Rowan and Corvin weren’t so quick to accept the end. After watching the flames consume the remnants of us, they scrambled to stitch together what was already beyond repair—two men clutching frayed threads of something that could never be whole again.
“Marceline, come on,” Rowan muttered, his hand raking the back of his neck like he was about to admit to a crime he’d been hiding. “Let’s have dinner. Our treat. No drama. Just us.”
Corvin chimed in, his usual sharpness gone, replaced by something softer. “Yeah. The usual place. Our spot. Please—just one meal. Let us make it up to you.”
I didn’t give them words. Just a small nod. Inside, I already knew—tonight would be our last supper together.
We slid into Rowan’s polished black car. The ride was heavy, air thick with unsaid things, the silence hissing like static between radio stations. Then Corvin’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, and his face fell. “It’s Evangeline.”
I caught the tremor in his tone as he answered. “Evangeline? What happened?”
Her shrill voice pierced the quiet. “The lights went out! Somebody broke in. I think there’s a burglar—oh my god, I’m terrified. Please, come quick!”
Rowan’s jaw flexed like stone. His eyes flicked toward me, then away. “Marceline, get out.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“We’ll come back after checking on Evangeline,” Rowan cut in, voice sharp as a blade. “You can’t come.”
Before I could object, the door swung open. They shoved me out into the soaked street, rain instantly plastering my hair to my face, my dress clinging to my skin.
They didn’t wait for me to find cover. Just drove off, red taillights dissolving into the storm.
I stood there, dripping, mascara streaking down like black veins of betrayal.
Then I smiled.
It wasn’t sweet. It was sharp. Bitter. Clean.
Because in that moment I understood—this wasn’t some last dinner. It was a funeral feast. They just hadn’t realized they were mourning themselves.
---
Three blocks later, I tore off my satin heels. They were useless—slick against the rain, my toes raw and blistered. I carried them by their straps, trudging barefoot along the soaked pavement. My dress stuck to me like a second skin, hair tangled at my neck, each breath colder than the last.
Not a single cab stopped. Not one.
Drivers slowed, headlights cutting across my face, saw the drenched girl limping in the dark—and sped up. Like I was already a ghost they didn’t want to pick up.
I didn’t cry. Not yet.
I ducked into an alley I thought might cut me back to the main road. Maybe I could flag a bus. Maybe I’d collapse under a streetlamp like some tragic poem. But shortcuts bite.
He emerged from behind a dumpster. Hoodie soaked, shadow cloaking his face. The knife gleamed before I even registered it. His hand shoved hard against me. His voice was a blur—wallet, phone, bag—I didn’t care.
I fought anyway.
Nails, fists, screams that tore my throat raw.
That’s when the blade punched into me. Once in the stomach. A second, lower. A third when I tried to crawl away. Pain seared white-hot, then numbed into a terrifying chill. I toppled, pavement pressing cold against my cheek like a farewell kiss.
Then—headlights.
A car door slammed. Someone shouted my name.
Arms scooped me up.
I tried to form words. Call my aunt. Say sorry. Tell her I wouldn’t be dropping off those cookies like I promised. But my lips were stone. My vision fizzled into static.
And then I saw him.
That face.
The same man who had plunged into the sea when Rowan shoved me from the yacht. The stranger who pulled me out of the black water when everyone else watched. I thought I’d dreamed him. Thought he was some angel the ocean spat out.
But he was flesh. Real.
He looked down at me, his white shirt blotched with my blood, his arms steady, strong.
“Stay awake, Marceline,” he commanded, voice deep, grounding, certain. “You’re not leaving this world tonight. Not like this.”
“Who… are you?” I think I whispered.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Sebastian.”
And then he was gone again.
Not in magic or smoke. Just in the ruthless way men like him disappear—when a secretary called his name, and he slipped out of the hospital room without waiting for gratitude.
I stayed a week. Tubes threaded into my arms. Stitches sealing my stomach. Silence hollowing me out. No visitors. No calls. Not even my mother—I told the nurses to keep her away. What would be the point? I needed the stillness. Needed to grieve the last piece of me that ever believed someone might come.
On the morning of discharge, pale and thin in a flimsy gown, they appeared.
Evangeline first, on a stretcher. Gauze wrapped around her wrists, blood soaking through, mascara smudged into a grotesque mask. She wailed like a siren. Rowan hovered, whispering comfort. Corvin carried her bag, obedient as a shadow.
They passed me in the hall.
And froze.
Rowan’s eyes widened like he was staring at a ghost. Corvin’s mouth fell open, stunned.
“Marceline?” Rowan muttered.
I looked at them, then at the IV tape still clinging to my skin. I hadn’t even changed clothes. Nurses were boxing my things. I should’ve been leaving quietly. Instead, I stood there.
“You’re here?” Corvin breathed.
“You were in the hospital?” Rowan took a step toward me, reaching out. I stepped back.
A laugh slipped from me. Not hysterical. Just cracked. “I’ve been here for a week,” I said softly, “fighting to stay alive. And you didn’t even notice I was gone.”
Their lips moved, but nothing came out.
Behind them, Evangeline wailed louder, dragging their eyes back to her.
Of course. Always her.
So I turned. Walked away again. Barefoot. Broken.
But this time—free.
