For a long time after that, I deliberately avoided every place where I might run into him. I never looked for him again.
But then the truck driver who killed my mom tracked me down. He said the accident cost him his job, buried his family in debt—that I'd ruined his entire life.
Red-eyed, he spat his hatred at me.
During that period, I was a walking corpse. Desperate beyond words. I climbed to the rooftop, ready to end it all.
James heard somehow. He came tearing up those stairs like a madman and grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.
Eyes rimmed red, he kept repeating that none of this was my fault. He said the way I'd protected him back then was the bravest thing he'd ever seen—that I was his hero.
Later, when I found out I was pregnant with that monster's child, he stayed by my side through every hospital visit.
Later still, when our careers took off, he helped me gather evidence. Together, we put that truck driver behind bars.
But now he was using these secrets as a blade, driving it straight into my chest.
I kept asking myself: how did the man who walked me through my darkest years become this?
Before I could process anything, my phone buzzed again. A video this time. From Michelle.
I tapped it open. My stomach lurched.
James and Michelle, tangled together on screen.
She faced the camera with a provocative smile, enunciating every word:
"James, all that stuff about Scarlett online? I leaked it."
"You won't blame me, will you?"
He paused mid-motion. Clearly caught off guard. Then continued anyway.
"Not next time. I'll handle it."
Violent nausea slammed into me. I stumbled to the bathroom, gripped the toilet, and vomited until nothing was left. My stomach was empty but I couldn't stop heaving. Acid and bile burned up my throat, choking me until tears streamed down my face.
In the spinning darkness, my phone rang again. Another message from Michelle.
A photo this time. She was wearing stilettos, one heel pressed against James's face, her expression dripping with triumph.
The caption read:
"Back then, I could step on James Vance. Now? Same story."
I stared at those words. No tears came. Even the pain had gone numb, like the body being carved apart wasn't mine.
No anger. No breakdown. I just mechanically pressed and held the screen, saving every video, every photo, every message she'd sent.
When I finished, I opened the booking app and bought a ticket. Tonight, 11 p.m. A city I'd never been to.
I just needed to escape this place drowning in betrayal.
The moment payment confirmed, wind howled outside. Rain hammered the glass like fists, and within seconds it became a downpour.
A notification popped up:
Due to weather, your flight is delayed by 12 hours.
I stared at the screen, hollow as a puppet with its strings cut.
After a long while, I opened my photo album. Starting from high school, I deleted every picture of us together. Every shot I'd once treasured like it was priceless.
One by one.
Until none remained.
