The shift was sharp and cruel—Rafael, the boy I was dating, and Victor, who once looked at me with longing, froze me out the second Celestine arrived. My best friend. Or so I thought. Within days they were flaunting their affection for her right in front of me, as though I’d vanished from their world.
I sat on the yacht watching them, their laughter weaving together while mine was left unheard. That was the moment I picked up the phone, told my mother I was done resisting, and agreed to the marriage she had been arranging for years.
But Celestine wasn’t finished. She brought out her birthday cake, feigning sweetness, only to smash it into her own face and accuse me of doing it. Rafael didn’t hesitate—he shoved me overboard. Salt water filled my lungs, and I would have sunk if not for a stranger’s arms. Adrian. The man chosen by my parents, the fiancé I had never wanted until that night.
Rafael and Victor later turned up with hollow apologies, asking for just one dinner to “make things right.” I dressed up as though I believed them, only to be tossed onto the roadside when Celestine called, screaming she was “afraid.” They left me standing under the streetlight, utterly alone.
That was where a knife found me. Again and again. And when I opened my eyes in the hospital, I didn’t break. Not a single tear. The moment they discharged me, I booked a flight away from every one of them.
Then came Rafael’s venom in a text:
“So now you’re cheating? After everything I gave you? You filthy tramp.”
I stared at it twice, then typed back, steady and cold:
“You’re formally invited to my wedding.”
--
“Years ago, your father set up a marriage for you. Now that you’re healthy… will you go ahead with it?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I said, voice level and detached. “Have Father prepare the documents. And make sure the wedding doesn’t look tacky. I’m not interested in romance — I’m here to win.”
My mother didn’t flinch at my tone. She nodded, added a few practical suggestions, and I rattled off a brief list of instructions of my own before hanging up.
The weekend was meant to celebrate Celestine’s birthday: a glittering affair aboard Rafael’s yacht. Champagne, smiles that didn’t reach the eyes, forced merriment. That was the plan.
Instead, I watched her press her lips to my boyfriend’s. Rafael.
Up on the upper deck — cake frosting smudged on her cheek, his hands roaming her waist. Victor, his brother — once like a protective older brother to me — handed Celestine a towel with the casualness of someone helping a damsel, as if the scene unfolding before me wasn’t a betrayal on full display.
Celestine. My best friend since we were nine. The girl who used to braid my hair and promise she’d never touch what was mine. Now she was licking chocolate from Rafael’s fingers like it was flirtation — like it was a prelude.
And Rafael? The man who had bled for me, who had called me his future without shame — he didn’t so much as flinch when I passed them. Not even a blink.
I didn’t break down. I didn’t scream.
I climbed downstairs with the sea air heavy and sharp in my lungs, my heart unnervingly quiet. I sat on the velvet sofa tucked into the yacht’s lower-deck lounge and called my mother. Because if I wanted revenge, I needed leverage. Power doesn’t come from tears.
Minutes later, the sound of designer heels clicked down the staircase. A soft knock sounded on my cabin door.
“Aurelia?” a saccharine voice called.
I didn’t answer. She shoved the door open anyway.
Celestine flowed in like she owned every inch of Rafael’s boat, brandishing a Black Forest cake with a solitary candle stuck dead center. Her makeup was immaculate — glossy lips, long lashes — yet there were a couple of deliberate smears of whipped cream on her cheek. Always performative. Always deliberate.
“Aurelia, will you come upstairs? Everyone keeps asking where you are.” Her voice was sweet, her eyes wide and doe-like, the exact expression she used to disarm people. I’d seen the real thing behind that gaze too many times to be fooled.
“No,” I said, flat, without turning. “I have work.”
Something flickered across her face — not surprise, not hurt, but calculation.
“You don’t like me,” she said softly. “That’s why you keep avoiding me.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Are we doing this again?”
She blinked quickly, the practiced watery look that always fell so conveniently into place. I’d watched her use that same act on Rafael a thousand times.
“I’m not in the mood, Celestine. Save the theatrics for your audience,” I told her.
I made for the door. She stepped back — then suddenly stumbled. The cake flew from her hands and splattered across her chest, dark sponge and whipped cream exploding like some melodramatic tableau.
As if scripted, Rafael and Victor materialized at the top of the stairs, rushing forward with a choreographed urgency, shoving past me as though I didn’t exist.
“Celes! Oh my gosh — what happened?” Rafael’s voice tensed; his eyes were fixed on the wrecked cake and Celestine’s ruined dress.
“She shoved me,” Celestine whimpered, clutching the ruined dessert as though it were a grievous injury. “I just wanted to bring her something nice. For old times. She — she shoved it into me.”
I stared at her, stunned into silence for a beat. “What?” I said.
“She what?” Victor’s gaze was fierce. “Aurelia, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I didn’t touch her,” I snapped. “She dropped it herself. You all saw— but you’re ready to believe her instead.”
Rafael didn’t so much as glance at me. He was busy dabbing whipped cream from Celestine’s shoulder like she was fragile glass.
“Celes, does it hurt?” he murmured. She sniffled and leaned into him, trembling on cue. “Just a little. It’s okay… I shouldn’t have bothered her. She hates me now.”
“You were her best friend,” Victor said, scowling at me. “You were like sisters. She always said you were her only true friend. And you treat her like this? Are you jealous?”
Jealous.
A short, bitter laugh escaped me. “You two are a soap-opera waiting to happen. All that’s missing is an amnesia plot and a fake baby.”
Rafael pivoted, jaw clenched. “You’re going to apologize.”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“You heard me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Apologize to Celestine. Now.”
I folded my arms and met his stare. “No.”
His expression hardened. “Then forget the wedding we planned. If you don’t apologize by tomorrow, I won’t propose next month. Consider it off the table.”
Silence snapped taut between us.
Victor snorted behind him. “You really still wanna marry her, bro? Look at her — this is who she is. Waste of a future. If it were me, I’d think twice about marrying someone like her.”
I tilted my head, my gaze cold and steady. “That’s why no one ever would.” My voice was satin over steel.
Victor flushed; Rafael’s jaw twitched. Celestine shone with cruel delight, savoring the chaos she’d engineered.
I turned toward the side railing, intending to retreat back inside — and Rafael clamped his hand around my wrist. Before I could react, he shoved me. Hard.
Over the rail I went. Into the sea.
The splash stole the air from my lungs. Cold slammed into me like knives. Darkness rushed in. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cry out.
My hands thrashed above the surface; my mouth tried to force in air but only seawater filled it. The water pulled at my limbs like a cruel tether. I didn’t know how to swim — they did. They had known that from the start.
“Aurelia?!” Celestine’s voice rang out theatrically from the deck, loud and immaculate. “Someone help — Aurelia doesn’t know how to swim!”
It wasn’t alarm. It was performance.
“Leave her,” Rafael said from above, voice cool and uncaring, like a supreme being pronouncing sentence. “That’s for bothering you. She’s a pain — maybe this will teach her a lesson.”
I sank further, the world narrowing to the taste of salt and the muffled roar in my ears. Then, when breath felt impossible and darkness threatened to take me, something forceful broke through the water. Strong arms grabbed my waist and hauled me upward. The pull toward the surface came back.
A stranger’s voice — low, steady, steadying — said, “I’ve got you.”
I coughed violently as my head burst above the waves, gasping for air like someone given life back.
Chapter 2
The yacht eased into port as the first pale light of dawn stretched across the horizon.
No one said a word—not Rafael, not Victor, not even Celestine, who had cried so convincingly the night before that I nearly believed her tears. Almost.
I stepped off the deck silently, soaked to the bone, still shivering from nearly drowning—not just in water, but in betrayal. Rafael had shoved me straight into the freezing, dark waves. He hadn’t even flinched.
“That’s what you get,” he said, voice calm. “Jealousy has its price. Acting like the world owes you something—it’ll catch up to you.”
No apology. No hand reached out. No hint of regret. The stranger who saved me? Gone. Nameless, unthanked, just a fleeting shadow among the crowd.
I made my way back to the apartment alone, shaking, numb, finished. Inside, I didn’t cry or scream. I packed. Drawers emptied, suitcases stuffed—clothes, passports, hard drives, the necklace my grandmother gave me—anything untouched by them, anything truly mine, I took. I folded the last coat when my phone buzzed.
Celestine. Of course. Subtlety was never her style.
“Check my Insta!” the message read, playful and loud. “New pics! You’ll want to see this~”
The nerve of her. I tapped the screen, already knowing the sight that would greet me. There she was again—smug, radiant, crowned in my silk pink Milan robe I’d left on the yacht. Rafael beside her, shirtless, half-asleep, his arm draped over her, his nose almost grazing her exposed skin. Victor on the other side, holding her like a queen. A queen of venom.
Caption:
“Best night ever with my fav boys. Thanks for making my birthday unforgettable. Loved every whip and bit of cream you gave me ”
“And guess what, Aurelia? Rafael gave me your brand-new car. Said it was his money anyway, and it suits me better. But don’t worry—I’ll let you borrow it… if you say please ”
I scrolled to see my car in all its glory on her post and laughed. Quietly, deliberately. I tapped the little heart beneath her post, letting it turn red, then tossed my phone onto the bed. Tomorrow, I would be gone. And when I left, I wouldn’t take their ghosts with me.
---
That afternoon, I handed in my resignation at the firm, smiling politely, shaking a few hands as if I weren’t dismantling my life piece by piece. Back at the apartment, it was time for the final cut.
From under the bed, I dragged out a heavy leather box. Memories, promises, the remnants of the past with them—everything we had shared, now shards in my hands. Rafael’s silver necklace, engraved with a secret only we knew. Victor’s battered lighter, cold, weighted with smoky nights and whispered secrets. The cracked face of Rafael’s luxury watch, frozen in time.
I pulled out the crumpled love letters Rafael had written me at sixteen, folded poems once sacred, now ashes waiting. Notes from Victor, slipped under my door during sleepless college nights. The leather jacket Rafael swore would be mine forever, sleeves still faintly smelling of his cologne. Victor’s dented motorcycle helmet. And the tiny music box that had once played our song—silent now, gathering dust.
Click. Flame.
I held the jacket to the fire first. It curled, blackening instantly. One by one, I tossed in letters, the necklace, the lighter, the watch. The flames hungrily devoured every fragment of us.
By the time Rafael barged into the room, half my past was already ash.
“Aurelia—what the earth are you doing?!” His voice cracked, eyes wide with disbelief.
I didn’t flinch. “Getting rid of mold.”
“Crap!” he snapped, advancing, desperation clinging to his tone. “These aren’t just things. They’re memories!”
Victor followed, eyes wide as he lunged for the fire but yelped when the flames nipped at his fingers. “You’re insane! You destroyed everything we had!”
I met them calmly, coldly. “You gave my car to Celestine. She gets the gifts; she can keep the memories too.”
“You’re really doing this? Throwing tantrums like last night wasn’t enough?” Rafael’s voice was incredulous, sharp.
I smiled bitterly, serene. “Yes. I’m done. This is the last time you’ll ever see me.”
They watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling, ashes settling like the final chapter of us. Funny how they had almost razed the city for Celestine’s fake tears—but when it was me falling apart, not one of them had asked why. Now, the fire claimed what remained, and for the first time, they wept over what I had chosen to leave behind.
Chapter 3
afael and Victor weren’t ready to give up. After watching the photos burn, they clung to the tattered remnants of our past, desperate to grasp any remaining thread.
“Come on, Aurelia,” Rafael said, rubbing the back of his neck as if about to admit some sin. “Let’s go to dinner. Our treat.”
Victor’s tone was softer, almost begging. “Yeah… our favorite spot. Just one dinner. Let us make things right.”
I didn’t respond, only nodded. Deep down, I already knew—this was our final night together.
The ride in Rafael’s sleek black car was heavy with silence, suffocating and static-charged. Then Victor’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, face tightening. “It’s Celestine.”
Panic sharpened his voice as he answered. “Celestine? What’s happening?”
Her high, frantic cries tore through the quiet. “The power’s out… someone broke into the house! I’m scared—there’s a thief! Please, hurry!”
Rafael’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, then at Victor. “Aurelia… get out.”
“What?” I blinked, stunned.
“We’ll check on Celestine,” Rafael said sharply. “You can’t come.”
Before I could protest, they opened the door and shoved me into the dark, wet street. Rain immediately drenched my hair, my dress, my skin. They didn’t even wait to see if I found shelter before speeding away, red taillights bleeding into the storm.
I stood there a moment, soaked, mascara running like betrayal streaking my cheeks. Then I smiled—bitter, clean, precise. This wasn’t the last dinner. This was a funeral feast. And they didn’t even realize they were attending their own eulogy.
---
Three blocks later, I kicked off my heels. Satin and slippery, my toes blistered, my bare feet met the wet pavement. Dress clinging to me, hair plastered to my neck, breath ragged and cold. No taxi stopped. Not one. Drivers saw me, slowed, then sped up, treating me like a ghost.
I turned into a narrow alley, hoping for a shortcut, maybe a cab, maybe even to collapse under a streetlamp in some poetic wreckage. But the alley had teeth.
A figure stepped from the shadows, hoodie soaked through, face hidden. The glint of a knife caught my eye too late. A shove, a demand—wallet? phone? bag?—I didn’t care. I fought anyway.
I punched. I clawed. I screamed until my throat burned. And then the knife found me. Once in the gut, a second lower, a third as I tried to crawl away. Pain flared, sharp and then ice-cold, stealing my breath. I remember falling, pavement kissing my cheek like goodbye.
Then headlights. A door slamming. A voice shouting my name. Strong arms lifting me.
I tried to speak, tried to ask someone to call my aunt, to say I was sorry, that the cookies wouldn’t be delivered—my lips refused. Vision blurred into static.
Then I saw him. That face. That stranger. The same man who had plunged into the ocean the night of Celestine’s birthday. The same man who had pulled me from the freezing waves after Rafael “accidentally” pushed me. That night, I thought maybe the sea had sent me an angel. But he was real.
He cradled me in his arms, drenched in rain and blood and quiet command. “Stay with me, Aurelia,” he said. “You’re not dying tonight. Not like this.”
“Who… are you?” I whispered.
“Adrian,” he said, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.
Then he vanished again. Not in smoke or light, but the clean, cruel disappearance of someone untouchable—slipping away when called, leaving no thanks, leaving only presence and power.
I stayed in the hospital for a week. Tubes in my arms, stitches in my stomach, silence in my soul. No visitors. No calls. Not even my mother—I instructed the nurses to keep it that way. I needed to lie still, to feel the death of whatever part of me had still clung to hope that someone would notice.
On the day of my discharge, still pale, still in a hospital gown, they appeared. Celestine, on a stretcher, bloodied arms wrapped in soaked gauze, mascara streaked across her porcelain face, wailing like a siren. Rafael whispered something soothing into her ear, and Victor carried her bag like a devoted servant.
They passed me in the corridor. And then they froze.
Rafael’s eyes blinked as if he were staring at a corpse. Victor looked like he’d been sucker-punched.
“Aurelia?” Rafael said, voice broken.
I looked at them, then down at the IV still taped to my hand. Nurses were packing my things. I was supposed to go home. Instead, I met them here.
“You’re here?” Victor’s voice hollow, almost stunned.
“You were in the hospital?” Rafael stepped forward, reaching, but I stepped back.
I laughed. Not loud. Not hysterical. Just broken. “You didn’t even know,” I said quietly. “I’ve been here for a week. Fighting to live. And none of you even noticed I was gone.”
Their mouths opened. No words came out. Behind them, Celestine screamed again, stealing every ounce of attention.
Of course she did. Once more, they turned toward her. Once more, I walked away.
This time barefoot. This time bleeding inside.
This time—free.
Chapter 4
The apartment was still cloaked in darkness when I returned. No lights. No warmth. Only stale air, faintly carrying the sour scent of something rotting in the sink. I didn’t bother flipping the switch. I dropped my bag by the door and kicked it shut behind me, each echoing thud cutting through the heavy silence.
I didn’t even change out of the thin hospital gown under my hoodie. I collapsed onto the couch, face down, arms draped over the sides like a ragdoll. The fabric scratched against my bandages, but exhaustion overpowered the discomfort. Sleep offered no solace—it never does when dreams know truths your lips haven’t yet spoken.
Hours passed. I awoke groggy and sore, blinking into the darkness, when I heard it: a clattering—from the kitchen.
I sat up slowly, every muscle heavy, cold, aching, and padded toward the sound on bare feet. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I’d left the TV on. Or maybe someone was breaking in. But as I rounded the corner, I saw them.
Rafael stood at the stove, grilling steak. Victor was at the counter, chopping vegetables with methodical precision. The table was already set—plates, cutlery, glasses, even a neatly folded napkin at each place.
They looked up as our eyes met.
Rafael spoke first. “We thought you were at your aunt’s,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We didn’t want to disturb you.”
Victor’s eyes flicked to his knife and back. “We didn’t know you were in the hospital,” he added, voice low, guilt threading through every word.
I said nothing. I walked to the table and sat. I didn’t touch the food.
“You have to eat. You just got discharged,” Rafael said, frowning, turning off the stove.
I looked at him, cold and precise. “You didn’t check on me for a week.”
Silence followed, sharp enough to crack bone. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then the doorbell rang.
Both men turned, and Victor moved first, hurrying to open it. Celestine stood there, pale, fragile, wrists wrapped in clean bandages hidden beneath the sleeves of a delicate blouse. A porcelain doll cracked, but not shattered.
At the sight of her, Rafael and Victor moved instinctively. Rafael scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, laying her gently on the couch. “You shouldn’t be out,” he whispered, brushing hair from her face. “What if something happens?”
“I was alone in the hospital room,” she said, eyes wide and anxious. “I kept thinking… what if I never woke up again? What if no one was there? I panicked. I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
Rafael softened immediately, moving closer, but she raised a weak hand.
“If it’s too much, I can go back,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to be a burden.”
“Hey, hey, no,” Rafael said, worry threading his voice. “You’re not a burden. You should’ve called sooner. We’ll take care of you.”
Victor hovered behind him. “We’ll go back to the hospital after we check on Aurelia. Then we’ll stay with you tonight.”
I said nothing. I picked up my fork and ate. The steak was dry, overdone, still pink in the center. Every bite tasted like ashes, like cardboard—but I chewed anyway. I wouldn’t let them see me stop. He made steak—my least favorite—and they hadn’t remembered.
A small, bitter laugh escaped me. I swallowed it down with a sip of water. Rafael and Victor fussed over Celestine, setting her place, coaxing her to eat, treating her like glass. She drank in their attention like it was her birthright. Occasionally, her eyes flicked to me, sharp, triumphant, as if to say, you lost.
Then my phone buzzed. Mom. Over a dozen photos of wedding dresses flooded the screen—lace, silk, heavy beading, cathedral veils. I scrolled numbly until the third dress—a satin off-the-shoulder gown with a cinched waist and cascading ruffles. Without hesitation, I hit call.
“Did you get the dresses?” Mom’s voice was warm, expectant. “I think the third one suits you best… but if your fiancé prefers white—”
“I love the third,” I said, quick and light, cheerful even. “It’s perfect. I can already picture it. I’m really… excited.”
There was a pause. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad. I knew you’d love it. You always liked classic silhouettes.”
I nodded, forcing a small laugh. “Yeah. I think it’ll be beautiful. I’m really looking forward to my WEDDING.”
A movement flickered across the room, but I didn’t look up.
“How much longer do you need over there?” she asked.
“Just a week. I’ll finish up and be home.”
“Good. Everything’s almost ready.”
I hung up and set the phone on the table. That’s when I felt it—silence heavy, full, like breath held. I looked up.
Rafael and Victor were staring at me. Celestine froze mid-forkful, expression soft but eyes sharp.
Rafael was first. He stepped away from her, crossing the room in seconds, voice tight. “Wedding?”
Victor followed, brows furrowed, jaw tight. “What wedding?”
Chapter 5
I rose slowly, deliberately, letting each movement feel as though it were measured against some invisible clock. My hands smoothed the fabric of my hoodie, running over the soft cotton as if brushing off invisible dust from delicate silk, careful not to disturb the faint creases along the sleeves. I moved with precision, aware of every step, every motion, because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. My eyes, steady and unyielding, sought Rafael’s across the room, locking with his for a fraction of a second that stretched longer than it should have. A measured, delicate smile tugged at my lips—polite, practiced, and faintly cruel in its restraint. It was a smile that spoke civility without warmth, control without surrender.
“The one you’re not invited to,” I said, letting the words hang like a small blade in the air, sharp but almost casual. I let my tone hover between amusement and dismissal, knowing full well the sting it would carry.
Rafael’s laughter came first, short, startled, a sound that carried more disbelief than humor. It was a laugh that tried to convince itself this was a joke, that I couldn’t possibly mean it, that this couldn’t possibly be real. I felt a strange, cold satisfaction as it rolled off his tongue, the first crack in his composure, fleeting though it was.
Victor followed, his low, amused chuckle filling the room like a warning. The sound was familiar, the one he always used when he thought I was straining too hard to be clever, when he believed he’d caught me trying. His head shook slowly, almost affectionately, and he said, “Come on. You nearly had us. Almost.” His words were light, teasing, but they carried the quiet acknowledgment of my effort, an acknowledgment that barely grazed the surface of their understanding.
I said nothing. I let the silence stretch, let it settle thickly between us. Let them laugh, let it echo, let it ricochet off the walls and settle in the hollow spaces where I stored every unspoken word, every thought swallowed before it could be uttered.
Celestine tilted her head, draped across the couch like some fragile martyr, the faint curl of a smile tugging at her lips, a smirk that suggested she had already anticipated the outcome. “Yeah, it’s a joke,” she said, her voice mock-sweet, light as a feather but laced with venom. “Because let’s be honest, no one’s really interested in Aurelia. She can’t even dress herself properly—baggy hoodies, baggy pants. What’s she hiding under all that?”
Rafael snorted, sharp and bright, and nudged Victor lightly, as though Celestine had just delivered the revelation of the century. “She does dress like she’s hiding,” he agreed, a grin spreading across his face. “You should try dressing like Celestine.”
The laughter that followed filled the room again, echoing against the walls, reverberating into the hollow spaces where I kept everything I hadn’t dared voice. The sound should have stung, should have drawn a reaction, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.
“Yeah,” I said softly, letting the corners of my mouth lift just enough to imply civility, just barely. “It’s a joke. It’s my cousin’s wedding.”
The laughter stopped as if someone had flipped a switch, leaving a deafening silence that hung heavy in the air.
“You all can come,” I added, and I held their eyes with deliberate intensity. I wanted them to understand that I meant it, even if I didn’t care if they actually came. It was a truth delivered coldly, measured, precise.
Rafael scratched the back of his neck, a subtle tell I had memorized long ago, and looked away first. “Ah, we’re gonna be busy,” he said, a tinge of hesitation in his voice, a trace of discomfort at being caught in my quiet trap.
“Yeah,” Victor added, quick, eager to fill the silence, to redirect the moment. “We’re taking Celestine to Switzerland next week. It’s part of her birthday gift. Doctors said she could travel once she’s stronger.”
Chapter 6
Rafael’s gaze softened as he looked down at Celestine, a tenderness returning that I hadn’t seen in weeks. It was the look of someone who held a fragile glass object in his hands, fully aware of its vulnerability yet determined to protect it with a kind of fierce, unreasonable care. His eyes lingered on her, scanning every subtle twitch, every shiver, every slight falter, as though he could absorb her pain simply by noticing it. “Once she’s recovered, we’ll spend a few weeks there,” he said, his voice soft, deliberate, weighted with conviction. “Clean air, mountains. She deserves it.”
Celestine leaned against his chest, her eyes meeting mine for a brief, fleeting moment, a glance loaded with triumph. A victorious little smile danced across her lips, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had already claimed more than they were allowed. She looked like a girl who had already marked her territory in the world, confident and untouchable, basking in the quiet power she had carved for herself.
I smiled too, but it was thin, fleeting, a mere shadow of warmth, a quiet mirror to her triumph. I didn’t speak. Words felt useless here. Silence was my armor, my shield. I could hear everything, feel everything, yet remain untouchable by it all.
I turned and walked slowly toward the stairs, each step measured, deliberate, letting the sounds of their voices rise behind me. Laughter, soft and warm, full of care—but unmistakably not for me—washed over me like waves brushing against a shore I could never reach. Their voices lingered, echoing in the hollow spaces of the house, a haunting reminder of everything I had been excluded from, everything I had been denied.
At the top of the stairs, I stepped into my room and closed the door with a gentle, deliberate push, careful not to make it slam. I didn’t lock it; there was no need. No one ever came up here uninvited. This was my sanctuary, the last place that remained untouched by their intrusion.
I lay down on the bed, drawing the blanket over my legs, staring at the ceiling with eyes that refused to see. The faint clinking of cutlery, murmured conversation, and soft laughter floated up from downstairs—fragments of a life I could observe but never inhabit. Rafael’s laughter, the way Celestine coughed delicately into her hand, Victor checking her tea, making sure it was warm enough—all of it built a world around me that I was excluded from, a life I could watch from the edges.
I didn’t cry. I never did. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet wrap around me like a thick, familiar blanket, enveloping me in a cocoon of deliberate isolation.
I was halfway to sleep when the door creaked, a soft, hesitant sound that made me shift slightly. I turned my face to the wall, too tired to care who might be on the other side, too drained to muster curiosity.
Soft footsteps crossed the floor, careful and deliberate, and then the faint, comforting scent of warm milk reached me before her voice did.
“I brought you something,” Celestine said, her tone light, almost sweet, but beneath it, there was a subtle trace of bitterness, a sourness that clung like rot hidden under honey.
I didn’t move. I didn’t acknowledge her presence. I simply lay there, still as a statue.
She stood at the foot of my bed, the glass balanced delicately in her hands like fragile porcelain. “Why did you even come back?” she asked, tilting her head, her words poised as if the answer were obvious—but I wasn’t clever enough to supply it.
I turned toward her slowly, pushing myself upright just slightly, letting the blanket slide off my shoulder. My posture was defensive, careful, a quiet statement of “stay back.” “Yeah?” I said, my voice dry, measured. “Why are you still in my house?”
Her lips twitched in a flicker of amusement, that faint, calculated movement that made me want to grit my teeth. “I’m leaving. Don’t worry. Rafael and Victor are taking me to the hospital later. I just wanted to see you first before I go.”
I didn’t thank her. I didn’t acknowledge her. I simply watched, letting her words float into the room like empty confetti.
She walked closer, her steps muted by the rug beneath her feet, setting the glass on the table beside my bed but lingering, her fingers brushing the rim as though it contained some secret she wasn’t ready to release.
“Is it painful?” she asked, her voice smooth, stretched too tight like silk pulled too far. “Seeing your boyfriend and his brother take care of me like I’m the most fragile, precious thing in the world?”
I didn’t answer.
“I mean, what were you even doing in the hospital?” she continued, her brows arched, catlike, predatory. “Pretending to be sick for a week? Were you disappointed when they didn’t show up? Did you expect them to rush in?”
My eyes felt heavy again. I didn’t want to give her words. I lay back down, pulling the blanket over my shoulder, swallowing everything I might have said.
“I don’t care,” I murmured finally, and I meant it more than she could ever know.
I closed my eyes. Silence stretched on, too long, just long enough for me to think she might actually leave.
Then—a sharp, shattering crash.
I opened my eyes in time to see her collapsed on the floor, curled in on herself, hands trembling, her wrist bleeding. Milk had spilled across the rug, seeping into the fibers and mingling with the red like some grotesque, chaotic painting. Her body shook with low, broken sobs, shoulders rattling as if the core of her being had fractured beyond repair. Best actress. Yeah.
I just stared, frozen, taking it all in.
The noise sent Rafael and Victor sprinting toward the room, urgency in every movement. Rafael was first, followed closely by Victor, both faces storm-dark, eyes wide with alarm, a sharp mixture of fear and anger.
Rafael dropped to his knees beside Celestine without sparing me a glance, lifting her into his arms as though she were made of fragile glass already shattered. He murmured her name over and over, a desperate, almost prayerful repetition, as if the sound of it could stitch together the pieces that had fallen apart.
“Celestine!” His voice cracked, trembled, carried the weight of panic and protection, a plea wrapped in devotion and fear, a sound meant to heal even as it trembled.
Chapter 7
The crash brought them running, each step pounding the floor like a warning. Rafael was first, bursting into the room with the urgency of someone who feared the worst, followed immediately by Victor, whose eyes were wide, storm-dark, and sharp with disbelief. Their presence filled the space, heavy and immediate, like the air itself had thickened in alarm.
Rafael dropped to his knees beside Celestine without even sparing me a glance, scooping her into his arms as though she were made entirely of fragile glass, already shattered, already irreparable. His hands trembled ever so slightly, but his voice stayed low, controlled, as he murmured her name again and again, almost desperately, as if repetition could somehow stitch her broken pieces together.
Victor pivoted toward me with fire blazing in his gaze, the heat of his anger radiating across the room. “What did you do to her?” His voice was tight, clipped, the kind that promised retribution before a word was even finished.
I didn’t answer, not yet. I let him burn with suspicion for a moment, letting the silence stretch and settle, letting my own heart slow from the rush of panic I knew he expected.
Celestine clutched Rafael’s shirt, trembling, her small hands clinging to the fabric as if it could anchor her to the world. Her voice was soft, pitiful, and carried a fragile weight. “I only wanted to offer her milk,” she whispered, eyes wide, shimmering with tears, trembling like leaves in the wind. “Like how she pushed the cake at my birthday.”
Rafael’s arms tightened instinctively around her, holding her closer, almost as if drawing her pain into himself could shield her from it. Then he turned his blazing gaze toward me, eyes sharp and unforgiving. “You pushed her?” he asked, low and dangerous, each syllable thick with accusation.
I said nothing. I just watched, letting the quiet speak for me. My face remained unreadable, a calm mask, my heart stubbornly steady. I was too drained to argue, too practiced to let anger show.
Victor stepped closer, fists clenched, the air between us charged. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, I’ll make sure you end up in prison. I don’t care who you are,” he hissed, a warning tempered by rage.
I didn’t flinch. “She dropped the glass herself,” I said, my voice calm, detached, almost eerily serene. “I never touched her.”
But it didn’t matter.
Rafael wasn’t listening. He was already searching for the first aid kit, already inspecting her wrist with gentle, meticulous care, already brushing the fine strands of hair from her face like she was sacred, fragile, untouchable.
Celestine sobbed again, pressing her face into his chest, as if she could dissolve into him completely. “It’s okay, Rafael,” she whispered, soft and venomous in its gentleness. “Maybe she didn’t mean to. I just wanted to be kind.”
Victor looked at me with a mixture of disgust and fury, his jaw tight, teeth clenched. “You’re jealous and unstable,” he spat, voice low and cutting. “Maybe you should stay somewhere else until you can control yourself.”
I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t argue. I stared instead at the milk-soaked rug, the pinkish-white mess spreading across the floor like a wound, and then turned silently, wordlessly, and walked out of my own bedroom.
Each step down the stairs felt heavier than the last, the house shrinking around me as if the walls themselves were aware of my exclusion. Behind me, Rafael’s voice rose, soft and insistent, cooing words of comfort to Celestine. Promises of Switzerland and fresh air, of gentle travel and recovery, floated up the staircase like smoke. Then the front door slammed, announcing their departure, their urgency, their allegiance.
I wandered to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, my hands shaking so badly that the liquid sloshed near the edge. Both palms steadied the glass, and I finally sat down at the table, letting my body slump like a marionette cut loose. The house was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the pulse of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Chapter 8
It was past midnight, and the house carried a heavy, almost theatrical silence, the kind that felt staged, like everyone was pretending to be asleep just to avoid me, as if their very breathing was an act of omission. I sat propped against my headboard in my room, phone in hand, scrolling through old photos I had promised myself I wouldn’t touch tonight. Each swipe of my thumb felt deliberate, almost ritualistic, dragging memories across the screen like fragile ghosts I couldn’t keep at bay.
Rafael’s bright, easy smile. Victor’s arm casually draped over my shoulder, protective and infuriating all at once. Celestine’s carefully curated, almost predatory innocence lurking in the background, like a virus biding its time, waiting to spread through everything I had worked to build. A bitter, humorless smirk tugged at my lips, a quiet acknowledgment of what had been stolen. Then, sharp and insistent, the familiar stabbing pain flared in my side, rhythmic and precise, like a cruel metronome of past mistakes. I didn’t flinch. I breathed through it and began deleting the images, one by one, letting them fall into oblivion with a strange, quiet satisfaction. One photo. Another. And another. The past disappearing under my fingers like dust.
The room was too quiet, too still, and my mind, left unchecked, began to wander into corners I had tried to seal off. Memories surfaced, vivid and uninvited, refusing to be ignored. I remembered Rafael, once, looking at me as if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“Aurelia,” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine on the couch after a long, grueling day, “you’re my compass. I swear to the deity, if you ever left, I’d be lost.”
I had laughed, soft and foolish, unable to believe the weight of his words. “You’re too dramatic.”
“No, I’m not,” he insisted, his eyes too serious, too intent. “You keep me sane. You make things make sense.”
And Victor—he had his own way of showing concern, subtle but unavoidable. He would appear at my office with takeout I never ordered, arms crossed, frowning as though my very survival was under review.
“You skipped lunch again,” he muttered, setting the bag down in front of me. “And don’t lie—your assistant told me.”
“I had deadlines, Victor,” I replied, voice sharp but tired.
“I don’t care,” he growled, though there was warmth beneath the frustration. “Eat. Or I’ll feed you myself like a toddler.”
We had our chaos, our strange rhythms that somehow felt like home. Burned pasta on lazy weekends. Half-finished movie marathons that stretched late into the night. Arguments that went nowhere about whether to adopt a cat or a dog first. It was messy, it was inconvenient, and yet it was ours.
Then Celestine came back. Tears in her eyes, a suitcase weighted with shame, her degree unfinished, her pride cracked and fragile. And I—foolishly, blindly—welcomed her in.
“It’s okay,” I told her, rubbing her back as she cried into my shoulder. “You’ll figure things out. I’ll help you.”
“I just… I didn’t know who else to go to,” she sniffled, voice small and vulnerable. “You’re all I have, Aurelia.”
When her parents died, I made sure she had everything she needed: therapy sessions paid for, rent covered, living expenses taken care of. Because that’s family. That’s what family does.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said one evening, voice trembling, “I feel like such a burden.”
“You’re not,” I lied. “You’re family. You’re my responsibility.”
I worked long, brutal days, barely sleeping, but I still made time to check in on her. Left dinners in the fridge. Called to make sure she wasn’t alone. Ensured she never felt like she had to face the world empty-handed.
Then, the signs began. Subtle at first, almost imperceptible. Sitting too close to Rafael at dinner. Leaning into him during conversations, brushing against his arm with deliberate care. Laughing too loud at jokes that didn’t warrant laughter, a possessive smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re so funny, Rafael,” she giggled one night, leaning into him as if gravity demanded it. “Why didn’t I notice that before?”
Rafael chuckled, oblivious, unaware of the silent claims being made.
I raised a brow, calm but deliberate. “Celestine, could you pass the salt?”
She blinked at me, innocence painted carefully across her face. “Oh—sorry. I was just… laughing.”
And then it became routine. The touches, the leaning, the laughter—all deliberate, all markers of possession. Him offering her wine, her hand brushing against his shoulder, the way she looked at him, claiming more than she had any right to.
One night, I confronted him.
“Are you sleeping with her?” I asked, quiet but firm, the words slicing through the air between us like a knife.
Rafael stared at me, incredulous, like I had spoken a language he couldn’t understand. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“A valid one,” I said, arms crossed, heart cold, tone steady. “She’s in our house. She’s at our table. She looks at you like she wants more.”
He scoffed, dismissive, almost amused. “She’s your friend, Aurelia. Why are you jealous of your own friend?”
Chapter 9
“I’m not jealous,” I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself. “I’m trying to make sense of what’s happening.”
He shook his head sharply, eyes flashing with a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “Maybe if you weren’t so buried in your job all the time, you’d see that nothing’s going on. Jesus.”
And that was it. That was the end of the conversation. I shut my mouth, swallowed my doubts, and chose—consciously, painstakingly—to trust him over myself, even as every instinct in my body warned me not to.
Then the weekend trips began. Rafael, Victor, and Celestine. They left without me, leaving the house emptier, colder, and somehow louder in my absence.
“We just needed a break,” Victor had said once, brushing off the tension like it was an inconvenience. “You’re always working anyway.”
“You could’ve invited me,” I had said, trying to sound casual, even though every word carried a weight that made my chest ache.
He shrugged, calm, unconcerned. “You would’ve said no.”
Celestine chimed in then, wrapped in one of my oversized jackets that smelled faintly of me and too much perfume, a soft, fake humility masking her confidence. “Yeah, you’re always exhausted. We didn’t want to stress you out more.”
I stared at her for a long, deliberate ten seconds, letting the silence stretch between us, wondering when exactly she stopped pretending to be grateful.
“I don’t recall asking you,” I said flatly, letting the words fall like stones into the space she tried to occupy.
She smiled, soft and sweet, the kind of smile that masked sharp edges. “Just trying to help.”
I laughed under my breath in the dark, alone in the stillness of my room. How many times had I defended her? To myself, to Rafael, to Victor?
“She’s grieving,” I had said once, rationalizing, excusing her behavior. “She’s lonely. She needs people.”
No. She didn’t need people. She needed a crown, a throne, a kingdom. And she was building it out of everything I had handed her, everything I had trusted her with.
I looked at one last photo on my phone. Four of us at the beach. Rafael’s arm around me. Celestine just behind, eyes locked on him, smiling too hard, a little too knowing, like she had anticipated my downfall.
I whispered to myself, voice rough and quiet, “You needed a place to rest, and I let you in. You needed a life, and I gave you mine.”
The silence answered nothing. Even it was tired of my defeat, tired of hearing the sound of me losing.
---
I woke up before the sun had a chance to gloat, before it could shine through the curtains and announce its smugness. The ache in my side pulsed, sharp and rhythmic, a metronome marking every old mistake, every betrayal, every wound. I ignored it, sitting on the edge of the bed for what felt like hours, staring at the floor, letting the quiet settle like dust in the corners of the room.
I was tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. The kind of tired that wrapped itself around your bones, tethered you to the floor, made every movement a chore. But something was different this morning. My mind wasn’t clouded. My thoughts weren’t racing. Just still. Quiet. Dead calm.
They had made a mess of a home I had built with my hands. Let them deal with the ashes.
I stood, walked to the drawer I rarely opened, and pulled out the manila folder buried beneath old tax returns and forgotten warranty receipts. Inside, pristine and untouched, lay the deed. My name, bold and indisputable. Just mine. No Rafael. No Victor. No manipulative little houseguest whose perfume still lingered in the hallway curtains.
I stared at it, the ink faint but defiant. “Of course it’s mine,” I murmured, the words tasting like freedom. And that was enough confirmation.
I picked up my phone and dialed the real estate agent. She answered on the third ring, chipper, bright, annoyingly perky in a way that made me want to hang up.
“Aurelia, it’s early! Everything alright?”
I leaned against the wall, looking out at the garden I had planted six years ago, neglected for months. The weeds had started claiming the corners, and the flowers drooped from lack of care.
“I want this house listed,” I said, crisp and cold. “Today. No delays.”
A pause. I imagined her calculating, judging, measuring my seriousness.
“Are you sure? I mean—it’s a premium property. You could take your time, maybe stage it—”
“I said today.” My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “I want the sign up before sunset. No calls. No updates. Just handle it.”
“Understood,” she said, finally subdued.
I hung up before she could try to offer sympathy.
By the time the sun showed its face fully, I was already knee-deep in boxes. I packed not like someone leaving a home, but like someone shutting down an office. Efficient. Detached. Only what mattered went into a bag.
Blueprints. The single photo of my dog, Bastian—his tail mid-wag, tongue out, eyes wide with blind trust he shouldn’t have had in this place.
Celestine had said she didn’t see him in the garage that night. She had cried, stumbled through apologies, broken sentences. “I swear, Aurelia, I—I didn’t know he was there. I didn’t see him—”
“No,” I had said, voice tight, controlled. “Of course you didn’t. You never see anything unless it benefits you.”
Then she had cried harder, as though grief could be borrowed, bought, borrowed again.
I slipped the photo into my duffel bag, careful not to crease it. The rest? Trash.
Her makeup. Her designer shoes she wore barefoot around the house. The silk robes more expensive than my mortgage. All bagged in black plastic like rot, left in the driveway like half-finished apologies.
She didn’t live here anymore. Rafael and Victor had bought her a small white house three blocks from Rafael’s. They didn’t hide it, didn’t bother. Investment, temporary, I was “reading into it again.”
I picked up the phone again, calling my lawyer.
“Aurelia. What can I do for you?”
“I want you to prepare a notice,” I said, sealing boxes while speaking. “Anyone not on the deed has three days to vacate. No excuses, no sob stories, no begging. Serve it officially.”
“Understood. I’ll draft it and send it for your review.”
“No need. I trust you.”
Then Victor’s name flashed on my screen.
Can we talk?
No punctuation. No apology. No context.
I blocked the number.
Then Rafael called. I let it ring once before answering.
“Aurelia?”
I didn’t even sigh. “Eviction.”
“What?”
“Courtesy of the real owner. You’ve got three days. After that, the locks change.”
“Aurelia, wait—what the hell is going on? You’re overreacting.”
I sat on the stairs, phone pressed to my ear, staring at the dent in the wall where he once slammed a door too hard during a fight we never resolved.
“I’m done reacting,” I said. “I’m moving. You should try it.”
Silence. Then I hung up.
By sunset, the house felt less like a home and more like a crime scene. Bare walls, empty shelves, shadows unsure of whether they belonged.
In the kitchen, I spotted the chipped ceramic mug Rafael had given me during our second year together. My name was painted across it in uneven, cheerful letters.
I picked it up, held it for a heartbeat, and let it drop.
It shattered quietly, final, irrevocable.
And that was enough.
