I didn’t flinch. I stared down at the water. But all I could see were the silver glints of that hairpin, glinting under the moonlight.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. Because at that moment, I realized something: she didn’t fall. She performed.

And he jumped to save the show.

But me? I was done playing as their audience.

---

Hakeem climbed back onto the yacht, soaked to the bone, Margaret in his arms like she was made of glass. Her head lolled, limbs limp. He laid her down on the deck and immediately started CPR. Chest compressions. Mouth-to-mouth. His hands shook as he pushed, breath catching on her name.

“Margaret,” he whispered, over and over. “Stay with me. Breathe. Please, baby—”

I watched from the other side of the deck, clothes dripping, knees raw from the polished wood. And through the tears in my eyes, I saw it. Just for a second. Margaret’s mouth twitched. Not in pain. Not in panic. But in a smile. She was pretending. The cough that followed was exaggerated. Mournful. Weak. The perfect little performance.

Hakeem let out a choked breath and pulled her into his arms the moment she started sobbing. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

My chest burned. Not from jealousy. Not even from rage. But from the weight of truth—that I would never win against a ghost.

He looked at me like I was the infection in his perfect night. Like my very existence had ruined everything.

“You humiliated her,” he said.

“She jumped,” I croaked. “You saw it, she jumped herself.” But it didn’t matter. Margaret whimpered into his chest again, just loud enough for everyone to hear. Her voice cracked, shaking.

“Hakeem… I was so scared…”

That was it.

He stood up slowly. Turned to his guards.

“Strip her down.”

I flinched. “No! Wait, Hakeem—”

“Do it.”

They grabbed me. Tore my dress from my body like it meant nothing. I fought, but it didn’t matter. I was dragged to the center of the deck, bare under the spotlight, salt water drying on my skin.

The whip cracked before I could scream. The first lash tore through skin and nerves, lightning-bright pain flashing across my back. Guests gasped. Some turned away. Some watched. The second hit made me stumble. The third made me bleed. By the fourth, I was coughing…violently. I tasted copper. Then blood hit the floor. A lot of it.

I fell to my knees, trembling, arms barely holding me up as more blood spilled from my mouth.

I heard Hakeem’s footsteps running. He knelt in front of me, cupping my face roughly.

“What the fuck! Harmony?!”

My lips were red. Dripping. I tried to speak but couldn’t. Then behind him Margaret suddenly doubled over, coughing loud, gagging. Dramatic, practiced.

“Something’s wrong,” she sobbed. “I can’t breathe…”

That was all it took. Hakeem stood up in panic. Shouted toward the bridge.

“Get the med team! I need the fucking helipad cleared, NOW!”

They carried Margaret away like she was made of gold. And me? He turned cold again. Didn’t even glance back.

“Bring her home,” he told the guards. “Lock her in the basement.”

They dragged me by the arms through the lower deck, past the shocked eyes of strangers, the stained memories of roses and red wine. Through the private corridor, into the black car waiting at the dock.

That night, I didn’t sleep in silk. I slept on a cold stone. Beneath the house I once ruled.

While she lay in a hospital bed, faking every breath.

And Hakeem… still hadn’t learned to see the difference.

---

The next morning, his men took me out again from the basement. I didn't even have a chance to change my clothes or clean my wounds. The car ride was fast. Violent. No one said a word. When we stopped, I stepped out into the rain. Cold. Heavy. It soaked my clothes in seconds, but that wasn’t what made me freeze.

It was where we were.

Cemetery.

No. Not here!

My heart dropped. I took a step back, chest tightening. Panic wrapped around my ribs like a vice.

“Hakeem,” I breathed. “Please. Don’t do this. Not here.”

He was already standing a few feet away, still as stone, rain dripping off his coat. He didn’t speak at first. Just stared at me like he didn’t recognize me anymore.

Then: “You’re not listening. You haven’t been listening for a long time. And now… I’ve got no other way to get through to you.” He turned to his men. Nodded once.

“Start digging.”

“No!” I ran, screaming, shoving at the guards. “Don’t touch her! Don’t you fucking dare touch her!” But Hakeem moved quicker. He grabbed me, yanked me back by the waist, spun me around and held my chin with one hand, steel-hard.

“You disobeyed me,” he growled. “You humiliated her. You mocked her pain. Now you’re gonna understand what loss actually feels like.”

I kicked. I struggled. My lungs burned from screaming. But no one stopped. No one cared. The ground cracked open in front of me. Shovels slammed into wet soil, flinging mud into the air as they dug past the stone markers and through the freshly packed earth.

Then I saw it.

My mother’s urn.

Black. Rain-slicked. Covered in dirt. Everything in me shattered.

“No! Please!” I dropped to my knees, throat raw. “That’s all I have left of her, Hakeem. Don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

He crouched beside the grave, staring at the urn like it was nothing but a paperweight. Then he spoke…quiet, even. Like this was business.

“The doctor gave me the report this morning.”

I froze.

“She went into short-term respiratory arrest from water inhalation and impact trauma. And they found a dislocated hip, nerve strain, too. Recovery will take months. And even then…” he trailed off.

“She may never dance again. You knew how she loves dancing but you took that from her." He glanced at me. But there was no warmth. No love. Just cold resolve. “You think I’m gonna let that slide?”

I shook my head, sobbing. “She faked it, Hakeem, she jumped! You saw her smile—”

“You broke her. So now I break yours.” And then, without hesitation… He dropped the urn.

It hit the mud-covered ground and shattered. Ash burst upward. Caught in the wind. Swirled in the rain like smoke from a funeral pyre.

I screamed. It didn’t even sound human. I dropped forward, trying to gather the pieces, hands clawing through the mud, through the shards, through the wet bone-dust of what used to be my mother. Ash stuck to my skin. Washed down my arms in gray rivers. I tore off my coat, tried to cover what I could. But it was all being washed away.

“Mom... please... don’t leave me again. Don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry...” I kept digging. Hands raw, bleeding. Nails cracked. My dress was soaked and heavy with filth. I didn’t care.

His men looked away. Even they couldn’t bear it.

But Hakeem just stood there. Watching me fall apart. Watching me disappear into the grave with her.

The rain didn’t stop. And neither did I. Because when you lose the last person who ever loved you... you don't come back.

You rot with them.

---

I don’t remember how they dragged me back to the estate. One minute I was screaming in the rain, digging through wet ash, and the next, I was slipping in and out of blackness. My body was shot. Fever. Blood loss. Trauma. My mind wasn’t even fighting anymore. I collapsed the moment we reached the gates. I didn’t get back up after that.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. I don’t know. The world around me turned silent. Numb. Blurry. The only one who came near was the housekeeper. Quiet woman who didn’t ask questions. Just wiped my face, changed my clothes, and helped me sit up when I needed to swallow pills.

But someone else came.

My little brother. Aziel.

“Harmony,” he whispered, “you’re hurting again.”

I blinked into the darkness, throat raw.

“Why always hurting?” he mumbled. “I want… I want us to go. Far. We can live… somewhere with trees. You and me… I don’t like this place.”

I turned just enough to hold him. Weakly. Barely. But enough. He wiped his nose on my sleeve and tried to smile.

“I’ll save money, okay? I’ll save a lot. And we run away. You and me. We go. Like magic.”

My lips parted. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to promise him that soon, very soon, we’d be free. But all I could do was hold him tighter and whisper, “I’m trying, Z. I swear I’m trying.”

He nodded against me. Then he fell asleep in my arms.

The only safe thing I had left.

And Hakeem? He was gone.

He was off somewhere across the world with Margaret, the woman who faked her death and came back acting like the universe owed her every stolen minute.

Photos of them were everywhere. Posing by the river in Paris. Locked together at the Louvre. Wrapped up in each other in some icy blue cave in goddamn Antarctica.

America’s most feared heir and his first love, back from the dead.

I stared at those photos until the sting in my chest faded into something colder. Until it stopped hurting. And that’s when I started peeling away the memories. One piece at a time.

The way he held me when I cried. The time he killed a man for brushing my arm at a party.

The island he shut down on my birthday just to watch me smile.

All of it—gone.

---

Then one morning, they came back.

No announcement. No warning.

Hakeem walked in like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t died a little every day while he was gone.

He stood in the living room, loosened his tie, and said, “Margaret told me the only thing she regrets is not getting to marry me. So I’m fixing that. Let's get divorce now so I can finally give her the wedding she wanted.”

He didn’t even look at me when he said it. Just dropped the words like a business deal.

No explanation. Just a decision.

I looked at him. Really looked at him. This was the same man who used to whisper he’d bury the world for me. Who once told me I was his religion in a world full of lies. Now he looked at me like I was nothing but noise in the background.

I wanted to ask, “Do you love her?”

But I already knew. I’d known it from the moment she came back.

And I almost asked, “Did you ever love me?”

But right then, Margaret walked in and said his name. Soft. Sweet. Like she hadn’t wrecked everything.

He turned to her instantly.

His face softened. His eyes lit up. He hadn’t looked at me like that in years.

I held my breath. Then smiled. A small, broken thing that tasted like blood in my mouth.

“Congratulations,” I told him. “Hope you two are really happy.”

He tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I said, still smiling. “Just wishing you luck.”

He stood there, hand on the doorframe. Looked like he was thinking of saying something. Then Margaret’s voice called out again from the hall.

And just like that, he turned away.

He left.

---

The next few days were a blur of wedding prep. Margot on every phone call, every photo shoot. Hakeem beside her every step. Sharp suit, cold eyes, fake smile.

He planned that wedding like it was war. Every detail locked in. Every guest list was reviewed twice.

He hadn’t put this much effort into our wedding.

Then, just a few days before the ceremony, Margaret came to me with that same plastic smile she wore when she handed me my dead mother’s locket.

“Harmony,” she said, like we were best friends, “I realized we don’t have a ring bearer. And I was thinking, wouldn’t it be so perfect if Aziel did it? I mean, he’s practically family.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I just stared at her.

Then I stood. My voice came out low and clear.

“There’s a thousand kids you could use. But you picked him. Why?”

She blinked like she was offended. “I’m just trying to make this meaningful. It would be special. I don’t feel comfortable having some stranger walk the rings. I thought Aziel would make it feel more real.”

I looked her straight in the eye. “No.”

Her eyes filled with tears like it was rehearsed. She turned to Hakeem and clutched his arm.

“Honey… I didn’t mean anything by it. Harmony misunderstood me. I just want someone we both know involved. Someone safe.”

Hakeem gave her that amused little smirk, pinched her nose like she was a damn puppy.

“You’re such a headache,” he said. “Fine. You win. We’ll use Aziel.”

Then he looked at me. That smile was gone. His eyes locked on mine, sharp and cold.

I didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. I already knew how this went.

I walked away. Hands clenched. Nails digging deep. Because now my plan was ruined.

I was supposed to disappear before the wedding.

Everything was ready. Clean IDs. Offshore account. Exit route.

But I couldn’t leave Aziel behind. Not now. Not when Margaret wanted him in that ceremony. Not when Hakeem was looking at her like she was part of some future he’d built with the woman who ruined my life.

So that night, I picked up the burner phone I kept under the loose floorboard.

Dialed the number.

The line clicked after one ring.

“It’s me,” I whispered. “I need the exit plan changed. I’m not leaving alone.”

“Understood, ma’am,” the voice replied. “We’ll move everything.”

This time, I wasn’t running.

This time, I was taking back what was mine.“The plan changed,” I whispered into the burner phone. My voice was tight. Quiet. “Aziel’s gonna be the ring bearer. I can’t leave without him.”

I paused, fingers shaking slightly. “And there’s one more problem. Eight years ago, after I faked my death... Hakeem had a tracker put inside me. He never told me where, just said it’s somewhere I wouldn’t be able to reach. He knew I’d try to run again.”

There was a long silence on the other end before the response came.

“No problem, ma’am. I’ll handle everything on our side. But you need to get that tracker out. It’s the only way this works.”

I exhaled slowly. Finally, a bit of relief. “Alright. I’ll wait for your signal—”

“Harmony.”

His voice hit me like a gunshot. I turned. Hakeem stood by the door, watching me. Eyes sharp. Face unreadable.

I hung up immediately, slipped the phone behind me, heart thudding against my ribs.

He stepped closer, gaze locked on me like a hunter.

“Who the hell you waitin’ on, huh?” he asked, voice quiet but full of warning.

I didn’t get the chance to answer. His hand was on my throat, tight. Not enough to choke me yet, but the message was clear. I wasn’t the one in control here.

“You trying to run again?” he muttered, his mouth too close. “What is it this time? Another man? Or you just gonna fake your own damn death again and think I’ll let it slide twice?”

I gasped, “I told you—I was waiting for Aziel. He doesn’t know where the ceremony is. He’s just a kid.”

His grip loosened, but his eyes didn’t soften.

Then, without a word, he dragged me in.

His mouth crushed against mine, hard and cruel. There was no tenderness. No care.

His hands pulled me down, shoved me to the floor. My skirt ripped as he pushed in. Rough. Ruthless. No warning. No mercy.

I bit my lip to keep from making a sound. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

By the time it was over, I lay there on the cold marble floor. Breathing in silence. Still.

He leaned over, brushed a piece of hair off my face, and pressed a kiss to my temple like he hadn't just wrecked me.

“Harmony,” he murmured, voice calm now. “Don’t betray me again. You still got my tracker inside you. Don’t forget it.”

His thumb brushed against the ring on my finger.

The one he gave me when he promised forever.

“The Eternal Bond collection,” he said, like it was some goddamn joke. “Margaret wants it on the wedding day. Give it to her.”

My vision blurred. The back of my throat burned.

“That ring was ours,” I said. “It meant something.”

He smiled like I was being dramatic. “It’s a piece of metal. I could get you ten more if that’s what you want. Don’t start acting like a child now.”

Of course. Just a ring. Just another lie.

I took it off slowly. My fingers were shaking, but I didn’t let it show. I dropped it into his hand. He didn’t even look at it.

Once he was gone, I let myself breathe. Then I got up and started moving.

The tracker. The money. The plan. I had to keep going. I had to stay ahead.

I’d already started selling everything he ever gave me. Jewelry. Cars. The yacht. All of it was converted into clean money, stashed in offshore accounts under new names.

I still had Aziel to protect. He was the only reason I hadn’t burned this entire place to the ground already.

---

That night, I dragged a steel barrel into the back of the estate. Photos. Gifts. The leather jackets he had made for us with our initials stitched inside. The love notes. Hundreds of them.

Then came the black journal.

His obsession in print.

He wrote down everything about me. What time I woke up. What tea I drank. The way I tied my hair when I was stressed. What kind of music calmed me down after nightmares. He knew every part of me.

He loved me like a project. Like a blueprint. Not a person. I tossed the journal in and lit a match.

I watched the fire grow.

It swallowed everything.

The letters. The fabric. The photos. His twisted version of love. I stood there in the dark, smoke curling into the night air, heat brushing against my face.

One tear fell. Just one.

It hit the ashes at my feet.

I didn’t cry again.

The fire died down fast. No trace left.

Just smoke. Just silence. I looked at the sky and whispered, “Goodbye, Hakeem.”

And this time, I meant it.