Chapter 3

I took three days off and stayed at the small apartment I'd bought before we got married.

I sat alone at the kitchen table, drank a cup of coffee, and my mind began pulling me backward against my will.

I'd met Ryan at a gallery opening.

I was still new to the field back then, working as a curatorial assistant. Ryan was an investor in the gallery. One thing led to another, and we started getting to know each other.

He asked for my number, invited me for coffee. Then a second time. Then a third.

He was thoughtful. He remembered every little thing I said. Once, I'd mentioned offhand that there used to be a bakery near where I grew up—I missed that taste, but I'd long since forgotten the address. Two months later, he drove me there. "Welcome back to your childhood," he said.

That was the day I fell for him.

That summer, we spent a weekend at the beach.

I'd worked up the nerve to wear a bikini. That was when he first saw the scars on my arms.

He stared. His eyes filled with something that looked like heartbreak. "What happened to you?"

I shrugged, gave him a smile. "Just accidents. A long time ago. It's all in the past."

Ryan was quiet for a moment. He didn't press. He pulled me close and held me tight. "Then let it stay in the past."

I wonder now—if I'd told him the truth at that beach, told him everything that had been done to me, would things have turned out differently?

But it doesn't matter anymore.

Back then, I thought Ryan would be the person who'd help me leave those shadows behind for good.

Later, he proposed. I said yes.

Before the wedding, one of Ryan's friends invited me for tea. She was always blunt. "There's something I should tell you—don't get upset. Ryan and his adopted sister… their relationship is a little hard to define. The boundaries aren't clear. They're in their twenties and still share a bed. That girl has been spoiled beyond reason. You know what I'm saying?"

I went home and asked Ryan.

"Sophia," he said. "I swear—she won't affect our life."

I believed him.

By the time I met Ryan, Chloe had already been abroad for years. They hadn't seen each other.

I'd never met her. I hadn't planned to.

We had a beautiful wedding.

God—if I'd known who Chloe was, I never would have married Ryan.

That same day, I contacted a divorce lawyer and asked them to draft the papers.

This marriage was over.

The next morning, Natasha rushed over the moment she heard.

She was carrying a bag. When she saw my face, she froze.

"Jesus—what happened?"

Inside the bag: a box of refrigerated aloe gel, two coffees, and a sandwich.

Natasha was my oldest friend. We'd known each other since high school. She was one of the very few people who knew the whole story—and the one who'd gone with me to consult a lawyer all those years ago.

What Chloe had done to me back then had ended in nothing.

Her family's connections were too powerful. I'd sued her three times. Lost all three.

After the third dismissal, I'd clung to Natasha and cried for a long time.

Nobody knew how long I'd spent in therapy. And now I realized my trauma had never actually healed—the moment I saw Chloe, I was shaking again.

Natasha cursed Chloe under her breath as she applied the medication. "That bitch."

She wiped her hands, picked up her phone and started scrolling. After a moment, she held the screen out to me.

"Look."

It was a video.

The quality wasn't great—slightly grainy—but clear enough to make out faces.

In the frame, seventeen-year-old me was tied to a chair, head hanging, hair a mess.

Chloe's laughter entered the audio. She smiled at the camera, then crouched down and looked up at me in the chair.

"Want to beg me?" she said, voice light, almost playful. "Go on—beg me, and I'll give you a prettier scar."

I didn't speak. I turned my head away.

Chloe stood, took a lit cigarette from one of her friends, leaned down, and ground the burning tip into the inside of my arm.

"Ahhh—"

Seventeen-year-old me cried out in pain.

The boys and girls standing around watching let out a ripple of quiet laughter.

Natasha scrolled further. Several photos: sixteen-year-old Chloe and a man, half-undressed, lying on a hotel bed.

Back then, Chloe had liked posting videos of herself tormenting people on her social media. She'd also liked showing off her relationships.

"I've been saving this stuff for ten years," Natasha said, voice hard. "Sooner or later, I was going to make her pay."