Alma stood under the shower, the water as cold as she could stand it. It cascaded over her skin, a futile attempt to extinguish the fire burning within. In the fogged glass, her reflection was a wreck. The sight made her sick.
She scrubbed at her skin, hard, as if trying to remove an invisible stain. A faint red mark circled her wrist where she'd fought back.
Half an hour later, wrapped in a towel, she emerged from the bathroom. She was shivering, but she didn't know if it was from cold or rage. Her head felt clearer.
She sat on the edge of her bed and picked up her phone. The screen was dark. No missed calls. No messages.
Nothing from her boyfriend, Jase Durham.
A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. She dialed his number. It rang and rang, unanswered.
Just as she was about to hang up, her bedroom door was thrown open. Collette stood there, her face a mask of fury.
"You still have the nerve to be here?" Collette's voice was sharp. "You made me lose face with Mr. Quinn!"
Alma stared at her, her expression blank. The silence was more infuriating than any argument.
Collette marched over and threw a business card at her. "Either you go and apologize to Mr. Quinn right now and beg for his forgiveness, or you compensate him for his losses tonight. One million dollars."
Alma looked at the name on the card—Joe Quinn—and laughed. "I'm not giving him a single cent."
"It's not up to you!" Collette threatened. "Your father is counting on Mr. Quinn's investment. If you ruin this deal, he'll throw you out on the street!"
Alma's heart sank. She knew Collette was right. Her father, Robert Ryan, always put business first.
As they faced off, the doorbell rang downstairs. The butler's voice followed. "Master Jase, you're here."
Alma's heart leaped. Jase was here. Was he here for her? A sliver of hope cut through the despair.
She shot up from the bed, forgetting she was only in a towel, and rushed toward the door.
Collette blocked her path, a strange, twisted smile on her face. "Don't be in such a hurry. He's not here for you."
Alma pushed past her and ran to the railing overlooking the foyer.
She saw him. Jase, handsome and perfect in his tailored suit. And standing beside him, her stepsister, Farrah Ryan.
Farrah, in a beautiful white dress, was clinging to Jase's arm, her head resting on his shoulder. They looked like a perfect couple.
It felt like being struck by lightning. The air left her lungs. A cold numbness spread through her limbs, more potent than any drug.
Jase looked up and saw her. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only cold annoyance.
Farrah saw her too. A triumphant, provocative smile spread across her face. She deliberately pressed herself closer to Jase.
Collette came to stand beside Alma, savoring her pale, broken expression. "Now do you understand?" she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Jase loves my daughter."
Alma's nails dug into her palms, the pain the only thing keeping her upright.
She watched the couple below. They were laughing, talking, as if she were nothing more than a piece of the scenery.
Jase didn't even glance up again before leading Farrah toward the living room.
In that moment, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The champagne. The drug. Joe Quinn. And the two of them.
This wasn't just her stepmother's scheme. It was a betrayal orchestrated by her boyfriend and her stepsister.
A phantom hand squeezed her heart, stealing her breath.
She turned away from the railing and walked silently back to her room.
She closed the door and slid down against it, her body shaking with violent, silent sobs. She buried her face in her knees.
No tears fell. She knew no one in this house cared for her tears.
Outside, the city lights cast cold, indifferent stripes across the floor.
Humiliation, heartbreak, rage—they all swirled together, hardening into a core of pure, cold hatred.
