Chapter 6

Two large men in black suits appeared almost instantly. They flanked Francesca, their presence imposing and threatening.

"Mr. Sterling," one of them said, his voice flat.

Archer looked down at Francesca, his face a mask of cold fury. "I was going to let you have some dignity, for old times' sake. But you've crossed a line."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low, menacing whisper. "You want to be Mrs. Sterling? Fine. But you will learn your place. And your first lesson is that you will never, ever lay a hand on Amelia again."

"So in your eyes," Francesca asked, her own voice eerily calm, "I'm just a vicious, spiteful shrew?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. She saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a tiny crack in his righteous anger. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the now-familiar wall of hatred.

"You've always been..." he started to say.

"Don't," she cut him off. She didn't want to hear the lies, the twisted justifications he had built in his head. It didn't matter anymore.

She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the depth of his delusion. He genuinely believed she was the villain of his story. He saw Amelia as a saint to be protected and her as a demon to be punished.

The coldness in her heart spread through her veins, turning to ice. She clutched the broken pieces of the locket in her hand, the sharp edges digging into her palm, but she felt nothing.

"Do what you want," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "I'm tired."

She let her body go limp, a silent surrender. The guards grabbed her arms, their grips bruising.

"Wait," Archer said, and they stopped.

A tiny, stupid flicker of hope ignited in her chest. For a second, she thought he might see reason, that the boy she once knew was still in there somewhere.

He walked up to her, his eyes scanning her face. "Don't damage her face," he told the guards. "We have an engagement party to attend. I want my bride to look perfect."

Then he turned and walked away without a backward glance.

The hope died, and Francesca laughed. A broken, hollow sound. Of course. It was all part of the performance. The perfect, happy couple.

The guards dragged her out of the mansion and into a car. They drove her to an abandoned-looking house on the outskirts of the city. They threw her into an empty, dusty room.

One of the men cracked his knuckles. "The boss said to teach you a lesson. But not to touch your face."

He smiled, a cruel, ugly thing. "Plenty of other places to leave a mark."

She didn't scream when they hit her. She didn't cry out. She bit her lip until it bled, focusing on the pain to keep herself from shattering completely. She thought of her mother, of the locket, of ten years of love turning to ash.

Vaguely, she heard the men talking as they worked.

"Can't believe he's doing this to his own fiancée."

"Heard he's really in love with the other one. The sweet-looking girl. This one's just for show."

"Yeah, well, the boss said to keep going until she passes out."

The world tilted and went dark.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, lost in a haze of pain and memory. She remembered another argument, years ago. Amelia had "accidentally" spilled ink all over Francesca's final project for a design competition, then cried and claimed Francesca had tripped her.

Archer had been there. He hadn't seen what happened.

"It was her!" Francesca had screamed, pointing a trembling finger at a weeping Amelia. "She did it on purpose!"

"Francesca, stop it," Archer had said, his voice laced with disappointment. "Why are you always so mean to her? She's just clumsy."

"You don't believe me?" Francesca had asked, her heart sinking.

"I believe what I see," he'd said, turning his back on her to comfort Amelia. "And I see you yelling at a girl who is crying her eyes out. You're just jealous of her."

His words echoed in her mind now. Jealous. Mean. Cruel. That's all he had ever seen in her. Any act of kindness from her was twisted into malice, while every one of Amelia's manipulative ploys was seen as innocent and pure.

She had been born proud. Tears were a weakness she rarely showed. But now, in the darkness, she couldn't stop them.

She woke up in the hospital again. It was becoming a familiar place. She laughed weakly at the thought.

Her first conscious thought was of the locket. The broken pieces. She looked around frantically, but her hand was empty. They had taken it.

She tried to get out of bed, ignoring the screaming pain from her bruised ribs and the deep ache in her bones. She needed to find it.

Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor.

The door opened, and Archer walked in. He looked down at her, his expression one of pure annoyance.

"What are you doing now? Trying to get attention?"

"The locket," she whispered, her voice raw. "Where is it?"

He sighed, a long, impatient sound. "Oh, for God's sake, Frankie. It's gone. It was broken. I threw it away."

She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"I'll buy you another one," he said, pulling out his wallet. "A better one. How much was it worth? A million? Two?"

The world went silent.