Jayme Barnes POV
The taxi ride to Aunt Darleen's passed in a blur of neon lights smeared against the rain-streaked windows.
My phone buzzed incessantly against my thigh, a frantic heartbeat I couldn't silence.
It wasn't Autry.
It was the internet.
Pictures of Cassie Turner were everywhere I looked.
She was blonde, vicious, and the daughter of the man who had wanted Autry dead only last week.
Now, she sat beside him as his queen.
I arrived at Darleen's small house in Queens feeling hollowed out.
She opened the door, took one look at my face, and pulled me into a hug that smelled like lavender and stale cigarettes.
"He finally did it," she whispered into my hair.
"He's doing his duty," I said, repeating his words like a desperate mantra.
"He's selling his soul," she corrected sharply.
The next day, Darleen practically dragged me to a Charity Gala.
She said we couldn't look like we were hiding.
She said the Barnes women didn't run.
We arrived late.
The air in the ballroom was suffocating, thick with perfume and judgment.
Every eye turned to me the moment I stepped through the archway.
They knew.
Everyone knew I was the girl Autry kept in a glass box.
And everyone knew the box had just been smashed.
Then, I saw them.
Autry was wearing a black tuxedo that fit him like armor, stiff and unyielding.
Cassie was on his arm.
She was wearing pink.
It was a soft, innocent pink-my shade. It was the color I usually wore.
It was a deliberate caricature. She was mocking me.
She leaned into him, whispering something in his ear with a possessive intimacy.
Autry didn't smile, but he didn't pull away, either.
He looked up and locked eyes with me across the room.
For a second, his mask slipped.
I saw what looked like panic.
I saw a flash of regret.
Then Cassie followed his gaze.
She smiled at me.
It was a smile full of teeth, predatory and triumphant.
She whispered something else to Autry, and he looked away.
He cut the connection.
I felt bile rise in my throat.
I ran to the bathroom and retched until my stomach was empty.
I left the gala without saying goodbye.
The next morning, I went back to the estate to get the rest of my camera equipment.
I heard the noise before I saw it.
Machinery.
Grinding.
Tearing.
I ran to the back of the house, my heart hammering against my ribs.
There was a bulldozer in the middle of the rose garden.
My father planted those roses before he died.
They were the only living memory I had of him.
Cassie stood on the patio, pointing a manicured finger like an emperor sentencing a prisoner.
"Tear it all out," she commanded. "I want a Zen garden. Something modern. I hate roses."
"Stop!" I screamed.
I ran toward her, ignoring the mud splashing onto my shoes.
"You can't do this! My father planted these!"
Cassie turned to me, looking bored.
"Oh, Jayme. You're still here?"
"Autry wouldn't allow this," I said, my voice shaking.
"Autry gave me carte blanche to redecorate," she said coolly. "He said to make myself at home."
She signaled the driver.
The bulldozer blade came down.
It ripped a ten-year-old rosebush out of the earth with a sickening crunch of roots.
It sounded like bones breaking.
I fell to my knees.
Autry walked out onto the patio.
He saw me on the ground.
He saw the destroyed garden.
He looked at Cassie.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Renovations, darling," Cassie said, linking her arm through his. "You said I could change things."
Autry looked at the roses.
He knew what they meant.
He looked at me.
I waited for him to yell.
I waited for him to stop it.
"Make it quick," he said to the workers, his voice devoid of emotion.
Then he walked back inside.
He chose her comfort over my father's memory.
That was the moment the last thread of loyalty snapped.
Two weeks later, my modeling agency called.
They were dropping me.
"Conflict of interest," the agent said nervously. "The Villarreal family requested we prioritize Ms. Turner's portfolio."
He took my home.
He took my memories.
Now he was taking my voice.
I went to a bar that night, needing to drown the silence.
Cassie found me.
She must have been tracking me.
She sat on the stool next to me, her perfume clashing with the scent of stale beer.
"You're pathetic," she said.
"And you're just a political pawn," I replied, taking a shot of tequila.
"I'm the future," she hissed, leaning in close. "I'm going to strip you of everything in this city until you're nothing but a bad memory."
I looked at her.
I didn't feel angry anymore.
I felt light, untethered.
"You can have it all, Cassie," I said.
I put a twenty on the bar.
"I don't want a life that can be bought."
