"One idiot, one cripple." Anna's lip curled. "What a perfect match."
Her companions erupted in jeering laughter.
Xavier's scream pierced my eardrums, burrowing into my skull.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1.
"Oh?" Anna's sharp eyes caught the movement. Her laughter died. "Trying to call the police?"
A man beside her strode forward. Before I could react, a blinding pain exploded in my toes.
His kick sent the phone flying from my grip. It skittered across the pavement and dropped straight into an open storm drain.
That phone.
I'd saved for *months* to buy it.
I lunged forward, crashing to my knees in the filthy slush. My fingers curled around the rusted iron grate as I peered down into the darkness.
Laughter. Pointing fingers. They circled me like vultures.
The acrid stench of sewage and rot billowed up from below. I held my breath and shoved my entire arm through the grate, groping blindly through the sludge.
Cold. Wet. Something slimy slid across my wrist.
When my fingers finally closed around the device, I yanked it up and clutched it to my chest. The foul smell of the sewer clung to my skin, my clothes, my hair.
I knelt there, shivering violently.
*Dong—*
The massive clock in the distant square began to toll.
*Dong—*
The crowd erupted into a roar.
"Happy New Year!"
The shout surged from every direction like a tidal wave, washing over the city in a flood of joy.
I lowered my head. Looked at the sweet potatoes trampled to paste. At Xavier, curled on the ground, cradling his crushed hand and whimpering.
A hard lump formed in my throat. Choking me. Making me cough.
Tears burst from my eyes without warning.
Like a broken doll, I knelt in the middle of the busiest street in the city—amidst the fireworks, the cheering, the promise of new beginnings—and cried until my chest felt hollow.
A complete and utter mess.
Back in my rental room—a suffocating box barely a hundred square feet—I scrubbed the filth from my skin until the water ran cold.
I changed into my worn, pilling pajamas. As I towel-dried my hair, my phone screen lit up.
*Freya, tomorrow is my fifty-fifth birthday. You haven't come home in a long time. If you have time, come over. - Dad.*
I stared at the text. Read it again. And again. The screen went dark. I lit it up, wanting to reply.
The words wouldn't come.
The next day, I went to a cheap gift shop at the end of the street. After agonizing over the options for far too long, I pointed to a suede box.
"That one."
Following the address, I arrived at the familiar villa.
I rang the doorbell. Aunt Maya, the old housekeeper, answered.
She froze when she saw me. Pity and surprise warred across her face. "Miss Swanson... you came."
The living room was decked out in flowers and ribbons. Guests held champagne flutes, their chatter filling the air with the mingled scent of expensive perfume and wine.
The moment I limped through the doorway, the room went silent.
Countless eyes locked onto me.
"Oh, look who it is. The Swanson family's... *former* daughter?"
"Didn't she go to prison? How is she out already?"
"I heard she sells sweet potatoes on the street now. Look at her walk... she's *crippled*."
"Tsk. How embarrassing."
The whispers were needles in my skull.
Then I saw her.
Charlotte.
She stood in the center of the crowd, draped in a rhinestone-encrusted gown, leaning possessively against Liam. Bright. Beautiful.
Triumphant.
My father, Miles Swanson, detached himself from the group and walked toward me.
A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, but he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card.
"Freya, it's good you came. The past... well, let's not dwell on it." He held out the card. "This is an administrative position at a friend's company. Easy work. Given your... legs... it's suitable. Go try it."
I looked at the gold-embossed card.
I didn't take it.
"No need. I can support myself."
My father's expression darkened.
Suddenly, my mother, Lucy James, rushed over. She snatched the business card from his hand.
"Freya Swanson!" Her voice was a hiss. "Your father *kindly* arranged a job for you, and you're being ungrateful? Look at yourself—do you really think you're still the eldest Miss Swanson?"
