Chapter 7

My throat closed up. I held onto the scarf a moment longer before slowly unwrapping it from my neck. The instant it left my skin, my hands went cold.

I stepped forward and passed it over.

Charlotte accepted it, her face soft, almost apologetic.

"Thank you... I'll have it cleaned and get it back to you."

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Don't wash it yourself, whatever you do. It can't get wet — it needs special handling. I'll send someone to collect it tomorrow."

"Oh, sure," she nodded gently.

The car pulled up at the curb.

Adrian glanced her way again, noticing how pale she'd gone.

Then his eyes landed on me.

"Charlotte's not feeling great," he said, already pulling the car door open for her. "I'm getting her home first. It's out of your way, so you'll have to make your own way back."

I didn't even get a chance to respond.

He helped her into the seat, gentle, like she was something fragile that could shatter.

The door shut, the engine turned over, and the black sedan vanished into the downpour like I'd never even been standing there. I stayed at the entrance, my dress soaking through, the cold wind slicing straight through me. The streets were empty, the rain coming down so heavy it blurred everything in sight. I waited. And waited. It took forty minutes before I could flag down a cab. By the time I got home I was shivering, soaked to the bone, my head spinning. My forehead was burning but I still made myself take some medicine before collapsing onto the bed and blacking out.

Sometime during the night my phone kept buzzing, over and over. I heard it, but I couldn't make myself move. My skull throbbed too much, my whole body too heavy to lift. I just let it ring itself out.

The next morning the fever had eased slightly, but my throat felt like it had been scraped raw. I pushed myself upright slowly, took a sip of water, then reached for my phone. Over a dozen messages waited there.

All from Charlotte.

My fingers hesitated for a second before I opened them.

The first photo hit like a slap.

My scarf.

The soft wool one my grandmother had made was completely soaked through, twisted out of shape, ruined. The texture looked wrong — clumped, stretched, like it had been destroyed on purpose.

More messages kept coming in.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot wool can't get wet so I just left it soaking when I got home."

"I feel terrible about this, how much did it cost? I'll pay you back. Though honestly the material's nice, maybe I could repurpose it into something else."

"If you don't respond I'll assume it's fine, okay? I'll send you two dollars. Since you said your grandma made it, it can't have been that expensive, right?"

The final photo finished loading.

My hands started shaking.

The scarf had been cut.

Not just damaged — cut apart into strips, into pieces, like someone had taken their time methodically destroying it.

My chest seized and something inside me finally snapped.

I threw the blanket off and got out of bed, ignoring how weak my body still felt. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door.

When I reached her place I didn't waste a second hesitating. I pressed the doorbell hard, my fingers frozen but steady.

The door swung open.

Charlotte stood there in something plain and casual, her face soft with surprise. "Ms. Sterling? You came all this way? Is something wrong?"

"Where's my scarf," I said, voice completely flat.

She blinked, then turned casually and lifted something off the couch. The severed pieces. "You mean this? I already sent you the money for it, didn't I?"

She glanced down at her phone. "Oh, you never accepted the transfer? Was it not enough? I can add more. I mean, it was made by hand by someone elderly, it can't really be worth that much, right? I'll just send another two dollars, okay? Honestly it wasn't worth much to begin with."

Something ignited in my chest.

Before I even registered the thought, my hand had already moved.

Smack!

The sound cracked loud through the quiet room.

She stumbled backward, hand flying to her cheek, eyes wide with shock. "You... you actually hit me?"

"You did this on purpose, didn't you?" My voice trembled but came out sharp. "You soaked it. You cut it up. Then you sent those messages pretending you had no idea. Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

Tears welled up in her eyes instantly. "What are you even talking about? I really didn't mean any of it, I was just being careless..."

"Careless?" I let out a laugh that came out all wrong. "You came back on purpose. You called him the exact moment your mother needed surgery and pushed him into forcing me to donate. You stood right outside that room and said everything you said. You walked in at that precise moment. And now this?"

I stepped in closer. "How much of this have you been planning? How many times did you count on me not fighting back?"

"I never..." She shook her head, tears falling faster now. "I honestly don't understand why you're saying all this to me..."

"I see straight through you," I said quietly. "I just never bothered to say it out loud before. That doesn't mean you get to keep walking all over me."

Something flickered across her face for just a second.

Then—

A voice sliced through the room.

Cold. Low. Menacing.

"Mikayla... what the hell do you think you're doing?"

My whole body locked up.

I turned around.

Adrian stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and frightening. But the moment his gaze shifted to her—

His voice transformed completely.

"Charlotte," he said, moving toward her quickly, his tone gone soft. "What happened? Why are you crying?"

Charlotte sniffled, tears streaming as she spoke, her voice wobbling like she might fall apart any second. She bent the story just enough, wrapped in a soft, pitiful delivery, and I watched his expression harden further with every word she gave him.

Then he turned to face me.

"It's just a scarf," he said, voice flat and cutting. "Why the hell would you hit her over something like that?"

My chest clenched. "Just a scarf?" My voice shook before I could rein it in. "Adrian! That's the only thing my grandmother left behind for me. The only thing."

He paused.

Just briefly.

Like that wasn't the answer he'd expected.

In five years I had never once raised my voice at him. Not a single time. But now my hands were trembling, my eyes burning, and I barely recognized myself.

"Charlotte didn't do it on purpose," he said, his voice softening again as he glanced back at her. "She already paid you for it, hasn't she? What more do you want? If the money's not enough, I'll take care of it."

Take care of it.

Like everything in the world could be patched over with cash.

He pulled out his checkbook, scribbled something fast, and held it out toward me. "Here. This should cover it."

I stared at the check.

My chest felt like it was being squeezed slowly, tighter and tighter, until breathing itself grew difficult.

I didn't move.

He frowned, irritation flashing across his face, then tore off another check and wrote an even larger number, jaw tightening as he did. "Still not enough? Fine. Take this instead. Stop making such a scene over something this trivial."

One check after another.

Bigger numbers each time.

More money, like he thought he could purchase my silence. Purchase me.

My fingers finally moved. I took the last check, my hand shaking as I did.

"That's enough," I said quietly.

More than enough.

Adrian — this is more than sufficient to end everything between us for good.

I turned to walk away.

I'd barely taken two steps.

"Stop." His voice sliced through me like a blade.