The first move came one rainy afternoon, when Dominic wasn’t home.
Nathaniel was in the study, doing homework with headphones in. Alina entered quietly, carrying hot cocoa.
She placed it beside him and said nothing.
He looked at it, then at her. “You don’t have to pretend. I know you don’t care.”
Alina sighed softly, then sat across from him.
“You think I’m pretending?”
“I think you’re trying to win,” he replied bluntly. “Like this is some kind of game.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Then maybe you should stop treating me like a player, and start asking why I’m even in the game.”
He stared at her, clearly confused by her calmness.
She smiled again, gentle, motherly, practiced.
“Your father is a good man. And he’s tired. He wants peace. I’m trying to give that to him. For you, too.”
Nathaniel said nothing. He looked away. But a seed had been planted.
Doubt.
The second move came through Sophie.
Alina began telling stories.
At bedtime, when Dominic was busy with work calls, she’d sit beside Sophie’s bed and tell her tales about lost princesses, lonely girls who found families in unexpected places. She'd use soft voices, little pauses, gentle expressions.
And then she’d say things like:
“Some people never stop missing someone they love… but that doesn’t mean they can’t love someone new.”
Or,
“Your mom must’ve been very special. That’s probably why your dad was brave enough to love again.”
Sophie began to ask questions. About Alina’s past. Her mother. Her dreams.
And Alina would share pieces—true enough to be believable, false enough to hide the parts that mattered.
Every word wrapped Sophie tighter in a story only Alina could tell.
The third move came through Dominic.
Late one night, after dinner and laughter and forced family closeness, she sat with him in the study.
“You know,” she said softly, “I worry Nathaniel resents me. He’s too old to adjust easily.”
Dominic rubbed his eyes. “He’ll come around. He just needs time.”
“But it’s hard,” she whispered. “I’m trying. So hard. And I worry it’s not enough.”
He took her hand. “You’re doing more than enough. You’ve been a gift to this family.”
She pressed her head to his shoulder and smiled, where he couldn’t see her face.
She wasn’t just gaining his affection.
She was becoming his truth.
In the mornings, the house seemed perfect.
The children adjusted—slowly, unevenly—but visibly.
Dominic was at peace again. Alina was praised.
But behind every kind gesture, every cup of cocoa, every gentle bedtime tale… she was slowly redrawing the lines of loyalty in the house.
One smile at a time.
And soon, they wouldn’t even notice the shift.
Until it was too late.
End of THE LIE THAT WORE A RING Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to THE LIE THAT WORE A RING book page.