But I was so weak I couldn't even lift my arm.

Just as my fingertips were about to reach my phone, I heard footsteps.

Someone walked over and took my phone away.

I tried to see who it was, but everything went black.

I came to in a place that smelled like disinfectant and rust—a shabby clinic, fluorescent light buzzing above me, and Ernest sitting in the chair beside me.

"Agatha," he said, voice dripping with mockery, "I saved you again."

"So why are you always so ungrateful?"

I asked weakly, "How have I been ungrateful?"

He didn't answer.

He turned to the clinic doctor instead. "Finished? If the bleeding's stopped, we're leaving."

The doctor hesitated. "The bleeding has stopped for now, but..."

Ernest didn't wait for him to finish. He grabbed my arm and hauled me off the bed.

I stumbled, and he shoved me into the car.

"Where are we going?" I managed.

He didn't answer.

Everything blurred, swaying and dark, until the car stopped.

I saw Phoenix Terrace outside the window.

I froze. Phoenix Terrace?

Wasn't this where my birth parents were holding the banquet?

Where they were going to introduce me to high society?

Why had Ernest brought me here? Was he going to meet my parents?

Before I could think it through, he dragged me out of the car.

"Maggie, I brought Agatha." He walked into a private suite.

Something inside me went cold.

When I was thrown inside, I saw a group of women in gowns.

Maggie was beautifully dressed, the obvious center of them all, every eye already on her.

The moment she saw me, she recoiled as if something filthy had been dragged in. "Ernest, get this awful woman away from me. I don't want to see her."

But Ernest had me by the hair. "Maggie, I'm right here. Don't be scared."

He stared into my eyes, cold. "Agatha—you went online and called Maggie a mistress. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I shook my head weakly. "I didn't."

Ernest scoffed. "If it wasn't you, then who? You think making up garbage like that is funny?"

He stood up and pulled out a marriage certificate in front of everyone. "Maggie and I are legally married."

"She's my wife. And this one—" he pointed down at me, "—she's not even worth calling a mistress. Don't believe a word she says."

As if to prove how serious he was, Ernest bent down and slapped me hard across the face.

I collapsed onto the floor and didn't move.

That slap—fine. Call it repayment for what he did for me when we were children.

Maggie walked over, tears in her voice. "Agatha, Ernest and I are married. Why would you post those lies?"

I said quietly, "It wasn't me."

Maggie leaned close to my ear and whispered, "Of course I know it wasn't you."

"I posted it myself—so Ernest would hate you, so he'd humiliate you in front of all of them."

"You want to know why I had him bring you here?"

"There's a banquet tonight. All the upper-class families will be here."

"I'm going to make sure every single one of them knows you're a mistress. You'll never recover from this."

I stared at her, eyes wide.

Suddenly Maggie screamed, crying out, "Why did you bite me?!"

Ernest flew into a rage and kicked me in the lower stomach.

He beat me without mercy, as if every scrap of his rage needed somewhere to land.

When he'd finally worn himself out, Maggie's friends swarmed in.

Coffee splashed over my head, dripping down my face. Garbage landed on me—napkins, food scraps, whatever they could grab.

They formed a circle and the screaming started: "You actually think you can latch onto Ernest Sanchez? You? Marry him?"

"Ernest Sanchez is high society. He's Mr. Swanson's guest. What the hell are you?"

"Exactly. Do you even know where you are? This is Phoenix Terrace. A broke nobody like you has no business setting foot in here."

Everything blurred, and I was small again—back in every hallway, every schoolyard corner where they'd closed in on me just like this.

The only difference was that Ernest, the one who used to protect me, was now the one leading the attack.

Then one of Maggie's friends pulled out her phone and announced: "I've got a video right here."

"Her getting an abortion. Go on, everyone—take a good look."

They all crowded around.

In the video, I was screaming for help, writhing in pain.

But not a single face showed sympathy. Only disgust.

One of them finished watching and kicked me hard: "A filthy woman like you thinks she can seduce Ernest Sanchez?"

Someone else said: "Put it online. Let everyone see exactly who she is so they know to stay away."

I panicked.

I lunged for the phone, but a kick caught me out of nowhere and I hit the floor.

Fingers clawed at my clothes, ripping fabric, while more phones rose around me, filming. And then the chant started, ugly and rhythmic: "Beat the mistress! Beat the mistress!"

I threw my whole body into the crowd, tore free, and ran.

I made it to the hallway before they closed around me again—fists landing, cameras shoved inches from my face.

Through a gap in the crowd, I saw Ernest.

He watched me with no expression. Not a flicker of anything.

I was done. My legs had nothing left, my arms couldn't even shield my head anymore—and then someone cut through the mob like a blade, scattering them.

The mob turned on him, cursing: "Mind your own damn business! You wanna be the hero?"

"What, you sleeping with this mistress too?"

"Want us to beat you next?"

Ernest's face changed instantly.

He hurried over, bowing and scraping: "Mr. Swanson, hello, I'm Ernest Sanchez."

Mr. Swanson didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were locked on me, and the pain in them nearly broke into tears.

I tried to smile. It barely held. "Dad," I whispered. "You came."