---- Chapter 7 Emily POV: The day | was discharged, Dallas appeared in my room like a beautifully dressed vulture. She wore a Chanel suit the color of cream and a smile that didn't reach her cold, calculating eyes. "| heard you were leaving," she said, her voice a condescending purr. She perched on the edge of my bed, her expensive perfume invading my sterile space. "| wanted to wish you well." | started packing my small bag, pointedly ignoring her. "You know," she continued, examining her flawless manicure, "it's funny how things work out. You, the little charity case from the wrong side of the tracks, ending up with a man like Killian. It was never going to last." She looked up at me, a cruel smirk on her lips. "Some of us are born to have it all. Others are just born to be stepped on. You should be used to it by now." My hands stilled. | could feel the familiar, helpless rage begin to bubble inside me. "l can hurt you, Emily," she whispered, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "| can hurt you over and over again, and he will always, always choose me. Do you want to know why?" ---- She pulled her phone from her purse, her thumb swiping across the screen. She turned it towards me. It was a video. Grainy, shaky footage from a high school locker room. | was sixteen, cornered, crying. Dallas was laughing, holding the compass. | could hear my own pathetic sobs, her friends' jeering laughter. She had kept it. All these years, she had kept a recording of my deepest humiliation. My body started to tremble uncontrollably. A phantom itch ignited along the scar on my wrist, a psychosomatic torment | hadn't felt in years. My eyes darted around the room, landing on the fruit basket a friend had sent. Specifically, on the small, sharp knife nestled beside a pear. "You see," Dallas said, her eyes gleaming as she watched my reaction, "| know all your little secrets. Your depression. The way you used to... scratch yourself to feel something. Killian told me all about it. He said he 'fixed' you." She leaned in even closer, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. "He told me about your pathetic little brother, too. How much of a drain he was on you." She paused, letting the poison sink in. "Oh, and speaking of your brother... do you want to know another secret?" | didn't answer. | couldn't. | was paralyzed by a horror so profound it felt like | was suffocating. "The day he died," she breathed, her voice filled with triumphant cruelty, "the day you were calling Killian over and ---- over? He was with me. In my bed. We were celebrating the funding for the sanctuary. He didn't even check his phone until the next morning." The world tilted on its axis. | felt the air rush out of my lungs. | reached for the fruit knife, my fingers wrapping around the cool plastic handle. The only thing that stopped me from using it on her, or myself, was the sharp bite of my own nails digging into my palm, grounding me in the present moment. "What do you want, Dallas?" | asked, my voice eerily calm. "| want you gone," she hissed. "Divorce him. Disappear. You don't belong in his world." "Fine," | said. "I'll divorce him." A flicker of surprise, then pure, unadulterated rage crossed her face. My acquiescence wasn't what she wanted. She wanted a fight. She wanted to see me break. "You bitch!" she shrieked, her carefully constructed mask of sophistication shattering. In that moment, she was sixteen again, the queen of the locker room. She shoved me, hard. | was still weak from my injuries, and the push sent me tumbling off the bed. | landed on the hard linoleum floor with a jarring thud. The impact sent a bolt of white-hot pain through my barely-healed ribs, and my head slammed against the leg of the bedside table. My vision swam, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. ---- The fruit knife clattered from my grasp, skittering across the floor. Dallas stood over me, her face a mask of fury. She raised her foot, her stiletto heel hovering over my outstretched hand, the one with the scarred wrist. She brought it down, hard. | screamed as an explosion of pain shot up my arm. Just then, we heard footsteps approaching in the hallway. Instantly, Dallas' s expression changed. Her face crumpled, and huge, crocodile tears began to stream down her cheeks. She backed away from me, clutching her hands to her chest as if in terror. The door swung open, and Killian strode in, a bouquet of roses in his hand. He stopped dead, his eyes taking in the scene. Me, on the floor, clutching my bleeding hand. The scattered fruit. The knife lying nearby. And Dallas, sobbing hysterically. "She tried to kill me!" Dallas shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She had a knife, Killy! She attacked me!"