---- Chapter 9 Kingston Koch POV: The sight of her, so defiant and alive with a rage | had never seen before, had shattered the last of my composure. Her words echoed in the silent car, each one a fresh indictment. A prettier cage. Was that what | had done? | had told myself | was protecting her, but the truth was, | had been protecting myself. When | got back to the penthouse, | did the one thing | hadn't allowed myself to do. | went into the archives room, a climate -controlled vault where my family's history was stored. | keyed in the code and walked to a locked metal filing cabinet. Inside was a single, sealed manila envelope labeled 'H.M. - FOSTER CARE RECORDS'. | had paid a lot of money to obtain these files when | first found her, and even more to have them sealed. | had never opened them. | told myself it was to respect her privacy. Another lie. | hadn't opened them because | was terrified of what | would find. My hands trembled as | broke the seal. The reports were cold, bureaucratic, and utterly devastating. They detailed a childhood of constant upheaval. Six different foster homes in ten years. Notes from social workers ---- described her as 'quiet', reserved', and 'fiercely self-sufficient'. One report, from when she was twelve, stood out. 'Hope rarely speaks of her past. She has one possession she guards jealously-a small, battered wooden box containing a faded photograph of her parents and a seashell. She says her father gave it to her. It seems to be her only tangible link to her life before the storm.' A wooden box. A cold dread, sharp and sickening, washed over me. | remembered a vague detail from one of Everly's tearful phone calls after the party. Something about a gift she had tried to 'fix' for me, to give to Hope. My fingers flew across my phone's screen, dialing my head of security. "Get me the surveillance footage from the main floor of the Koch Tower ballroom, the day of the party," | commanded, my voice tight. "Specifically, the gift room. Now." Minutes later, the file appeared in my encrypted inbox. | opened it on my laptop, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The footage was clear. It showed Everly, alone in the room filled with presents. She was holding a simple, wooden box. My gift to Hope. One I'd had commissioned, a replica of a jewelry box our mother used to own. But then, she put my gift down. She opened her purse and ---- pulled out another box. A small, battered, older-looking wooden box. My blood turned to ice. | watched, horrified, as Everly opened the old box. | saw her take out a photograph and a seashell. | saw her look at them with a contemptuous sneer. Then, with chilling deliberation, she tore the photograph in half and crushed the seashell under the heel of her designer shoe. She swept the debris into the trash can before placing my new, empty box in its place on the gift table. She had found Hope's one precious memento-God knows how, maybe she'd had a key to her apartment-and she had destroyed it. She had replaced Hope's past with a hollow, empty replica that | had provided. The air left my lungs in a painful rush. The rage | had felt earlier was nothing compared to the seismic wave of self- loathing that threatened to drown me. | hadn't just ignored Hope's pain. | had been an active, albeit unwitting, accomplice to the most cruel act of vandalism imaginable. | had given Everly the weapon, and | had defended her after she used it. The memory of what happened after the party, a hazy, alcohol-soaked blur, came into sharp focus. Everly's crocodile tears. Her claims that Hope had overreacted, that she had just been 'trying to help'. And | had believed her. | had stood by her side. No. | had stood in front of her, shielding her, while my own ---- sister bled from a wound | couldn't even see. A sound, half-sob, half-scream, tore from my throat. | swiped everything off my desk-the laptop, the files, the crystal paperweights-sending it all crashing to the floor. The room, my life, was in ruins. There was no fixing this. There was no apology grand enough, no amount of money that could undo this kind of desecration. | had let a viper into my home, and she had poisoned everything. She had destroyed the last, fragile link my sister had to the parents | had also lost. And | had let her. | had praised her. | had given her a diamond necklace as a reward. The locket was still in my pocket. | pulled it out, its silver surface cool against my feverish skin. Never forget her. My mother's words were a curse. | had forgotten everything that mattered. | had traded my blood, my history, my soul, for a polished, perfect lie. And now the lie had been exposed, and | was left with nothing but the rubble. | sank to my knees amidst the shattered glass and scattered papers, the silver locket clutched in my hand. For the first time since | was a child, lost and alone in the aftermath of the storm, | wept. Not for myself, but for the little girl who had clung to a seashell for twenty years, only to have it crushed by the sister | had chosen over her. In "A Relationship Kept in The Dark" by CrushReel, the storyline unfolds as renowned photographer Jane finds herself drawn to the charismatic rookie model, Hector. Little does she know that Hector harbors a secret—he is actually the heir to a powerful business empire. As their romance blossoms, Hector grapples with concealing his true identity to capture Jane's heart. However, their love story takes a tumultuous turn when jealousy rears its ugly head, threatening to unravel the delicate balance they've built. 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