The scent hit me first—minty cigarettes.

It was unmistakable, the same brand Steven always smoked. My stomach churned, and I instinctively stumbled back a few steps, desperate to put some distance between us.

Margot noticed my reaction and frowned, a flicker of concern crossing her face. But then her gaze landed on my bandaged left hand. Her expression twisted into something sharp and mocking.

"You really went all out with this little act, didn’t you?" she sneered. "Coming here just to change the dressing? Let me see how bad it really is."

Without warning, she reached out to grab my injured hand. I yanked it away and shoved her aside.

Margot let out a soft cry, and in an instant, her bodyguards sprang into action, pinning me to the ground like I was some kind of threat.

“Ahhh!” I cried out as one of them wrenched my broken left hand behind my back. The pain was excruciating. I felt the bandages tighten as fresh blood seeped through them.

Margot didn’t even flinch. Instead, she coolly turned her phone screen toward me, forcing me to stare at it. My stomach dropped. The screen was filled with hateful comments and insults.

She had posted a statement on Instagram, casually admitting to her relationship with Steven. But that wasn’t the worst part. She’d accused me of being the third party—the homewrecker who tried to ruin their relationship.

I stared at the words on the screen, disbelief and anger mingling with despair.

The insults were endless:

[Frank Carmichael, a piano prodigy? More like a two-bit fraud.]

[Disgusting. Destroying other people’s relationships and playing the victim? Get lost.]

[You're an embarrassment to all the great pianists in the world! Why aren’t you dead yet?]

It felt like the entire world had turned against me. I looked at her, my voice trembling, barely audible over the lump in my throat.

“How could you…?” My voice cracked, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

She faltered for a moment, noticing my shallow breathing and my pale, clammy face.

"Can’t you control your strength?" she barked at one of her bodyguards, smacking him across the face.

Then, in an almost contradictory gesture, she crouched down, helped me up, and called for a doctor.

“If you had just apologized earlier,” she said softly, “none of this would’ve happened.”

I stared at her, my chest heaving. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket, vibrating with hateful calls and notifications.

One after another, they poured in:

[Why aren’t you dead yet?]

[Go kill yourself, loser.]

[You’re a disgusting fraud. Rot in hell.]

Margot plucked the phone from my pocket and turned it off with an exasperated sigh.

“Don’t listen to them,” she said, almost like she cared.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

Her eyes darted away, avoiding mine. She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it’d go this far,” she murmured. “I’ll fix it, okay? You don’t need to worry about it.”

I glanced down at my broken, unresponsive left hand, the hand that was supposed to be my entire future.

My voice was hollow when I said, “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up.”

She froze. Then her head snapped toward me, her tone sharp and incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?” Her voice rose, almost shrill. “Frank, I said I’ll handle it! What more do you want?”

Her anger only solidified my decision. I forced a small, tired smile. “Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

For the first time, she faltered. Her expression softened, and she took a step closer, trying to reel me back in. “Frank, without me, who else would support you? Be realistic. Think it over. Calm down.”

Her usual tactics—manipulation disguised as concern. But I wasn’t falling for it this time.

“I’ve already made up my mind,” I said flatly, refusing to engage any further.

Just then, the doctor called my name for an X-ray. Margot reached out to steady me, as though she planned to come along. But before we could take another step, her phone rang.

Steven’s name lit up the screen. She answered immediately, her voice soft and syrupy. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Babe, I think I’ve got a fever,” Steven whined on the other end. “Can you come see me?”

Margot glanced at me for half a second before pulling her hand away.

“Of course, honey,” she cooed into the phone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll be right there.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She just turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor as she walked away.

This time, I didn’t call out to stop her. I just watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, disappearing down the hall.

Strangely, all I felt was an eerie calm.

...

Later, the doctor told me what I already suspected: my left hand’s fracture was severe. It would take months of therapy and rest before I’d even be able to play again. If ever.

By the time I returned to the villa, the house was pitch black. Margot hadn’t come home yet. I stood there in silence, staring at the emptiness of the place we once shared.

Our two-year relationship had never felt like we were together. At best, it was a hollow arrangement between two strangers who happened to share the same space.

I thought back to the first day we moved in together. I had been so full of excitement, eager to share my life with her, to be close to her. But that night, she brushed me off with a tired smile.

“I’m exhausted,” she’d said. “Let’s save this for another time, okay?”

I believed her. She worked hard, constantly on set, constantly under pressure. I told myself I’d wait, that I’d respect her boundaries.

But that 'other time' never came.

Until that day, I thought I missed her. I thought a part of me still wanted her. But when I checked the villa’s surveillance footage, any lingering feelings I had evaporated.

There he was—Steven Jackson. He had her in his arms, holding her tightly and kissing her like he owned her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her hands tangled in his hair.

At that moment, I finally understood: I had never truly been in her heart.

The next day, Margot came home like nothing had happened. She walked into the living room, a light gray scarf in her hands. Gently, she wrapped it around my neck and smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“I knitted this myself,” she said softly. “Do you like it?”

I froze for a moment, then took a step back, shrugging off the scarf like it was suffocating me.

“Steven didn’t want it, so you thought I would?” My voice was cold, detached.

Her smile faltered, and for the first time, she looked unsure. “How did you—”

I cut her off by showing her my phone.

On the screen was a text Steven had sent me that morning:

[Margot gave me some stupid handmade scarf. Bragged about it like it was the best thing in the world. I told her to keep that crap away from me.]

Margot’s face paled for a split second, but she recovered quickly, trying to close the distance between us. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in close. Her lips moved toward mine, slow and deliberate.

I turned my head at the last second, and her lips landed awkwardly on my cheek. The warmth lingered for a moment before I wiped it away with the back of my hand—deliberately, in full view of her.

Her expression hardened.

“Frank! What the hell is your problem? Am I some kind of plague or something?” she snapped. “Stop picking fights over nothing. You’re so—ugh—annoying.”

I stared at her, bitterness twisting my face. My voice was low, but it carried every ounce of my frustration and pain.

“Nothing? You ruined my career. You ruined my life.” My hands clenched into fists. “I can’t even look at my phone without seeing people tearing me apart. I can’t go outside without hearing strangers curse my name.”

I took a shaky breath, my voice breaking. “Margot, is this what you call nothing?”

For a moment, she just stared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. I rarely spoke to her like this. In the two years we’d been together, I’d always been the one to apologize first after a fight. Every single time.

Afterward, she’d always hold me close, her eyes softening as she whispered,

“Frank, you’re mine. Do you understand? In this lifetime, you can only stay by my side. Only I will tolerate and care for you. Everyone else will just hurt and betray you.”

The irony of those words hit me now like a freight train. The person who promised to protect me had become the one who hurt me the most.

When my father cheated and my mother fell into a depression that eventually took her life, I became everyone’s favorite punching bag. The bullying was relentless. And then, like some kind of savior, Margot had appeared.

She had shown up at my house in the pouring rain, burning up with a 104-degree fever, just to tell everyone harassing me that I wasn’t alone. That I had someone.

She had taken me abroad for therapy, putting her fledgling acting career on hold to help me heal. Back then, I thought she was my salvation. I thought she truly cared.

But the woman standing in front of me now? She was nothing like the girl who once held my hand and swore to stay by my side.

I sighed, the fight draining out of me. “Margot, let’s just end this. Let’s break up. You never wanted to go public with our relationship, anyway.”

Her frown deepened, and her voice sharpened. “Frank, stop being ridiculous. You used to grovel and beg on your knees for me. Where’s all this sudden bravado coming from?”

Right then, a resounding noise came from the table as I slammed my fist, the sound echoing through the room. My patience snapped.

“Have you said enough?” I growled.

But Margot didn’t back down. Instead, she smirked, her tone turning venomous. “Am I wrong? Back when your father’s affair went public, how many times did you get down on your knees to beg people to stop spreading rumors?”

Her words cut like a knife. “When your mother committed suicide, you—”

“Enough!” I roared, grabbing a glass from the table and smashing it at her feet. The shards scattered like tiny stars.

“Get. Out,” I snarled.

Margot froze, her face pale as a sheet. She had never seen me like this before. But even now, she refused to back down completely. With a stubborn huff, she bent down, picked up the scarf from the broken glass, and glared at me.

“Frank, I’ll wait for you to come begging me to come back,” she said coldly before storming out.

...

Three days later, I got a notification from the villa’s security system. When I opened the feed, my stomach dropped.

Steven was there, standing in my living room with a group of men. His smug voice rang out through the speakers.

“Alright, tear down that door. Toss out all the useless junk. And seal off the innermost bedroom with cement.”

I froze. The 'useless junk' he was talking about?

That was my stuff.

My piano. My life.

And the bedroom he wanted to seal off?

It was my bedroom.

Suddenly, Margot’s voice came through the feed. “Yeah, do what he says. Get rid of all those eyesores.”

Panic surged through me. I bolted to the car and sped toward the villa. By the time I arrived, it was chaos. Steven’s men pinned me down the moment I walked in.

I struggled against their hold, but they were too strong. One of them grabbed my almost-healed left hand and twisted it.

The sharp, blinding pain shot through me, and my vision blurred. Everything went dark.

“Hey, Carmichael, you’re nothing but Margot’s discarded trash,” Steven sneered, his voice dripping with mockery as it echoed in my ears.

I clenched my jaw so tightly I could feel the sharp pain radiating up my gums. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste pooling in my mouth. As much as I wanted to brush off his words, I couldn’t. He wasn’t entirely wrong. At that moment, I did feel like trash—something Margot had used and tossed aside without a second thought.

Once Steven and his gang finally left, I sank to the ground, clutching the broken remnants of my life they’d thrown out. My injured left hand throbbed in agony, but I forced myself to gather what little I could salvage. I staggered out of the villa, leaving behind the place Margot and I had called home for two years.

I returned to my piano studio, my head spinning with defeat. My mind was made up—I would delete all my social media accounts, sell the studio, and leave the country. Maybe somewhere far away, I could heal. Or at least hide from the mess my life had become.

As I sat down at my desk to begin the process, something caught my eye: a private message buried deep in my inbox, dated three months ago.

It was a formal invitation to join their prestigious tour from the World Piano Tour Ensemble.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I’d forgotten all about this. At the time, Margot had insisted I put everything aside to compose the piano solo for her new film. I’d shelved the message without a second thought.

Now, with nothing left to lose, I mustered every ounce of courage I had and typed a reply, expressing my willingness to join. Every second after hitting “send” was torture. My scandal was still trending, and the fear that they’d reject me outright gnawed at my insides.

The silence became unbearable. My hands trembled as I recorded a desperate voice message and sent it.

“I was immature before,” I began, my voice cracking. “But I hope your ensemble can give me another chance. The rumors online aren’t true. I wasn’t the one who interfered in someone else’s relationship—it was the other way around…”

Before I could finish explaining, a short voice message popped up in response.

“I know. I believe you.”

The voice was soft and gentle, with an air of familiarity that stopped me in my tracks. I sat there frozen, replaying it repeatedly, trying to place where I’d heard it before. Just as I was about to give up, another message arrived:

“You’re not alone. Wait for me—I’ll come get you.”

The words hit me like a warm hug, wrapping around my battered heart. That night, I listened to those two voice messages on repeat, letting the kindness in that voice lull me into my first peaceful sleep in weeks.

...

The next morning, I woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. I reached out to a real estate agent to put the piano studio up for sale.

The damage caused by the online scandal was beyond repair. Parents were pulling their kids from lessons, demanding refunds. It was clear the studio was a sinking ship, and I was ready to let it go.

Margot had bought the studio for me back when she still cared—or at least when she wanted to appear like she cared. Now, I just wanted to give it all back to her. Every penny she’d spent on me over the years was converted into cash, carefully collected, and deposited onto a single bank card. I wanted no part of her lingering in my life. No debts. No ties. A clean break.

But as I packed up the studio, old memories crept in, uninvited. I couldn’t shake the thought of how Margot had once been my salvation. Back when my parents’ tragic deaths had turned me into the town’s favorite punching bag, she’d been the only one to stand by me.

I could still remember the way she marched into my life like a warrior, standing up for me when no one else would. She brought in the Kent family to help clear my father’s name, defying her own family in the process. For a while, she was my light, my hope.

But the woman she was back then was gone, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize anymore. Now, all I wanted was to move on and become strangers—familiar strangers, nothing more.

The day I moved into my new place, Margot somehow managed to slip past the paparazzi and find me. She strolled in, looking as self-assured as ever, arms crossed and a smug smile playing on her lips.

“So, after hiding out all this time, you’ve finally come to your senses, huh?” Her voice was practically dripping with superiority. “Let me guess—you’ve decided to apologize?”

I stared at her blankly, then gave her the barest of nods. “Yeah, I’ve thought things through.”

The confirmation seemed to delight her. Her grin widened, the self-satisfaction practically oozing from her.

“I knew it,” she gloated. “In the end, you’d come crawling back. If you’d just apologized earlier, I wouldn’t have let Steven mess with your stuff.”

She cocked her head, pretending to pity me. “You’re so stubborn, Frank. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. Look at how pathetic you are.”

Her words were like acid, but this time, they didn’t burn the way they used to. I simply gave her a faint smile, my voice steady and calm.

“You’re right. I’ve been stubborn. That’s why I’m finally cutting you out of my life—for good.”