"Did you leak this?"
I glanced at his phone screen. The headline read: "Michelle Mason's History of Bullying Classmates."
Seeing her exposed sent a wave of satisfaction through me.
I met his eyes and smirked. "Serves you right."
James looked like he might explode. A vein pulsed at his temple, and his voice cracked with rage.
"Scarlett, you've changed! How did you become so petty? Digging up someone's past like this—how are you any different from the bullies back then?"
"She knows she was wrong. She can change. But you? You've become exactly the kind of person I hate most."
His words cut deep, poison-tipped and precise. Pain flooded through me.
I clenched my fists and spoke slowly, making sure he heard every word. "She changed? If she changed, can my mom come back to life?"
The anger froze on his face. He went completely blank.
I laughed—cold, hollow. "James, don't forget. You, you useless coward—you're a murderer too."
The memories crashed over me all at once.
That day, Michelle had brought her crew. She ground James's lunch under her heel and ordered him to kneel down and lick it clean. His eyes were red, but he didn't fight back.
I couldn't stand it. I grabbed Michelle by the hair and hit her. I made a scene—to protect him—and the teacher called our parents.
My mom rushed to the school. On the way, swerving to avoid a truck that ran a red light, she never woke up again.
I stared into his eyes, my heart sinking like a stone. "James, the thing I regret most in my entire life is standing up for you. It got my mom killed."
The fire in him guttered out. His voice dropped, almost pleading. "Scarlett, it's all in the past. Michelle apologized. Can't you let it go? We're still alive. We still have to live. There's no point staying trapped back there."
I said nothing. Just watched him, cold.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but in the end he only sighed, turned, and stumbled away.
After he left, I looked around the study—all those memories—and felt nothing but bitter irony.
I carried everything to the balcony. Notes, ticket stubs, photo albums. I burned it all.
The flames leapt up, and all that old sweetness turned to ash.
When the last scrap crumbled to nothing, I turned to head back to the bedroom and finish packing. Then my phone started buzzing like crazy.
The company group chat. Hundreds of messages flooding in.
I opened it, and the words hit me like a slap:
"Scarlett Quinn is such a slut. Who knew she was this kind of whore."
"Heard she was sleeping around at 18."
"Someone said she had an abortion. Her private life is a total disaster."
"And get this—the kid wasn't even Mr. Vance's! She cuckolded James Vance?"
An invisible fist crushed my chest. The pain blacked out my vision; I could barely breathe.
These were secrets I'd buried deep. No one knew except James. No one.
Right after Mom died, I'd cut off all contact with him. I couldn't face him—couldn't face myself. The girl who got her mother killed trying to protect him.
