After James Vance was diagnosed with Stockholm syndrome, I caught him and the girl who'd led the bullying against us back then, naked and tangled together.
I stood in the doorway. Cold wind poured through the gap, numbing my fingertips.
After what felt like forever, I finally managed a smile—bitter, mocking:
"Why did it have to be her?"
He jerked his head up, voice shaking:
"Scarlett… the doctor said… the doctor said this could stimulate me and help my condition recover."
Looking at him stammering like that, I suddenly felt something lift off my chest.
So we were never the same kind of people after all.
James and I started with secret notes passed between classes in high school.
——
Teenage sweethearts, eyes full of summer light.
In the blink of an eye, years had passed. He'd spoiled me into a princess who never had to lift a finger—he couldn't even bear to let me twist open a bottle cap myself.
So when Michelle Mason sent me that disgusting video, my only reaction was disbelief.
The man in the footage looked like James, sure, but I was certain it had to be some malicious deepfake.
Still, after work, I found myself—almost possessed—heading to the address Michelle had sent.
Only now, standing here, taking in the tangled sheets, the buttons he'd fastened wrong in his panic, the smirk playing at Michelle's lips—only now did the pain hit. It spread from my chest through my whole body, like ten thousand needles piercing every inch of skin.
James finally got dressed. The panic in his eyes faded, replaced by forced composure.
"This was the first time. And the last."
His voice still shook—like he was trying to convince me. Or maybe himself.
"I promise you, there won't be a next time."
He paused, throat bobbing, then added:
"I… I had no choice. It was just to treat the illness."
I smiled, looking straight at him, and said each word clearly:
"James Vance, you make me sick."
I didn't look back. I walked out of the hotel, grabbed a cab, and went home.
The wedding photo still hung on the wall. In it, his arm was around my shoulder, his eyes overflowing with love.
Now it just looked like a cruel joke.
It felt like something had torn a hole straight through my chest. I couldn't breathe.
Gritting my teeth, I pushed open the study door.
James had set this room up years ago as our "memory vault." He'd said when we were old, we'd sit in the sun together and look through everything.
I glanced around. Notes from high school lined the bookshelf. The first lipstick he'd ever bought me—saved up for weeks—sat in the drawer. Even our photo booth strips from later dates were carefully arranged in an album.
I ran my fingers over it all. Then, tucked inside one notebook, I found a yellowed slip of paper.
It read:
"Scarlett Quinn, don't get too close to me anymore. They'll bully you."
My chest seized.
Back then, James's family had nothing. His clothes were always washed to a faded gray, and lunch was just plain steamed buns and pickled vegetables. That's why Michelle Mason and her crowd made him their target.
He was scared that if I stayed close, they'd come after me too. So he'd written this note, trying to push me away.
But the more he tried, the more my heart broke for him. The more I wanted to stay.
The front door opened, snapping me out of it—James was back.
Before I could react, he stormed into the study and shoved his phone in my face:
