The city lights blurred into a smear of gold and blue as the car cruised through the quiet night. Cordelia sat silent, her body perfectly still, but her mind unraveling with every mile they drove. The soft hum of the engine did little to distract her from the whirlwind of emotions twisting inside her chest.

She glanced down at her arm.

Faint crescent moons lined the inside, still red and raised. The marks where her nails had sunk in during her exchange with Ophelia—her sister, her traitor. It had taken every ounce of her willpower to smile through their charade, to pretend that the sight of Ophelia didn’t ignite the urge to scream, to hit, to shatter everything.

But she’d smiled. She’d stayed still.

Years of effort. Years of building Cordelia Grey out of the ashes of April Winter. I can’t ruin it now.

Still… the numbness was worse than the pain.

“Excuse me,” Lia called softly to the driver. Her voice didn’t shake, though her hands did. “Drop me off at the nearest hotel.”

The driver nodded without question.

She didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Not when the mask was slipping and she didn’t trust herself to hold it together.

She sent Georgia a quick message, lying with a practiced ease.
Spending the night with a friend to celebrate! Don’t wait up 💕

Across town, Georgia’s motherly intuition prickled like ice down her spine. She called Lucian immediately.

“She texted she’s staying with a friend. But Lucian… she doesn’t have any friends close enough for that, does she?”

“No,” Lucian answered quietly, already moving to grab his keys. “I’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

He hung up and immediately called the driver assigned to Lia.

In the quiet hotel room, Lia sat curled on the edge of the bed. She hadn’t even turned on the lights.

The room was dim, quiet, sterile—and that suited her just fine.

The dress she wore felt too tight, too artificial. Like a costume that didn’t belong to her. She stared down at the old wounds hidden beneath her sleeve, then slowly rolled the fabric up to inspect them.

Faint scabs. A few reopened.

But that wasn’t the pain that ached tonight.

Tonight, it was the weight in her chest. The emptiness in her heart. The way Ophelia’s voice—sweet, fake, poisonous—echoed over and over again in her head.

"My poor sister April…"

"He must’ve really cared about her."

Lia pressed her palms to her face, muffling the broken sobs that finally clawed their way out of her throat.

Why does it still hurt this much?

She dragged her hands down her face and reached for the first aid kit on the shelf.

Something inside her whispered don’t. Another part whispered do it and feel something.

The scissors were cold and sharp against her skin.

She hissed as the tip pierced the top of her hand.

A thin stream of blood beaded and dripped onto the pristine white sheets.

She stared at it.

Watched it spread.

Then the tears returned, harder this time, shaking her whole body.

She collapsed onto the bed, cradling her wounded hand, sobbing until her throat was raw.

The memories returned like ghosts—each one more vivid than the last.

Her father’s disappointed eyes.
Her mother’s cold voice.
Ophelia’s crocodile tears.
The loneliness of thunder-filled nights.
The silence of her room.
The cuts no one saw.
The screams no one heard.

She gritted her teeth, clutching the bedsheets in her fists, the blood drying slowly on her skin.

Why does surviving feel more painful than drowning?