Chapter 5

The people at the dinner were all familiar faces.

They were the exact same high school classmates who had crowded around me, laughing and cheering, when I forced Ethan to kneel and pick up money off the floor.

The only other person present was Emily Jennings—Ethan's current girlfriend.

Two years ago, after Ethan dumped me in Southvale, he dragged all the people who had helped me humiliate him down here too.

But they had better luck than I did.

They settled in, found jobs, or started small businesses.

While life here wasn't nearly as lavish as back in Harbor City, they hardly suffered.

Even though Ethan had ruined their lives in revenge, the moment he arrived in Southvale, they competed for the chance to buy him dinner, their faces plastered with subservient smiles.

Not a single one of my former classmates recognized me when I walked in behind Ethan.

Nathan Brooks scowled in disgust. "Since when does this place hire such ugly waitstaff?

"I remembered this restaurant being nice, which is why I brought you here, Mr. Pierce. I'm so sorry—this is repulsive."

He gestured toward the scars on my face, making no effort to hide his repulsiveness.

Ethan walked over and took the seat at the head of the table, a viciously mocking smile playing on his lips. "It really is repulsive."

Panic flashed across Nathan's face. "Mr. Pierce, I'll have the manager send a replacement right away."

I tried to curl my fingers into fists, but my hands lacked the strength after the injuries I suffered two years ago.

For the first whole year after the fall, I couldn't even hold a spoon.

Ethan's laugh echoed through the room again. "Sending her away just like that? Where does that leave Ms. Jennings' pride?"

A dead, suffocating silence fell over the private room.

Slowly, recognition dawned on their faces.

Shock rippled through the room, quickly giving way to cruel, malicious amusement.

Emily was the first to react.

Tears streaming down her face, she threw herself toward me, her voice trembling with heartbreak. "Claire? Is that really you? How did you end up like this?"

Ethan immediately stood up, his mocking demeanor softening into gentle concern.

He wrapped an arm around Emily's shoulders, lightly patting her. "Don't waste your tears on someone like her. She brought every bit of this on herself."

Emily's eyes were red and swollen. "She's still my sister, my parents' precious daughter." She reached out, attempting to take my hand.

I flinched back as if touching a venomous snake, frantically yanking my hands out of reach.

In my ears, Emily's voice from two years ago echoed back—proud and condescending as she stomped Ethan's love letter into the dirt under her shoe, "Claire, do you honestly think you deserve a love letter from Ethan?

"You're so good at making him like you—surely you know how to make him hate you?"

After that, I made hundreds of photocopies of Ethan's love letter and scattered them from the school rooftop like confetti.

His heartfelt confession and teenage vulnerability were turned into a joke, trampled under my feet.

And Emily became the saint who stepped up to defend him.

Countless times, Ethan had grabbed my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot with pure hatred, snarling, "Claire, you're sick. You don't have a heart."

But I did have a heart.

I never forgot sitting in the freezing snow at thirteen years old, at my absolute lowest.

Ethan had handed me a loaf of bread and all the money he had in his pocket—a single hundred-dollar bill.

The bread filled my stomach, and that hundred dollars saved Eleanor's life.

I remembered it. I remembered every single detail.

That was why, when I saw him again in college, I immediately sought him out, helped him, and eventually received that love letter from him.

But people like me were born to be ground into the dirt.

I had no choices, no love, and no control over my own life.

From beginning to end, Eleanor was the only person in the world who ever truly loved me.

Emily's soft weeping pulled me back to reality.

Ethan guided her to the seat beside him.

The rest of our former classmates, ever the sycophants, lost no time falling in line.

Jeremy, seated next to Ethan, barked at me, "What are you just standing there for? Does a server not even know how to pour wine?"

I had no choice but to step forward. My hands trembled as I tried to pour his drink.

My fingers felt stiff and clumsy; a task so simple proved nearly impossible.

I fought to steady myself, but a few drops still spilled over the rim.

Jeremy snatched the glass, his face darkening instantly. He splashed the wine straight into my face. "Are you useless? You can't even pour a damn drink!"

Along with the insult came the heavy glass, hurled directly at me. I stumbled back in shock as it shattered against the floor. Something trickled down past my eyes—I couldn't tell if it was sweat or blood.