What We Wish For

Chapter Three

Hayla The Fair

A child stares at me silently.

Her large gray eyes are wide, and curious as they roam across my body.

Blonde golden locks flow down her back in small waves, her rosy cheeks almost match the light pink stain applied to her small lips.

She was the picture of innocence, and I hated it.

I turned away from the mirror frowning, I was almost eighteen years of age, and I looked like l was still in need of a nanny to stay with me while my parents were out at night. I had tried it all to alter my appearance, but nothing would work, instead I looked like a silly child playing dress up.

My lips tugged upwards in thought of all the things I could do if I wasn't cursed with this body. If my face was slightly slimmer, my jaw more pronounced, my height taller, and my eyes thinner; I'd be respected. My father...even he, if I looked like that, stronger and wiser, would be proud.

I frowned, wishful thinking would do nothing for me, my father wouldn't have given a single damn if I was the strongest and most feared woman in the world, the sight of my gender itself would set him into a fit of rage.

My father was a powerful man, from a young age he had always known his potential surpassed growing up on a farm with his father, and herding cattle with his brothers. His arrogance and determination had gottten him further than anyone had thought, soon becoming one of the most respected generals in all of Arcadia. He had even given up that position due to the hunger gnawing at his stomach, telling him he could do more, be more.

He now owned all war training facilities, war weaponry, and basically every single soldier in Arcadia. His close ties to the King secured his fortune, and his past life of being a general came in use when he stepped in to correct training routines for war. He held a position on the King's board for coming up with or editing military plans, and even had the final say in Arcadia's trading partners.

In short, my father was a powerful man, and he expected nothing less than a powerful son, so imagine his surprise when a doe eyed blonde girl had come along instead.

The king-sized bed placed in the middle of the room gazed longingly at me, its thick bedsheets, and fluffy pillows seemed to promise me nothing but relief. I gazed at it for a second longer, before averting my eyes and walking to my bathroom.

I stared at the dark walls in defeat, every part of my room had been decorated with the intention of housing a king. My father had prepared my room long before I was born, and sometimes...when I stumble across a small toy train, or a small playing ball, my eyes would burn. I have always resented my father for the way he resented me, but small things like those reminded of what once was, and what once could have been.

My Mother, before she had passed, used to tell me tales of a young man who had fallen infatuated with an older woman. She had been twenty-six when she had given birth to me, and my father nineteen. Their relationship had been given stares of disapproval, but by the time their status was high enough for the comments to become a problem, they had already gained too much respect for such trivial gossip.

It hurt, it hurt because I knew my father had not hated me the moment I was born. There was a moment where his face had showed nothing but excitement and love, proud of his most prized accomplishment. Three simple words, three simple words were all it had taken to wipe his smile clean.

"It's a girl."

That had been that, his coldness and hatred for me had followed me to the night of my mother's death and had only intensified soon after.