The yacht slid into the harbor just after sunrise.

Not a soul spoke to me. Not Rowan. Not Corvin. Not even Evangeline—who had wept so dramatically the night before I almost, for a fleeting moment, believed her tears were real. Almost.

I disembarked quietly, every step heavy with salt and humiliation, my clothes clinging, my skin raw from more than the seawater. It wasn’t only my body that had nearly drowned.

Rowan had shoved me. Straight into the black tide.

And he hadn’t so much as blinked.

“That’s what you deserve,” he’d said afterward. “For being petty. For thinking the whole world owes you loyalty.”

No apology. No hand stretched out to pull me back. Not even a flicker of guilt in his expression. And when the stranger appeared, cutting through the waves and hauling me to safety at the dock—he vanished as quickly as he’d come. No name offered, no thanks taken. Just a blur fading into the crowd, like a phantom made of flesh.

I made my way home by myself. Shivering. Finished. The instant I closed my apartment door, I didn’t break down. I didn’t scream. I started packing.

Drawers thrown open, suitcases dragged across the floor. Clothes folded. Passports tucked away. Portable drives. The heirloom necklace from my grandmother. Everything that was still mine—untainted by their hands—went into the bags.

I was folding the last of my coats when my phone buzzed.

A message from Evangeline. This time, not even pretending to disguise her malice.

Hey Marceline~ Check my Insta. New uploads!

The audacity.

I unlocked the screen, already knowing what awaited me.

Her face filled the feed—smug, victorious. She was wrapped in my silk robe, the blush-pink one I had bought in Milan and left behind on the yacht. Rowan was next to her, bare-chested, drowsy, his arm curled around her shoulders, his nose nearly pressed against the swell of her chest.

On her other side, Corvin held her waist like she was royalty. No—worse. Like she was a goddess carved out of deceit.

The caption blared beneath:

Best night ever with my favorite boys Thanks for making my birthday unforgettable. Loved every whip and taste of cream

And then a little dagger meant for me:

Guess what, Marceline? Rowan gifted me your new car. Said it was his money anyway and the shade looked better on me. Don’t worry—I’ll let you borrow it… if you beg nicely.

The next post? A photo of my car. My car. Flaunted on her page.

I let out a laugh. Dry, humorless. I tapped the tiny heart under her picture, watched it turn crimson, then tossed my phone onto the bed.

By tomorrow, I’d be gone. And when I left, I wasn’t taking their shadows with me.

---

That afternoon, I filed my resignation at the firm. Handed it in with a calm smile, shook hands like I wasn’t dismantling everything I’d built. By the time I returned to the apartment, it was time for the final severing.

From beneath the bed, I dragged out an old leather box—scarred and weighty. Inside were the fragments of the past, relics of promises long since broken.

Rowan’s silver chain, etched with a phrase only the two of us had ever known. Corvin’s scratched lighter, useless but heavy with nights of smoke and secrets. Rowan’s luxury watch, its glass cracked, its hands forever stuck in silence.

Folded letters came next. Rowan’s clumsy poems he’d passed me at sixteen, swearing forever. Corvin’s midnight notes slipped beneath my dorm door when neither of us could sleep.

The leather jacket Rowan once declared was mine for life, still carrying his scent in the seams. Corvin’s dented helmet, from the bike we once swore would carry us across the countryside. And at the very bottom, a music box that played our song—our so-called anthem—its melody long faded.

Click. The lighter sparked.

I held the jacket over the flame until it curled and blackened, then tossed it into the pile. The letters followed. The chain. The lighter itself. The watch. One by one, the flames devoured them, turning memories into smoke.

By the time Rowan stormed into the room, half of everything we’d been was already nothing but embers.

“Marceline—what the hell are you doing?!” His voice broke, his eyes frantic.

I didn’t move. “Getting rid of rot.”

“Don’t give me that crap!” He lurched closer, panic bleeding into his voice. “Those aren’t junk. They’re pieces of us. They’re memories.”

Corvin barreled in behind him, his gaze darting to the burning pile. He reached out, tried to snatch something back, only to hiss when the fire kissed his fingers. “You’ve lost it. You just destroyed everything we ever had.”

I met his stare, my own steady and ice-cold. “You already gave Evangeline my car. She can have the gifts. She can keep the memories too.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “So this is it? More tantrums? More drama? You ruined her birthday last night with your childish jealousy.”

I smiled, calm and sharp. “Not tantrums. Closure. This is the last time you’ll ever see me.”

They both stood, watching as smoke spiraled upward, the ashes settling like the final burial of what we’d once been.

Funny. They had nearly set the world ablaze defending Evangeline’s crocodile tears—yet when I was breaking apart, not one of them ever asked what was wrong.

Now, here they were, mourning over ashes.

Rowan and Corvin weren’t so quick to accept the end. After watching the flames consume the remnants of us, they scrambled to stitch together what was already beyond repair—two men clutching frayed threads of something that could never be whole again.

“Marceline, come on,” Rowan muttered, his hand raking the back of his neck like he was about to admit to a crime he’d been hiding. “Let’s have dinner. Our treat. No drama. Just us.”

Corvin chimed in, his usual sharpness gone, replaced by something softer. “Yeah. The usual place. Our spot. Please—just one meal. Let us make it up to you.”

I didn’t give them words. Just a small nod. Inside, I already knew—tonight would be our last supper together.

We slid into Rowan’s polished black car. The ride was heavy, air thick with unsaid things, the silence hissing like static between radio stations. Then Corvin’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and his face fell. “It’s Evangeline.”

I caught the tremor in his tone as he answered. “Evangeline? What happened?”

Her shrill voice pierced the quiet. “The lights went out! Somebody broke in. I think there’s a burglar—oh my god, I’m terrified. Please, come quick!”

Rowan’s jaw flexed like stone. His eyes flicked toward me, then away. “Marceline, get out.”

My head snapped toward him. “What?”

“We’ll come back after checking on Evangeline,” Rowan cut in, voice sharp as a blade. “You can’t come.”

Before I could object, the door swung open. They shoved me out into the soaked street, rain instantly plastering my hair to my face, my dress clinging to my skin.

They didn’t wait for me to find cover. Just drove off, red taillights dissolving into the storm.

I stood there, dripping, mascara streaking down like black veins of betrayal.

Then I smiled.

It wasn’t sweet. It was sharp. Bitter. Clean.

Because in that moment I understood—this wasn’t some last dinner. It was a funeral feast. They just hadn’t realized they were mourning themselves.

---

Three blocks later, I tore off my satin heels. They were useless—slick against the rain, my toes raw and blistered. I carried them by their straps, trudging barefoot along the soaked pavement. My dress stuck to me like a second skin, hair tangled at my neck, each breath colder than the last.

Not a single cab stopped. Not one.

Drivers slowed, headlights cutting across my face, saw the drenched girl limping in the dark—and sped up. Like I was already a ghost they didn’t want to pick up.

I didn’t cry. Not yet.

I ducked into an alley I thought might cut me back to the main road. Maybe I could flag a bus. Maybe I’d collapse under a streetlamp like some tragic poem. But shortcuts bite.

He emerged from behind a dumpster. Hoodie soaked, shadow cloaking his face. The knife gleamed before I even registered it. His hand shoved hard against me. His voice was a blur—wallet, phone, bag—I didn’t care.

I fought anyway.

Nails, fists, screams that tore my throat raw.

That’s when the blade punched into me. Once in the stomach. A second, lower. A third when I tried to crawl away. Pain seared white-hot, then numbed into a terrifying chill. I toppled, pavement pressing cold against my cheek like a farewell kiss.

Then—headlights.

A car door slammed. Someone shouted my name.

Arms scooped me up.

I tried to form words. Call my aunt. Say sorry. Tell her I wouldn’t be dropping off those cookies like I promised. But my lips were stone. My vision fizzled into static.

And then I saw him.

That face.

The same man who had plunged into the sea when Rowan shoved me from the yacht. The stranger who pulled me out of the black water when everyone else watched. I thought I’d dreamed him. Thought he was some angel the ocean spat out.

But he was flesh. Real.

He looked down at me, his white shirt blotched with my blood, his arms steady, strong.

“Stay awake, Marceline,” he commanded, voice deep, grounding, certain. “You’re not leaving this world tonight. Not like this.”

“Who… are you?” I think I whispered.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Sebastian.”

And then he was gone again.

Not in magic or smoke. Just in the ruthless way men like him disappear—when a secretary called his name, and he slipped out of the hospital room without waiting for gratitude.

I stayed a week. Tubes threaded into my arms. Stitches sealing my stomach. Silence hollowing me out. No visitors. No calls. Not even my mother—I told the nurses to keep her away. What would be the point? I needed the stillness. Needed to grieve the last piece of me that ever believed someone might come.

On the morning of discharge, pale and thin in a flimsy gown, they appeared.

Evangeline first, on a stretcher. Gauze wrapped around her wrists, blood soaking through, mascara smudged into a grotesque mask. She wailed like a siren. Rowan hovered, whispering comfort. Corvin carried her bag, obedient as a shadow.

They passed me in the hall.

And froze.

Rowan’s eyes widened like he was staring at a ghost. Corvin’s mouth fell open, stunned.

“Marceline?” Rowan muttered.

I looked at them, then at the IV tape still clinging to my skin. I hadn’t even changed clothes. Nurses were boxing my things. I should’ve been leaving quietly. Instead, I stood there.

“You’re here?” Corvin breathed.

“You were in the hospital?” Rowan took a step toward me, reaching out. I stepped back.

A laugh slipped from me. Not hysterical. Just cracked. “I’ve been here for a week,” I said softly, “fighting to stay alive. And you didn’t even notice I was gone.”

Their lips moved, but nothing came out.

Behind them, Evangeline wailed louder, dragging their eyes back to her.

Of course. Always her.

So I turned. Walked away again. Barefoot. Broken.

But this time—free.

The apartment was swallowed in darkness when I stepped inside. No lamps flickered on, no comforting hum of life greeted me—just stale, suffocating air laced with the faint stench of spoiled food from the sink. I didn’t bother looking for the light switch. My bag dropped with a thud by the door, and I kicked it shut behind me, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence that pressed against my ears.

I didn’t even bother to change. The thin hospital gown under my hoodie clung uncomfortably against my skin, but I didn’t care. My body gave up the fight, and I collapsed onto the couch face-first, my arms dangling lifelessly toward the floor. The fabric scratched against the bandages beneath my clothes, but exhaustion was stronger than pain.

Sleep didn’t grant me peace. It never does—not when dreams already understand truths I refuse to say out loud.

Hours passed in fragments before I stirred awake, groggy and sore, blinking into the same endless darkness. That was when I heard it—clattering. From the kitchen.

I rose slowly, limbs heavy, head pounding, my bare feet whispering against the floor as I moved toward the sound. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe a window had been left open. Or maybe—God forbid—someone had broken in. I rounded the corner, braced for anything.

And then I saw them.

Rowan stood at the stove, grilling steak, the sizzle loud in the silence. Corvin was at the counter, rhythmically chopping vegetables with surgeon-like precision. The dining table was set with plates, cutlery, glasses—napkins folded neatly beside each setting like this was some picture-perfect family dinner.

They both turned their heads when they noticed me standing there.

Rowan spoke first, his tone casual, as if my sudden presence wasn’t absurd. “We thought you’d gone to your aunt’s,” he said. “We didn’t want to intrude.”

Corvin’s eyes dropped guiltily to the knife in his hand, then flicked back to me. His voice was low, hesitant. “We didn’t know you were in the hospital.”

I didn’t reply. I simply walked forward, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table. My hands rested on the wood. I didn’t touch the food.

Rowan frowned, switched off the stove, and faced me. “You need to eat,” he said firmly. “You’ve just been discharged.”

I lifted my gaze to him, cold and unwavering. “You didn’t even bother to check on me for an entire week.”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream. It stretched, unbearable, cracking at the edges. None of us moved. None of us breathed.

Then the doorbell rang.

Rowan and Corvin both turned their heads toward the sound, and Corvin was the first to move, striding quickly to answer it.

When the door swung open, there she was.

Evangeline.

She looked pale, fragile, her wrists carefully hidden beneath long sleeves but still visibly wrapped in clean gauze. She resembled a porcelain doll—cracked but still intact, holding herself together with delicacy and precision.

The moment they saw her, they rushed to her like she was the only person in the room. Rowan reached her first, scooping her up with ease, carrying her to the couch as though she weighed nothing. He laid her down gently, brushing hair away from her damp face. His voice softened. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. What if something happened to you?”

Her voice trembled, high and frail. “I was alone in my hospital room. And I kept thinking… what if I never woke up again? What if I opened my eyes and no one was there?” She swallowed hard. “I panicked. I just couldn’t stand being alone tonight.”

Rowan’s face melted with sympathy. He leaned closer, but before he could say more, she raised a weak hand as though to stop him.

“If this is too much, I’ll go back,” she whispered. “I never meant to burden anyone.”

“No,” Rowan murmured quickly, his tone full of urgency. “Don’t say that. You’re not a burden. You should’ve called us sooner—we’ll take care of you.”

Corvin hovered a step behind him, steady but concerned. “We’ll check on Marceline, then take you back to the hospital. After that, we’ll stay with you tonight.”

I said nothing.

Instead, I picked up my fork and stabbed a piece of steak. The meat was uneven—burnt on the outside, still too pink inside, chewy and tasteless. I hated steak. Always had. Yet I chewed mechanically, forcing down every bite as though swallowing ash. Because if I stopped, they would notice.

He made steak.

The one dish I couldn’t stand.

They didn’t even remember.

A bitter laugh slipped out—small, sharp, almost invisible. I smothered it with a gulp of water. Across from me, Rowan and Corvin were already fussing over her, setting another place at the table, coaxing her to eat as if she were made of glass. She basked in their attention like it belonged to her by birthright, and every so often, she looked at me with quiet triumph in her eyes. As if to say: you’ve already lost.

And then my phone buzzed.

I glanced down. Mom.

Over a dozen photos lit up my screen—wedding dresses, each one grander than the last. Lace gowns with cathedral trains. Satin with intricate beadwork. Tulle and veils that trailed like clouds. I scrolled until I paused on the third one—a satin off-the-shoulder dress, cinched at the waist, ruffles spilling like waves. My thumb hovered, then I pressed call before I could think.

She answered on the third ring, her voice warm, bubbling with excitement. “Marceline, did you get the pictures? I think the third gown would flatter you best. But if your fiancé prefers something else—”

“I love the third,” I cut in quickly, my voice carefully light, deliberately cheerful. “It’s beautiful. I can already imagine myself in it. I’m really… thrilled.”

There was a pause, as though she didn’t expect such eagerness. Then she chuckled softly. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m relieved. I knew you’d come around. You’ve always had an eye for the classic designs.”

I forced a little laugh. “Yeah. It’ll look amazing. I can’t wait for the wedding.”

Movement stirred across the room. I didn’t lift my head.

“How much longer do you need to stay there?” she asked.

“Another week,” I answered quickly. “After that, I’ll be home.”

“Perfect. Everything here is nearly ready.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up, placing the phone carefully on the table.

And then I felt it—the kind of silence that isn’t empty but suffocating, heavy with unsaid words.

I raised my head.

Rowan and Corvin were staring at me. Evangeline had frozen mid-motion, a fork suspended in the air, her porcelain façade intact but her eyes suddenly sharp as glass.

Rowan was the first to break. He stepped forward, crossing the distance in a few strides, his voice harsh. “Wedding?”

Corvin followed right after, brows knit, jaw clenched tight. “What wedding are you talking about?”