Chapter 4

I pushed past them, ignoring Isabelle's indignant cry, and went to the guest room.

My boxes were there, haphazardly stacked. And on the bed, spread out, was the quilt.

Stained. Large, dark, sticky patches marred the intricate stitching. And cigarette burns. Multiple, deliberate, circular burns, eating through the fabric my grandmother had lovingly chosen.

My vision tunneled. This wasn't accidental. This was desecration.

Liam appeared in the doorway, a look of feigned innocence on his face. "Oh, that. Must have been the movers. So clumsy."

"Movers don't do this, Liam," I said, my voice dangerously low.

Isabelle pushed in front of him. "What is your problem, Ethan? It's a stupid blanket! Liam didn't do anything!"

She shoved me hard. "You're harassing us! Get out!"

I stumbled back, hitting my head against the doorframe. Stars exploded behind my eyes for a second.

The pain in my head was nothing compared to the gaping wound in my soul. The quilt, my grandmother's love, defiled by their malice.

I picked up the ruined quilt, cradling it carefully.

"We're done, Isabelle," I said, the words hollow. "Truly done."

I walked out, leaving them to their twisted intimacy.

Later that night, after I'd told Chloe everything, my phone rang. Isabelle, her voice frantic.

"Ethan! You have to come to the hospital! City General! It's Liam!"

"What happened?" I asked, a cold dread seeping in despite myself.

"He... he tried to hurt himself! Because of you! Your aggression, your accusations! He's devastated!"

My aggression? I was the one who'd been assaulted, whose cherished possession was destroyed.

But the thought of Liam actually harming himself... I couldn't ignore it.

"I'm on my way," I said, Chloe's worried eyes following me as I left.

I rushed to the hospital, my mind a whirl of guilt and confusion.

I found them in a private room. Liam was sitting up in bed, a small bandage on his wrist. A scratch. It looked like a paper cut.

Isabelle rounded on me the moment I entered.

"There you are! Look what you did to him!"

She grabbed my arm, trying to pull me towards the bed. "Kneel! Kneel and apologize to Liam! Tell him you're sorry for upsetting him!"

I stared at her, at Liam's smug, martyred expression. This was a performance. Another manipulation.

My disillusionment was complete.

Isabelle, seeing my refusal, snatched something from the bedside table. A letter opener.

She thrust it at me. "Here! If you won't apologize, then you need to understand his pain. Cut yourself. Just a little scratch, like his. Then you'll know how much you hurt him."

Her eyes were wild, her face contorted.

I looked at the letter opener, then at her, then at Liam, who was watching with a sick sort of anticipation.

Slowly, I took it.

I pressed the tip against my own forearm, just enough to break the skin. A thin line of red appeared.

"There," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Now we're even."

I dropped the letter opener on the floor and walked out, not looking back.

"Isabelle," I said, pausing at the door. "This time, it really is over. Forever."