---- Chapter 8 Farah Moore POV: Grandpa Carlson's eightieth birthday was the only reason | stayed. He was more of a grandfather to me than my own had ever been. He had championed my relationship with Brandon from the start, seeing a kindness in his grandson that | now knew was a carefully constructed illusion. | couldn't shatter his perception of the world. Not now. So, | played my part. | covered my bruises with concealer, forced a smile onto my face, and wore the elegant dress Brandon had picked out for me. | was the perfect fiancée once more. In his study, Grandpa Carlson took my hand, his grip frail but warm. "I can see the distance between you two," he said, his old eyes full of concern. "Did you have a fight?" "No, Grandpa," | lied, my voice soft. "We're fine. Brandon's just been busy with work." He sighed, patting my hand. "He's a good boy, Fara. Cold on the outside, but his heart is in the right place. He loves you very much. Don't ever doubt that." The irony was a bitter pill. | just nodded, unable to speak past ---- the lump in my throat. As | pushed his wheelchair out of the study and towards the grand staircase, we ran into Caryl. She was a vision in white, the picture of innocence, but her words were pure venom. "Well, well, look what crawled out from the gutter," she sneered, her voice low enough that only | could hear. Before | could respond, Grandpa Carlson's voice boomed through the hall. "Caryl! Is that any way to speak to your future sister-in-law? Apologize to Fara at once!" Caryl's face contorted in a brief flash of fury before she dissolved into tears. "I'm sorry, Grandpa," she sobbed. "I just... | don't like her! She's going to take my brother away from me!" In her feigned distress, she lunged forward, supposedly reaching for me. But her aim was off. Or perhaps, it was exactly where she intended it to be. Her hands shoved the wheelchair. Hard. Everything happened in slow motion. The wheelchair teetering on the edge of the top step. Grandpa's cry of alarm. My desperate, useless reach for him. And then he was falling, tumbling down the long, winding staircase, a sickening series of thuds echoing through the silent mansion. He landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom, a pool of blood ---- quickly spreading from beneath his head. For a moment, | was frozen in horror. Then | screamed. The party erupted into chaos. Guests rushed into the foyer, their faces masks of shock. Caryl was the first to speak, her voice a hysterical shriek. "It was her! Farah pushed him! | saw it! She pushed Grandpa down the stairs!" Before | could even process the accusation, Brandon was there. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. He slapped me across the face, the force of it snapping my head back. My hearing aid, a small device I'd worn since a childhood illness damaged my hearing, flew out of my ear and skittered across the marble floor. The world went silent, the panicked shouts of the guests reduced to a dull, distant roar. Someone in the crowd shoved me. | stumbled, my hand scraping against a decorative iron railing, a sharp pain shooting up my arm. Through the muffled chaos, | saw Brandon's mouth moving, his face a contorted mask of rage. He was shouting orders. His guards grabbed me, their grips merciless. One of them snatched my phone from my hand and smashed it under his heel. They dragged me out of the mansion, through the manicured ---- gardens, and into a waiting car. The drive was a silent nightmare. My destination became horrifyingly clear when we pulled up to the gates of a grim, imposing building: the city's private psychiatric hospital. They threw me into a room with three other women, their eyes vacant, their movements erratic. They were the forgotten, the broken. And now, | was one of them. They clawed at me, pulled my hair, their muttered nonsense a terrifying chorus. | curled into a ball in the corner, praying for an end that wasn't death. Suicide felt like a sweet release. A few days later, Brandon appeared. Caryl was with him. They were both dressed in black. Mourning clothes. "Grandpa's gone," Brandon said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. The silent world | was trapped in shattered. A guttural sob tore from my throat. The only person who had ever truly cared for me was dead. "You killed him," | accused Caryl, my voice a raw whisper. "You're the murderer!" Brandon's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my throat, squeezing. "Don't you dare," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "Don't you dare slander her name." The fight went out of me. It was useless. He would never believe me. My love, my pain, my truth-it all meant nothing to ---- him. "| don't love you anymore, Brandon," | said, the words feeling strangely calm, strangely final. "Let me go. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again." He misunderstood. He thought it was a threat, another one of my manipulative games. "You will stay here," he seethed, tightening his grip. "You will spend the rest of your life atoning for your sins." He shoved me away from him. My head hit the concrete wall with a sickening crack. | crumpled to the floor, the taste of blood filling my mouth. He turned and walked away without a backward glance, Caryl clinging to his arm. He left me broken, bleeding, and utterly alone in a madhouse. As darkness threatened to consume me, the door to my room was kicked open. A man stood silhouetted against the hallway light. It was him. The man who had sent the anonymous messages. The man who had tried to warn me. My childhood friend, Brett Blevins. "Aurora," he said, his voice tight with regret. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm late." | scrambled to my feet and threw myself into his arms, clinging to him like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood. ---- He was real. He was here. "Get me out of here, Brett," | sobbed into his chest. "Please, just get me out of here." He held me tight, his arms a circle of safety in my world of pain. "I will," he promised, his voice a fierce whisper. "I'll get you out." He lifted me into his arms and carried me out of that hellish room. As we left, | saw a flicker of orange light from behind us. The fire started small, then roared to life, consuming the room, consuming my past, consuming the identity of Farah Moore. It was over. Everything was finally over.