Chapter 3

I lay at the bottom of the stairs, a crumpled heap of pain. A warm, sticky wetness spread from the back of my head, staining the white marble a dark, ugly red.

I saw Ethan hesitate. For a split second, his eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of something-panic, maybe even regret. But then Tiffany whimpered his name, and he turned his back on me, gathering her into his arms and murmuring words of comfort.

He left me there.

Time stretched and warped. I was aware of people rushing past, of hushed whispers and the distant wail of a siren. I watched Ethan guide Tiffany through the crowd, shielding her from the chaos I had supposedly caused. They got into his car and drove away, leaving me to bleed on the floor.

The pain faded into a dull, throbbing numbness. My heart felt like a block of ice in my chest.

Lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness, I overheard two of the staff talking. They were discussing Ethan' s plans for the engagement party, a lavish affair on a private yacht. He was sparing no expense to celebrate his future with Tiffany. My blood, my pain, was just a minor inconvenience, an ugly stain on their perfect day.

When I finally woke up in the hospital again, I started making plans. Quiet, secret plans.

A week later, I was discharged. The first thing I did when I got home was go to my mother' s room. It was empty. Stripped bare. Her furniture, her clothes, her books-all gone.

I found Tiffany in the backyard, standing over a smoldering fire pit.

"Looking for these?" she asked, a cruel smile playing on her lips. She kicked a charred piece of wood with her designer shoe. It was the leg of my mother' s antique vanity.

"Dad said it was time to get rid of the old junk," she said. "He helped me burn it all. It made a lovely fire."

My father. He had helped her.

He came out of the house then, holding a baseball bat. He looked at me, his eyes cold and hard.

"You' re a disgrace," he said, his voice low and menacing. "You dare to bring your drama here after what you did? Your mother would be ashamed of you."

He took a step forward, swinging the bat, the wood whistling through the air. "I should have gotten rid of her things years ago. And you with them."

The bat connected with my ribs. A sharp, white-hot agony shot through me. I stumbled back, gasping for air.

He raised the bat again, but I didn' t wait for the second blow. I turned and ran. I ran out of the house, out of the yard, and into the pouring rain.

I didn' t know where I was going. I just ran until my legs gave out, collapsing in a filthy alleyway. It was an old, forgotten place, but a flicker of memory sparked in my mind. My mother used to bring me here when I was a little girl, to look at the murals painted on the brick walls. Now they were faded and peeling.

I huddled against the cold, wet brick, letting the rain wash over me. I must have been there for hours.

Then, a car pulled up at the end of the alley. Ethan got out. He didn' t seem to see me at first. He just stood there, staring at the faded murals, a strange, wistful look on his face. He was holding a small, worn photograph.

He was waiting. But not for me.

"I used to wait here for her," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the rain. He was looking for his childhood savior, the little girl who had given him a piece of candy after he fell. The girl he believed was Tiffany.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. He turned, his eyes finally finding me huddled in the shadows. His expression hardened.

He strode over and grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "What are you doing here? Get up. I' m taking you back."

"Our business is finished, Ethan," I said, my voice dead.

"I decide when it' s finished," he snarled, dragging me to my feet.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor changed. A warm, eager smile lit up his face.

"It' s the jeweler," he said, his voice bright. "Tiffany' s engagement ring is ready."

He let go of my arm, dropping me back onto the wet pavement without a second glance. He got back in his car and sped away, leaving me alone in the rain once more.

I lay there, the cold seeping into my bones. My own phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a news alert. I pulled it out, my hands shaking.

The headline hit me like a physical blow. It was a story about my childhood. About a traumatic assault I had suffered and never spoken of to anyone. Except one person. My therapist.

My deepest, most painful secret was now a public spectacle, splashed across the internet for the world to see.