The silence that followed was taut, the wire pulled to its breaking point. Finally, he spoke, clipped, restrained. "I'll... deal with Mira."
January allowed herself the faintest nod, her voice still razor-sharp. "See that you do. Because if I receive one more report, one more text, one more mark on my client's body tied to your daughter, I will not negotiate again. I will file, I will prosecute, and I will litigate until the only legacy attached to your name is obstruction of justice."
Then, without waiting for his reply, she hung up. The office went quiet, my pulse still hammering. Mel exhaled. I trembled, but for the first time in years, it wasn't fear.
January shut the file with deliberate finality. "He'll retreat. But don't mistake retreat for surrender. Men like him don't fold—they regroup. We'll be ready when he does."
Chapter 11: Breaking Dawn
I thought I had already known pain, but nothing prepared me for the cruelty of his words or for the sight of him standing beside her as if he belonged there. Mira, perfect beautiful Mira, smiling like she had already won, and maybe she had. Because in thatmoment, I knew what I was to him. Nothing.
She's no one, Mira. Just a client. A girl who shows up every time I smile at her. Honestly? She seems desperate. It's like... she thinks being pitiful is cute."
"She's a charity case. I feel bad for her. She's sweet, yeah, but come on. Do you really see me with someone like that?
"She's delusional, She probably made up an entire relationship in her head just because I was nice to her."
I had always feared this—that one day the mask would slip, and the truth of me, the truth I carried since childhood, would spill out into the world, and here it was, confirmed in the voice of the man I loved.
Because my mother's voice had always lingered in the background, even when she wasn't there.Don't slouch, you'll look bigger.Are you really eating that?Boys don't like girls with thighs like tree trunks.Smile, at least your face looks pretty.Each word had been a seed, planted deep in soil that never saw sunlight, twisting roots through my bones, shaping the way I moved, ate, and even breathed, and now he was watering it with scorn, with that effortless cruelty that made me feel small, unworthy, laughable.
I wasn't just unloved. I was a punchline, a footnote, a ghost no one remembered. Forgettable. Invisible. A joke whose setup I had believed for years, only to hear him deliver the punchline with a casual flick of his tongue.
The echo of his words settled into my skin, pressing down, relentless, like wet cement drying across my chest. Instead of rage, instead of the fire I thought would rise, what bloomed in me was something far worse: agreement.Of course. Of course, he's right.Every cruel syllable fused with the ones I had carried all my life, until I no longer knew where his voice ended and mine began.
He was everything to me, the center of my orbit, the pulse in my chest, the quiet gravity I had clung to without question and I was nothing to him. Not a flicker, not a shadow worth noticing. The weight of that truth shattered me, cracking open the careful scaffolding I had spent years building around my heart.
I had spent so long whispering hope into my own bones, stitching together every broken piece with promises I made to myself: that love could mend what life had torn apart, that someone could see me and still choose me, that maybe, just maybe, I was worth it. But I was wrong. Foolish. Gullible. Each heartbeat became a reminder that I had invested everything into a void, that my tenderness had been mistaken for weakness, my trust for naivety. Every dream I had nurtured, every quiet prayer for affection, had been answered with emptiness. Then my body, my body became something I carried, not something I lived in.
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed as if I were pulling a corpse across the floor, my own. Every muscle ached with the weight of staying alive. The covers whispered for me to stay hidden, to sink back into the dark cocoon where no one expected anything of me. But I couldn't. The world doesn't pause for heartbreak. Bills still come, children still need teaching, the clock still ticks mercilessly forward.
Work had always been my refuge, the one place I felt I mattered. My classroom was supposed to be sacred—a space where I could lose myself in equations, molecules, the wonder of the world beyond our tiny lives. But that day, even the chalkboard seemed to mock me with its blankness, the desks lined up like silent judges. My students looked at me like I was a lantern of knowledge, but I could barely keep the flame alive.
So I performed. That's what it was—performance. I pulled the mask tight, stretched a smile over my cracking lips, and delivered my lines. "This is how light bends through glass." "This is how water turns into clouds." My voice was steady, my gestures smooth, and all the while, my own light sputtered inside me, dimmer with every word. My students laughed at my jokes, scribbled notes, believed the illusion. Not one of them saw the hollowness eating me from the inside out.
When the day ended, I stumbled home and let the mask fall in the dark. My phone lit up like a lifeline I didn't want to grab. March called and I answered. May left long, hopeful voicemails, urging me to go outside, promising fresh air would help and I texted her back. June texted memes with too many emojis, as if laughter could be manufactured, and I—I played my part again. When I answered, I laughed in the right places, teased, asked questions. My voice was light as feathers. They believed me. Why wouldn't they? I'd been perfecting the art of sounding okay my whole life.
But then January called.
Her voice was different. Gentle but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. I tried the same tricks—little jokes, airy laughter, questions that turned the focus away from me, and for a few minutes, I thought I had her fooled too.
Then she went quiet. Too quiet.
"December," she said softly, cutting through my performance like glass shattering on tile. "I know you're not okay, and I think I know why. I will be there in ten."
The words nearly broke me because I wasn't okay indeed. Not even close. I hadn't eaten well since that happened. Food tasted like dust. Sleep brought no rest, only visions of him, his hand on Mira's waist, his voice calling me delusional. My body moved through the motions of life, but inside, I was sinking. Deeper each day. I wondered how much longer I could keep the mask from slipping
"What do you mean? Iamfine."
"Dec," January's voice was firm but soft, the kind that left no room for denial. "You arenot. I'm coming."
I stayed silent. My throat closed around every excuse I wanted to spit out. How could I convince her I was okay? I didn't want to tell her about Ryder. I hadn't told anyone. How humiliating would that be, especially to January? She was everything I wasn't: tall, elegant, always dressed in chic lines and muted colors that whispered power, a successful lawyer with a mind like steel. She looked sharp, cold, untouchable, and yet, for some reason, she had chosen me. She'd stuck around. She liked my friendship. Beneath the icy exterior, I knew she had a heart that could hold storms.
Ten minutes later, the knock came.
I opened the door because I couldn't pretend I wasn't home, and there she was. The woman who could silence a courtroom with a single glance, now standing at my door with worry etched intoher perfect features. Something in me broke. I stepped forward and hugged her. She wasn't one for touch, but I needed her strength, and she let me. Her arms tightened around me, steady, grounding.
"I know about Ryder," she said against my hair.
