Chapter 14

Avery’s POV

I woke up not to the sterile glow of the nurse’s office, but to the opulent comfort of my room at the mansion. The ceilings stretched above me, the heavy velvet curtains filtered the outside world into a soft hue, and the scent of lavender hung in the air.

My room—the gilded sanctuary I rarely spent time in—felt both comforting and suffocating in its forced isolation. I shifted, the bandage at the back of my head pulling taut, a physical reminder of why I was confined here.

The memories of the garden, the blood, and the disappointment in Ms. Rose’s eyes were fresh. And then, as though she had been waiting for the sound of me stirring, Emily appeared at the door.

Her apron was neat, her hair tied in a bun, and her eyes were filled with the warmth only she held for me. “My darling, you’re awake,” she said, her voice soft but edged with worry. She hurried to my side, placing a silver tray of food on the table near the bed. “I made you porridge. Light and warm, right for your head.”

I gave her a small smile, my voice weary. “Emily, you don’t need to fuss like this. I’m fine, really.”

She raised a skeptical brow, planting her hands on her hips in that no-nonsense way only she dared to use with me. “Fine? You fainted in the middle of the university garden with blood dripping down your neck in front of the entire faculty. That, Avery, is not ‘fine.’ That is a medical emergency.”

I sighed, defeated by her logic, leaning back against the cool silk of the headboard. “I suppose I can’t argue with you. You win.”

She softened, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face, a gesture she had performed since I was a child. “You don’t need to win here. Just rest. That is the only victory I want for you right now.”

Her words wrapped around me like a blanket, a warmth more genuine than anything else in the mansion. The first two days passed in a blur of rest and boredom.

My father was away in a series of international meetings, and my mother was busy managing her charity events, but both checked in each evening with brief calls, reminding me of my ‘confinement.’ And Emily—Emily became my anchor.

She sat with me when the silence of the mansion grew oppressive, told me whispered, hilarious stories of the staff’s gossip to make me laugh, and reminded me to stay in bed when my restlessness threatened to turn into a rebellion. But on the third day, the peace shattered with the unexpected.

My laptop, resting on the side table, let out a sharp ping. A video call request.

From Ms. Rose.

For a moment, I stared at the screen, my heart giving a startled beat, unsure whether I should dignify the request with an answer. But professional curiosity—and perhaps the pull of something forbidden—won the debate.

I clicked accept. Her face appeared, framed by the mahogany bookshelves of her university office.

She looked the same as always: composed, poised, unreadable. And yet, for a flicker of a second, I thought I saw something softer, something concerned in her gaze when her eyes noticed the white bandage still visible on my head.

“Ms. Carter,” she began, her brows knitting together, the crease betraying a question, “how is your injury progressing?”

I blinked at her words, taken aback by the concern hidden beneath her cool tone. My lips curved, though I tried to keep the mask of cold composure intact.

“I’m fine, Professor,” I answered, the corner of my lips tugging with a smirk I could not control. “It’s nothing serious. The great Avery Von Carter survived the tragic thrower of pebbles.”

Her expression softened for a fleeting moment, but she snapped back into her professional demeanor. She adjusted the spectacles perched on her nose and began speaking, her tone shifting back into the demanding rhythm of lecture mode.

Virtual slides—filled with diagrams, bolded text, and extensive notes—appeared on the screen behind her. But my focus?

It was not on the slides detailing economic policy. It was on her.

My thoughts tangled with the words I had been meaning to say for days, the sharp remarks and self-righteous indignation I had thrown at her in the garden. The guilt of that final, chaotic day—my refusal to stand down when she demanded discipline—still lingered in the back of my mind.

Every time I replayed the scene, the memory gnawed at my pride. And before I could stop myself, before the impulse could be analyzed, my voice slipped into the flow of her teaching.

“Ms…” I interrupted softly.

The click of her tongue halted. Her head tilted, and those penetrating eyes locked on me through the screen.

The entire class—or what I could imagine of them sitting behind their muted screens—seemed to fade into an irrelevant background hum. “Yes, Ms. Carter?” she asked, her tone carrying that cool, measured, but now inquisitive note.

For a second, my throat felt dry, the words refusing to tumble out with their usual Von Carter confidence. I lowered my gaze, inhaling a long, steadying breath, then exhaled.

“I…” My voice faltered, quieter now, the vulnerability unmistakable, but I pressed on. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. Professor… for my behavior on that day. My disregard for your authority.”

The room seemed to freeze around me. My apology hung heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain.

She sighed—a soft, controlled sound, yet weighted with the release of the disappointment she had probably carried until this moment. Her lips curved into a faint smile that was not quite forgiving, nor was it harsh condemnation.

It was something suspended in between. “It’s accepted, Ms. Carter,” she finally said, her voice carrying both a gentle acceptance and a note of caution. “Now let’s move on.”

But I was not done. Something inside me—perhaps reckless courage, perhaps the need to break through her professional barrier—refused to leave it at that.

“Please…” I added, lifting my eyes to meet hers directly through the screen, my gaze pleading for a small concession. “Please call me Avery.”

There was silence. A breath held.

A pause where time seemed to stretch thin. She froze for a fraction of a second, her lips halting mid-sentence, as though my request had unsettled her unflappable composure.

And then, after that stillness, her voice returned—only it was even softer, a warm hum. “It’s okay… darling.”

My eyes widened, my body stiffening. The word struck through me like a crack of thunder in a clear sky.

For a breathless heartbeat, I could not form a thought. My posture became ramrod straight, my fingers curled against the edge of the desk, and I stared at her—flabbergasted by the forbidden intimacy of the word.

Did she just—?

The sound echoed, a dizzying reverberation in my mind. Darling.

Not Avery. Not Ms. Carter. Darling.

She must have caught the stunned expression on my face because the faintest smirk tugged at her lips before she regained her authority. She leaned back, her tone resuming its balance between strict professionalism and knowing warmth.

“Try to keep control over yourself, Avery,” she said, emphasizing my name, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Understand? Now, let’s focus on the balance of trade.”

I nodded robotically, but truthfully, I was not listening anymore. My mind was still spinning around that forbidden, shocking word.

“Avery,” she began, her voice back to full formality. “We’ll be conducting all your lessons virtually for the remainder of the week, as per Dean Fletcher’s orders.”

“Orders,” I repeated with a small, knowing smirk, leaning back against the pillows. “I imagine you were not thrilled about being ordered into my service.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “It does not matter what I am thrilled about. It is my responsibility, and I take all my responsibilities seriously.”

I tilted my head, studying her. “You do not like being told what to do, do you, Ms. Rose? The Ice Queen does not appreciate a master.”

For the very first time, her composure cracked—just a hairline fracture. A flicker of irritation passed over her face, suppressed before she collected herself.

“Focus, Avery. You are still behind on the core seminar assignment. We will start there, and you will not derail me again.”

So we did. We started.

But the lesson was unlike any other. There was no bustling classroom of judgmental students, no public audience to perform for.

Just me, confined to my bed and my mansion, and Ms. Rose on the screen, her demanding voice filling the room with economic theory. At first, I thought I would be bored, drifting into a nap.

But strangely, I was not. Her explanations were sharp, her knowledge immense, her patience steady, and her occasional, exasperated sighs when I challenged her only made me smirk and push harder.

By the end of the hour, I realized something unsettling: I did not hate this. I did not hate the sound of her voice in my quiet room.

I did not hate the intense focus of her eyes on me, even through a screen. I found myself engaging, learning, in a way the classroom never allowed.

The days stretched on, each one defined by the specific time of my virtual lesson with Ms. Rose. On the fourth day, she caught me distracted, doodling angry patterns absentmindedly in my notebook instead of listening to her analysis of the European market.

“Avery,” she said sharply, her tone cutting through my thoughts, “if you are determined to waste both our valuable time, I will inform the Dean that you are medically and academically unfit to catch up, and recommend a suspension.”

I chuckled, resting my chin lazily on my hand. “And yet, Professor, you have not closed the call, have you?”

Her eyes narrowed, the blue darkening with frustration. “Because I believe, frustratingly, that you are capable of far more than this petulant behavior.”

Her words hit differently. Not an accusation of failure, not a dismissal of my efforts.

A firm, unwavering belief in my potential. For a moment, I could not formulate a witty, arrogant answer.

By the fifth day, Emily had noticed the shift in my demeanor. “You seem… lighter, my dear,” she said, placing a glass of orange juice on my desk.

I raised a defensive brow. “Lighter? What does that even mean?”

She smiled, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Every time I pass your room during those calls, I hear your laugh. Not the sharp, calculated one you give your friends to keep up appearances. The real, honest one.”

I froze, caught off guard, my face flushing. Emily noticed everything.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I muttered, looking away, my cheeks heating.

“Mm-hm,” she hummed, unconvinced.

The sixth day brought something unexpected and unwelcome. The call connected, but Ms. Rose was not alone.

Dean Fletcher had joined, supposedly to check in on my academic progress. But the moment he saw my father—who happened to walk into the background of my screen, tall and intimidating—his tone changed from formal to panicked.

“Ah, Mr. Von Carter! Good to… see you, sir. I just wanted to reassure you that Avery’s lessons are progressing excellently under Ms. Rose’s diligent supervision.”

My father, standing like an immovable monolith behind me, gave the Dean a single, dismissive nod. “Good. I expect nothing less from the Professor.”

Dean Fletcher bowed before vanishing from the call, leaving only Ms. Rose and me again, with a lingering tension. When the silence lingered, I let out a sharp, genuine laugh. “He is utterly terrified of you, Professor.”

“Of your father, you mean, Avery,” she corrected, though a faint smirk tugged at her lips, a look that shared the private joke.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe not.

The seventh day arrived with speed, marking the end of my confinement. I woke up early, restless, the anticipation of returning to the campus sitting heavy in my chest.

I had survived the confinement, the whispers, and the bandaged head. And in that week, something profound had shifted between Ms. Rose and me—subtle, unspoken, but undeniable.

When the final lesson ended, Ms. Rose lingered on the screen instead of disconnecting, her gaze fixed on me. “You will be back on campus tomorrow,” she said, her tone careful.

“Yes,” I replied, studying her face. “Missed me already, Professor?”

Her eyes flickered, but she did not rise to the bait. “Just remember what I told you, Avery. Strength is not only in fists and defiance. Do not give them another reason to doubt you, or me.”

I leaned closer to the screen, my arrogant smirk fading into something softer, earnest. “And if I do? Will you be disappointed in me again?”

Her lips parted, her expression caught between an honest answer and professional silence. But before she could choose, before the moment could break, the call ended.

I sat back, the quiet of my room rushing in, feeling hollowed out. And for the first time in my life, I found myself looking forward to returning to the university—not for the whispers, not for the stares, not even for the chance to put Rozer in his place.

But for her. For Ms. Rose.

The evening was calm, a lull before the academic storm. The sunlight outside was fading into the deep blue of twilight, and the room was illuminated by the glow of my laptop screen.

I lay sprawled across my bed, flipping through animated cartoons, laughing at their absurdities. My head was faintly sore, but the peace of my room was a welcome escape.

Then my phone buzzed. Fiona.

My lips tugged into an affectionate smile. She never called unless something important was happening.

With a sigh, I slid the phone open. “Hey, Fiona,” I greeted, trying to sound casual despite my exhaustion.

Her voice on the other end was soft yet bright. “Avery… how are you doing? Is the headache better?”

I shifted on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “I’m good enough,” I replied, even if my head throbbed.

“Good enough?” she echoed, doubt in her tone. She knew me too well to accept the lie.

But she did not push. Instead, her voice shifted, carrying a hesitant mix of concern and practical worry. “When will you be able to visit the orphanage again?”

“Hmm…” I thought. My university schedule was about to become a mess, but something in her tone told me this was not a casual question. “Maybe after two or three days. Why? Is something wrong?”

There was a silence, and then she sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. “There is a shortage of groceries, Avery… not that the pantries are bare, but yes—they are close to the end of the usable stock.”

I sat up, alert, brushing my hair back. Shortage? At the orphanage?

No. That did not sit right with me.

An impulsive, reckless idea popped into my mind, and I smirked, as if a lightbulb had gone off. “Fiona, listen. Meet me at our usual spot in forty minutes. I will take you to get all the groceries you need for the orphanage. Top to bottom.”

Her voice sharpened, laced with worry. “Avery… you are not fine! You need rest. You were ordered to stay home! Do not push yourself.”

“I am fine,” I said, cutting her off. “Just come. And bring Joe with you too. He can supervise the shopping and the delivery. I will take care of the payment and the decision making.”

For a long moment, silence again. I could almost picture her biting her lip.

Finally, with a sigh, she gave in. “Alright… fine. But only because Joe will be there to make sure you behave.”

A satisfied smile spread across my face. “Good. See you there, Fiona.”

By the time I reached our meeting spot, I was disguised: a black hoodie, a medical mask covering half my face, and oversized glasses shielding my identity. The last thing I needed was to be recognized, not when every corner of the university whispered about my garden brawl.

Fiona and Joe were waiting. Joe gave me a nod, while Fiona walked up with folded arms and that specific look—the one that screamed, I still do not think this is a good idea, Avery.

“Ready for a midnight supply run?” I asked, my voice muffled by the mask.

Fiona raised a skeptical brow. “You are ridiculous, Avery.”

I chuckled. “And yet, you are still here. Let us go.”

Joe smirked but said nothing as we headed toward the entrance of the grocery store. The aisles were crowded, but with Joe directing the checklist and Fiona moving efficiently through the bulk items, things went smoothly.

I trailed along, throwing in expensive extras they had not asked for—imported chocolate, fresh berries, gourmet cheese—because why not? The kids deserved more than just essentials.

At one point, though, I noticed Fiona had gone still. Her eyes were not fixed on the shopping list anymore.

Instead, they were fixed, mesmerized, on a giant movie poster plastered near the entrance.

I followed her gaze. Harry Anderson.

A giant, dramatic movie poster declaring his latest romantic thriller ran in local theatres. I tilted my head, a smirk tugging under my mask. “So… still devoted to Mr. Harry Anderson, huh?”

Fiona’s cheeks warmed, a blush spreading across her face. She tried to look away, shuffling her feet. “It’s nothing. Just a movie.”

“Sure,” I teased, my voice full of friendly mockery. “Just like it’s ‘nothing’ when you’ve watched every one of his cheesy films twice. You’re a horrible liar, Fiona.”

Joe chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Fiona glared at me, but her silence confirmed my teasing.

That’s when I got another, more reckless idea. I turned to Joe, my voice conspiratorial. “Joe, take all these groceries straight to the orphanage. Fiona and I will join you later. We have a small detour.”

Joe raised a brow, but seeing the load of bags, he gave a nod. Fiona whipped around, startled. “Wait—what detour? Avery, no!”

I gave her a mischievous grin. “We’re going to the theatre. Now. The sooner we go, the sooner we can rest.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No way, Avery. No. I can’t abandon the delivery.”

“Yes way,” I countered, my voice leaving no room for argument. “You need it. Think of it as a doctor-prescribed break for your exhaustion. Besides, I know you want to see this on the big screen.”

“But—”

“No buts,” I said, pulling her toward the exit. “You’ve been working nonstop at that orphanage, taking on everyone’s workload. You deserve this pleasure. You deserve one night off.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice in the persuasive tone I always used when I wanted my way. “Come on, Fiona. Just this once. You owe yourself this.”

She breathed out, the argument draining out of her, then gave the smallest nod. “…Fine. But only this once, and only if you promise to be resting tomorrow.”

Joe smirked as he loaded the bags onto the trolley. “Enjoy the show, you two.”

Soon we were seated deep inside the dim, crowded theatre. The screen came alive with Harry Anderson’s brooding entrance, and Fiona was glued to the scene, eyes sparkling with excitement like a kid seeing a parade.

I, however… was not as entertained. The drama was thin, the plot predictable, and the low lighting combined with the week of exhaustion was a fatal combination.

Half an hour in, my eyelids felt like lead weights. Slowly, my head tilted back against the plush seat, and before I knew it—I was drifting into deep, restorative sleep.

Fiona’s soft, amused laughter snapped me awake. “Seriously, Avery? You’re actually sleeping through Harry Anderson’s biggest scene?”

I rubbed my eyes, blinking away the drowsiness, and yawned. “What? It’s boring. Predictable melodrama.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Then why did you even insist on coming?”

I smirked, leaning my head against the seat. “Come on. It was for you, Fiona. So stop fassing and just enjoy the movie.”

She softened at that, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. And then, to my surprise, she slipped her hand into mine.

Her fingers intertwined with mine, firm and warm, a simple gesture of friendship and gratitude. I raised a brow, giving her a mock exasperated look. “Really? Holding hands during a movie?”

She grinned, squeezing my hand tight. “Shut up and let me enjoy the movie, Avery.”

I rolled my eyes, a fond smile hidden behind my mask, but didn’t pull away. The moment of peace lasted only until the ice-sharp voice cut through the air from the row behind us.

“Well, well. I thought the Dean had you confined to the mansion, recovering from your little garden stunt, Ms. Carter.”

My whole body stiffened, every muscle going rigid. That voice was unmistakable, cutting, and impossible to ignore.

I turned my head, my heart sinking with a terrible, heavy inevitability. 

Ms. Rose.

And she was not alone. Beside her sat a boy—probably around twenty, with dark, combed hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that were fixed on me with thinly veiled curiosity.

For a second, I froze, caught off guard, my mask feeling flimsy. She, on the other hand, looked unbothered, her lips curved into that faint, terrible smile that carried a mix of mockery and cold authority.

Before I could think of a devastating retort, she added, her voice for my ears, “Focus on the movie, Avery. I’m attempting to do that too.”

Her words landed like a direct challenge, an invisible boundary line drawn, cutting me off from any protest. I turned back to the screen, my jaw tight, my mind buzzing with fury and embarrassment.

Beside me, Fiona leaned closer, whispering with a worried frown, “Who was that? Why did she sound like… she knew you? And why did she call you Ms. Carter?”

I breathed out, squeezing her hand, though the gesture felt hollow. “I’ll tell you everything later, Fiona. After the movie.”

But even as I said it, my chest felt heavy with dread. Because of all the people I could have run into tonight, in this one dark, anonymous theatre—it had to be Ms. Rose.

The evening air outside the theatre, once the movie ended, was cool, the scent of roasted peanuts mixing with the hum of city traffic. I had excused myself for the restroom and stepped out, thinking Fiona was waiting near the entrance.

My mind was still reeling—half on the movie, half on Fiona’s gentle laughter echoing in my ears, that soft entangling of her fingers with mine, her playful words telling me to shut up and enjoy the moment. But fate, I knew, had a peculiar, terrible way of throwing people into each other’s path.

As I pushed open the restroom door and walked down the corridor toward the exit, I stopped. There she was.

Ms. Rose.

Her presence cut through the noise of the theatre like an unsheathed, glittering blade. She stood near the wall, her posture straight, her eyes sharp and focused even though she was pretending to be adjusting the strap of her handbag.

And when her gaze found me, there was no mistaking the emotion—the storm brewing, the heavy, crushing disappointment that seemed to weigh more than any anger ever could. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched between us, taut and dangerous like a bowstring drawn too tight. Finally, she broke it, her voice low, controlled, but edged like newly honed steel.

“So, this is what ‘recovering at home’ looks like for you, Avery? An evening at a crowded cinema?”

Her words hit me harder than Rozer’s fist had days earlier. My brows furrowed, and I stepped forward, forcing my tone to remain measured, though the accusation in her voice ignited a cold fire inside me.

“I’m fine, Professor,” I replied, brushing past the ache still lingering at the back of my head. “You don’t have to act like I’m made of delicate glass.”

Her eyes narrowed, her arms folding across her chest, a classic gesture that screamed authority and disapproval. “You are not fine,” she countered, each word slow, deliberate, as if she wanted to carve the truth into my arrogant facade. “You fainted in front of the entire university. You bled from a physical assault. You were ordered to rest. And yet here you are, sitting in a dark theatre with your friend as if nothing happened.”

I clenched my jaw until it ached. I hated that familiar flicker of guilt rising in me, hated how her words carried a weight that no one else’s did.

But I was not going to give her the satisfaction of my collapse. “I told you, I’m fine,” My voice hardened, defiant. “Besides, what I choose to do outside the university, when I am on medical leave, is not your concern, Professor.”

Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into that expression she wore whenever she thought I was being reckless. “Isn’t it?” she countered, her voice quiet. “Because every time you step out of line, Avery, every time you insist on proving how untouchable you are by defying simple rules, it circles back to me. To the classroom. To the Dean. To your parents. And somehow, it inevitably becomes my responsibility to monitor and keep you in line.”

The words stung with accuracy because they carried a truth I did not want to acknowledge: I did bring chaos, and she was the one forced to deal with the fallout. My fists curled, nails biting into my palms.

“Maybe that’s the real problem then,” I shot back, my tone heated with suppressed fury. “Maybe you see me only as a responsibility. As a troublesome nuisance you have to manage. You don’t even try to see why I do the things I do. You only judge the result.”

Her eyes flickered for a fraction of a moment—a flash of softness, perhaps, or a shadow of hesitation—but it vanished. “And what am I supposed to think,” she said, her voice sharper, “when I see you here, with someone, laughing, holding hands, pretending nothing happened, instead of being safely at home like you were told?”

I froze at her sharp choice of words. With someone.

She meant Fiona. She had drawn an unwarranted conclusion from a simple gesture of friendship.

I let out a bitter, cutting laugh, shaking my head, unable to hide the sarcasm dripping from my voice. “So that’s what this whole confrontation is about? You see me sitting beside Fiona in a dark theatre, and suddenly, you’ve decided you know everything about my life and my condition?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She did not deny the assumption.

“I don’t need to know everything, Avery,” she replied coldly. “I can see enough to know recklessness when I see it.”

Something inside me snapped. I stepped closer, closing the distance, lowering my voice so only she could hear, my words laced with fury.

“No, you don’t see enough, Ms. Rose. You see only what you want to see. A spoiled Von Carter who throws punches, who doesn’t listen, who willfully drags her family name into every predictable scandal. But you don’t see the rest of it. You never even try.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, unflinching, but I caught the subtle, minute shift in her breathing, the tremor in her fingers where they clutched her bag strap. For a heart-stopping moment, silence engulfed us, heavy and suffocating.

The buzz of the theatre lights, the mindless chatter of distant moviegoers, the sound of Fiona’s voice calling from outside—all of it blurred into an irrelevant background hum. Then she spoke, her voice lower now, almost a restrained, pained whisper.

“You think I don’t see you, Avery?”

The way she said it—quiet, filled with a devastating resonance—took me aback. “You think I don’t notice how you carry yourself, always pretending to be untouchable, while half the time you’re just… hiding? Hiding behind your family name. Hiding behind that practiced arrogance.” She shook her head, exhaling. “You can fool the Dean, you can fool the entire university, you can even fool your friends—but you can’t fool me.”

Her words left me standing still, speechless for a terrifying second. I wanted to lash back, to throw her own cold, detached nature back in her face, but something about the conviction in the phrase ‘you can’t fool me’ rooted me to the spot.

My throat tightened, and all I managed was a bitter whisper. “Then maybe stop judging me so quickly.”

Her gaze softened for a fleeting, heartbreaking fraction of a second—just a fraction—but she masked it, replacing it with her professional authority. Straightening, she gave me the kind of look that felt like both a stern warning and a protective shield.

“Go home, Avery,” she said, her tone clipped. “Do yourself a favor, and listen to the orders, before you end up back on the ground, or worse.”

I wanted to argue, to say something sharp, devastating, that would break her composure the way she broke mine. But then I heard Fiona’s voice calling my name, louder, worried, searching for me.

I stepped back, running a hand through my hair, forcing a victorious, arrogant smirk onto my face even though my chest burned from her words. “Don’t worry, Professor,” I said, my voice dripping with irony. “I’ll manage. Like I always do. And I’ll be in your office at 8 AM sharp tomorrow.”

Her eyes lingered on me, something complex and unreadable flickering in their depths, before she turned and walked toward the exit. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, the sound fading into the theatre’s noise until she was gone from sight.

I stood there for a heavy moment, my fists clenched, my heart pounding a furious rhythm. Part of me hated her with a desperate intensity for the way she made me feel—seen, exposed, cornered. Another part of me… something I couldn’t name, something that made the echoing silence she left behind all the more unbearable.

When I stepped outside, Fiona was waiting, her eyes filled with questions. I gave her a forced smile, brushing it all off with a wave of my hand, even though the weight of that confrontation lingered, heavy and suffocating, long after the night was over.