Her smile sharpened slightly.
“And don’t act like you don’t deserve it.”
I didn’t answer, so I followed.
I watched everything, the dress selection, the venue, the photos, Arkin standing beside her like he had always belonged there, while Trixie laughed too loud, touched him too often, and glanced at me like she needed proof I was still standing.
Sometimes she leaned closer and whispered only for me.
“You know,” she said once, smiling sweetly in public but lowering her voice, “I always wondered how it feels to take everything from you, turns out… it’s really easy.”
I didn’t react, because reacting meant I still mattered, and I wasn’t supposed to.
---
On the anniversary of Arkin’s father’s death, I went alone with flowers in my hand to the same place that held everything I never asked for.
I sat by the tombstone and rested my head lightly against it as the wind moved cold but quiet.
“Mr. Wattson,” I said softly, “are you okay there? Do you get lonely,” I added, “I think you used to like me before everything, you said I was like family.”
A pause.
“I’m tired,” I whispered. “I think I’ll come soon too, so don’t wait too long, okay? Send my regards to my parents up there.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, and for once the noise in my head felt distant.
Then footsteps came.
I opened my eyes and saw Arkin’s mother.
And the closest circle of Arkin’s father behind her.
Her expression changed instantly when she saw me, as if I didn’t belong in the air itself.
“You!” she said sharply, “you still have the nerve to come here?”
Before I could stand, she stepped forward and shoved me hard, and my back hit the tombstone as pain exploded through my ribs.
I slid down slightly, hands shaking as I tried to steady myself, blood already warm on my skin, while no one stopped her and no one reacted.
Arkin’s mother stood over me, voice cold with disgust.
“Don’t you ever show your face here again, Dahlia,” she said. “You don’t belong here,” she snapped. “Not near him. Not near anything in this family.”
Then it turned sharper.
“Murderer! That’s what you are. You’re the one who should’ve died, not him.”
Her hand shook as she pointed at me.
“What did the Wattson family ever do to you? Arkin loved you. My son loved you like you were part of us. And I treated you like my own daughter. So why? Why did you destroy us?”
By the end, her voice cracked completely, caught between rage and grief.
I stayed kneeling, barely able to breathe from my ribs.
I didn’t answer. Because there was nothing left that would make sense to her anyway.
Then Arkin stepped in.
He was quiet at first, just staring at me like he was deciding something he couldn’t say out loud. Then he finally spoke, low and controlled.
“Mom, stop,” he said. “Not here.”
He turned to me next.
“Dahlia, leave. Go to the car. Now.”
I forced myself up slowly. Every movement tore through me, but I still walked out without looking back, because looking back never changed anything.
---
Only after I left did Arkin’s mother finally speak.
She stood by her husband’s grave, face pale, voice rough like something buried for years had finally cracked open.
“Son,” she said to Arkin, “answer me honestly. Do you still love her?”
Arkin didn’t answer right away.
The wind moved through the trees, and the silence stretched too long.
Finally, he said, “No. I stopped a long time ago. And now I just hate her.”
His mother’s expression tightened, something breaking in her face.
“You’re my son,” she said quietly, “how did you hide this from me for so long?”
Then it turned heavier.
“Dahlia is your father’s killer,” she said, voice shaking. “How could you ever stand near her, let alone keep her with you? Do you understand what you’re doing? Your father can’t rest if he sees this.”
Arkin looked away. His jaw tightened, hands curling slightly at his sides like he was holding something back.
“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I’m going to marry Trixie as soon as possible. And Dahlia won’t be here much longer. I’ll make sure she disappears.”
---
After that, everything changed.
Arkin stopped hurting me directly. Not because he cared, but because it shifted into something quieter, more deliberate.
He took me back to places we used to go.
First was a private skybridge residence in California, a glass walkway between luxury towers overlooking San Francisco Bay.
We used to come here when everything still felt soft.
I remembered twisting my ankle once, and he carried me across the entire bridge like I weighed nothing, laughing like the world couldn’t touch us there.
We even left a lock along the railing.
I still remembered what he said.
“Dahlia,” he had laughed, “if we leave this here, you can’t run away from me anymore.”
And I had believed him. Now he stood beside me in silence while I searched for it. It took too long.
When I finally found it, my hands shook. Arkin didn’t stop me. I opened a cutter, snapped it open, and let the lock fall straight into the bay below.
Then we went to a modern coastal estate chapel in Malibu, a glass-built venue overlooking the cliffs where billionaire families held private ceremonies.
We had tied a ribbon there once during a quiet moment meant only for us.
I still remembered what I wrote.
“Arkin love Dahlia”
I didn’t speak when I saw it again.
We just stood there and then I untied it.The wind caught it, and it slipped through the glass edge, disappearing into the cliffs below.
Gone.
Just like that.
Next was a coastal estate garden where we once promised forever, laughing like the ocean would hold our words.
And then a private park inside his father’s estate where we planted a tree together and called it our future.
Every place felt like something quietly being erased from me.
Arkin didn’t speak much and neither did I. Because there was nothing left to argue about anymore.We had already decided.
By the time we finished, the sun was low over the ocean. Arkin leaned against the car door and lit a cigarette.
Then another and another.
He smoked like he was trying to burn something out of himself. Or maybe just trying not to feel anything at all.
…
After the cigarette burned out, Arkin finally moved. He pulled a check from his pocket and handed it to me, his face completely blank.
“This covers the bottles you broke,” he said, then paused like he didn’t even care if I reacted. “Use the rest to buy a plane ticket and leave. Go somewhere far and don’t come back. Don’t tell me where you’re going, and don’t let me ever see you again.”
