Deacon insisted on the dinner. He said it would be good for us. He said it would remind everyone that we were solid. He used the word 'solid' like it was a fact instead of a wish.

I did not want a birthday dinner. I wanted to be on a plane. But I had not told him yet. I had not told anyone. So I stood in our kitchen and watched the caterers arrange salmon on white plates and I smiled when people arrived.

There were twenty guests. Racing people. Sponsors. A few journalists I used to work with. They hugged me and said I looked beautiful and asked where I got my dress. I thanked them. I poured wine. I was very good at this.

Deacon moved through the room with his hand on the small of my back. He kissed my temple when someone made a toast. He laughed at the right moments. He was performing. I was performing. We were both so good at it.

Halfway through the main course, the doorbell rang.

Deacon stood up. "I'll get it."

I did not look up from my plate. I was cutting a piece of salmon into smaller and smaller pieces. I had not eaten any of it.

When he came back, Aleyna was with him.

She wore a black slip dress and heels that made her legs look a mile long. Her hair was down. She smiled at the table like she was surprised to see all of us, like she had just happened to be in the neighborhood.

"I'm so sorry," she said. Her voice was light. Easy. "I didn't realize it was a whole thing. Deacon mentioned dinner and I thought—"

"It's fine," Deacon said quickly. He was already pulling out a chair for her. "We've got plenty."

No one said anything. A few people glanced at me. I set down my fork.

"Of course," I said. My voice was smooth. Trained. "Stay."

Aleyna sat. Deacon sat beside her. A waiter brought another place setting.

I looked at her wrist.

She was wearing the bracelet.

It was delicate. Silver. A tiny star pendant hanging from the chain. The same one I had shown Deacon in a boutique window six months ago. The same one he had said was custom-made, one of a kind, just for me.

I had never seen it again after that day. I thought he had forgotten.

But he had not forgotten.

Aleyna lifted her wine glass. The star caught the light. She did not look at me. She did not need to.

Across the table, one of the journalists—a woman named Claire—was staring at the bracelet. Then at me. Her mouth opened slightly. She knew. She had been there the day I showed Deacon the window.

I stood up.

The table went quiet.

"Excuse me," I said. I walked out of the dining room. I did not hurry. I walked to the kitchen and I stood at the counter with my back to the door and I counted my breaths. In for four. Out for four.

I heard footsteps behind me.

"Autumn." Deacon's voice. Low. Annoyed. "What are you doing."

I turned around. He was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Where did she get the bracelet," I said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The star bracelet. The one you said was custom. One of a kind. Where did she get it."

He exhaled through his nose. "I don't know. Maybe she bought one that looks similar. Why does it matter."

"It's identical."

"Autumn." He stepped closer. His voice dropped into that patient tone he used when he thought I was being unreasonable. "You're being paranoid. It's a bracelet. It's not a big deal."

"You gave it to her."

"I didn't."

"You're lying."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not doing this. Not tonight. Not in front of everyone."

"Then leave," I said.

He stared at me. "What?"

"Leave." My voice was very calm. Very clear. "Take her with you. I want you both out of my house."

"Your house?" He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "This is our house. You're being ridiculous."

"It's my birthday," I said quietly. "And I'm asking you to leave."

For a long moment he just looked at me. Like he was waiting for me to take it back. Like he could not believe I had said it out loud.

I did not take it back.

He turned and walked out. I heard him say something low to Aleyna. I heard chairs scrape. I heard the front door close.

When I walked back into the dining room, the table was silent. Claire was staring at her plate. A few people looked at me with something like pity. Or respect. I could not tell which.

"I'm sorry," I said. My voice did not shake. "Thank you all for coming. I think I need to call it a night."

No one argued. They left quietly. They hugged me on the way out. They said they understood.

When the last guest was gone, I stood in the empty dining room and looked at the table. Twenty plates. Twenty glasses. Aleyna's chair was still pulled out.

I picked up her wine glass. I carried it to the kitchen. I poured it down the sink and I washed it and I set it on the counter to dry.

Then I went upstairs and I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and I started to pack.

***

Two days later, I was standing in my father's study when the news broke.

Aleyna had crashed during practice. Her car had spun out on a turn and hit the barrier. She was fine. Completely fine. The car was barely damaged. But she was in the medical center. And she was crying on camera.

"I just can't focus," she said. Her voice was shaking. Her eyes were red. "The hostility—it's been so hard. I know Autumn doesn't like me. I've tried. I've really tried. But I can't keep doing this."

The reporter leaned in. "Are you saying Autumn Ellis is affecting your performance?"

Aleyna looked down. She wiped her eyes. "I don't want to say that. But—yes. I think so."

My father muted the television.

"She staged it," I said.

He looked at me. "You're sure."

"Yes."

He nodded slowly. He did not ask how I knew. He just believed me.

My phone buzzed. A text from Deacon.

*You need to apologize. Publicly. This has gone too far.*

I stared at the screen.

Not a question. Not a request. A command.

I typed back one word.

*No.*

I hit send. I turned off my phone. I looked at my father.

"When does my flight leave," I said.

"Tomorrow night," he said quietly. "But Autumn—"

"I'll be ready."

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded.

I walked out of his study. I went to my room. I finished packing.

I did not cry. There was still nothing in me to spill.

Deacon came home at two in the morning. I heard his keys in the lock. I was sitting on the couch in the dark with my suitcase beside me. Half-packed. Hidden in plain sight.

He turned on the light. He looked at me. His face was hard.

'We need to talk,' he said.

I did not answer. I just looked at him.

He threw his jacket on the chair. 'You're being childish. You know that? Aleyna nearly died out there and you can't manage basic human decency.'

I folded my hands in my lap. I counted my breaths. In for four. Out for four.

'She's scared, Autumn. She's actually scared. And you—you just sit here like none of it matters. Like she's not a real person.'

I thought about the bracelet. The kiss. The word boring in his mouth like it was nothing.

'Are you even listening to me?'

I looked up at him. I did not blink. 'I'm listening.'

'Then say something.'

'What do you want me to say.'

He laughed. It was not a kind sound. 'An apology would be a start. To her. To me. To everyone who's watching you act like a selfish—'

He stopped. He ran his hand through his hair. He looked at the ceiling.

'I don't know what happened to you,' he said quietly. 'You used to be sweet. You used to care.'

I stood up. Slowly. I looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that he shifted his weight. Long enough that something in his face changed.

Then I turned and walked to the bedroom. I closed the door. I did not slam it. I just closed it. Soft as a breath.

I heard him say my name once. Then nothing.

I sat on the edge of the bed. I looked at my hands. They were very still.

I had three more days. Three more days and I would be gone. I just had to last three more days.

I opened the closet. I pulled out another small bag. I filled it with things he would not notice. A sweater. Two pairs of socks. The small leather journal I kept in the back of the drawer.

I zipped it closed. I slid it under the bed.

Three more days.

***

The next afternoon I went to the corner market. I needed milk. I needed bread. I needed to be out of the apartment.

I was walking back with the bag in my arms when I heard footsteps behind me. Fast. Too fast.

I turned.

Three women. Young. Early twenties maybe. They were wearing black hoodies. One of them had her phone out.

'Autumn Ellis?' the tall one said.

I stopped. 'Yes?'

'You're a real piece of work, you know that?'

I took a step back. 'I'm sorry?'

'Aleyna almost died because of you.'

My stomach dropped. I looked around. The street was empty. It was the middle of the day but no one was there.

'I don't—'

'Shut up,' the tall one said.

The other two moved closer. One of them grabbed my arm. The grocery bag fell. Milk spilled across the pavement.

'Wait—'

They pulled me toward a van parked at the curb. I tried to twist away but there were three of them and my shoulder screamed when I pulled too hard.

'Stop—please—'

No one came. No one saw.

They shoved me into the back of the van. One of them climbed in after me. The doors slammed. The engine started.

I tried to breathe. I could not breathe.

'Where are you taking me,' I said. My voice was shaking now. The trained smoothness was gone.

The tall one looked back from the passenger seat. She smiled.

'Somewhere quiet,' she said.

***

The warehouse smelled like rust and old rain. They dragged me inside and chained my wrists to a metal beam. My arms were pulled up over my head. I could barely touch the floor with my toes.

'Please,' I said. 'Please don't—'

One of them pulled out a leather bullwhip. Long. Heavy. The kind you see in old movies.

'This is for Aleyna,' she said.

She pulled her arm back.

The first strike tore through my shirt. I screamed. I could not help it. The sound ripped out of me.

The second strike split the skin. I felt the blood before I felt the pain.

The third strike—

I do not remember the third strike.

I remember the phone. One of them was filming. I remember the light. I remember the sound of my own voice begging and then not begging anymore because I could not make words.

I remember my father's face. The sketchbooks. The candle in my palm.

I remember Deacon's voice in the corridor. *Kind of boring.*

I remember nothing.

***

Somewhere far away, Deacon was sitting in a hotel restaurant with Aleyna. She was laughing. He was smiling. His phone was on the table but he was not looking at it.

He did not see the missed calls. He did not see the messages.

He ordered another drink.

He did not call me once.

The clinic was small. Private. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you paid cash.

I lay on my stomach on the examination table. The paper crinkled under me. Every breath pulled at the cuts on my back.

The doctor was an older woman with gray hair pulled tight. She did not speak much. She cleaned the wounds in silence. I felt the sting of antiseptic. I felt her hands, careful and steady.

'How many,' I said. My voice came out flat.

'Lacerations?'

'Yes.'

She paused. 'Twenty-three that broke the skin. More that didn't.'

I closed my eyes. Twenty-three.

'I need documentation,' I said.

'Medical records are automatic—'

'No.' I opened my eyes. I looked at her. 'I need a formal report. Every mark. Every measurement. Photographs. Everything. Printed and stamped.'

She studied my face for a long moment. Then she nodded.

'It will take a few hours.'

'I'll wait.'

She finished bandaging me. She gave me a clean shirt from somewhere. It was too big. I did not care.

I sat in the waiting room while she compiled the report. The lights were too bright. I counted the tiles on the floor. Sixty-four in that section. Forty in the next.

When she came back, she handed me a manila envelope. Thick. Official.

'If you want to press charges—'

'I don't.'

She looked at me. 'You should.'

'I know.'

I stood up. My legs shook but they held. I took the envelope. I asked for a car.

She called one. She did not ask where I was going. That was the only mercy left.

***

I went home. Our apartment. The place that used to be ours.

Deacon was not there. I did not know where he was. I did not call to ask.

I walked through the rooms slowly. My back screamed with every step. I touched things. The couch. The kitchen counter. The bookshelf.

I went to the bedroom. I pulled the suitcase out from under the bed. The one I had been packing in pieces. I added the last of my things. Not much. I did not need much.

I left the clothes he bought me. I left the jewelry. I left the framed photos on the dresser.

I took the envelope. I took my passport. I took the small glass vial I had been saving—the one that still had a single firefly inside, long dead, from the last time we went to Lover's Cliff together.

I set the vial on the kitchen table. Beside it, I placed the medical report. I did not open it. I did not need to. I knew what was inside.

Then I sat down and I waited.

***

Deacon came home just after midnight. I heard his keys. I heard him drop his bag by the door.

He walked into the kitchen. He saw me sitting there. He stopped.

'Hey,' he said. His voice was careful. 'I didn't know you'd be up.'

I looked at him. I did not say anything.

He shifted his weight. 'Look, I know things have been—'

'I want to go to Lover's Cliff,' I said.

He blinked. 'What?'

'Tomorrow night. Just us. Like we used to.'

He stared at me. I watched something move across his face. Confusion. Then relief. Then something that looked almost like hope.

'Yeah,' he said slowly. 'Yeah, okay. That sounds—yeah. I'd like that.'

I nodded. I stood up. I walked past him toward the bedroom.

'Autumn.'

I stopped. I did not turn around.

'I'm glad,' he said quietly. 'I'm glad you're—I don't know. I'm glad.'

I did not answer. I went into the bedroom. I closed the door.

I lay down on my side. The bandages pulled. I stared at the wall until the sun came up.

***

The next evening, I dressed carefully. Jeans. A loose sweater that did not touch my back. I pulled my hair into a low ponytail.

Deacon was waiting by the door. He smiled when he saw me. A real smile. The kind he used to give me.

'Ready?' he said.

I nodded.

We drove in silence. He tried to make conversation a few times. I answered in short sentences. He did not seem to notice. Or maybe he was just relieved I was speaking at all.

When we reached the cliff, he parked at the edge of the overlook. The city spread out below us. Lights like a sea of stars.

He turned off the engine. He looked at me.

'I missed this,' he said softly. 'I missed us.'

I looked out the windshield. 'I need to get something from the trunk.'

'I'll get it—'

'No.' I put my hand on his arm. Gentle. 'Stay here. Watch the fireflies. I'll be right back.'

He smiled. He settled into his seat. 'Okay.'

I got out of the car. I walked around to the back. I opened the trunk.

My suitcase was inside. Packed. Ready.

I took it out. I closed the trunk softly.

I looked back at the car. Deacon was facing forward. Watching the field. Waiting for me.

I turned. I walked down the trail. Away from the cliff. Away from the car. Away from him.

I did not look back.

The taxi was waiting at the bottom of the hill. I had called it that morning. I climbed in. I gave the driver the address of the airport.

'You okay, miss?' he asked.

I looked out the window. The cliff was disappearing behind the trees.

'Yes,' I said.

It was the second biggest lie I ever told.