Chapter 3

The very next day, Stella moved in.

Her designer luggage took over half the living room.

I acted as if she were invisible, remaining crouched in the corner packing my own suitcases.

Julian rolled his wheelchair over to me.

"Playing the runaway wife again?"

He sneered with utter disdain.

My mother heard the commotion and glanced over from the kitchen.

"Ignore her."

"Good riddance. At least she won't stress Stella and the baby."

I didn't answer.

I zipped my passport and legal IDs into my carry-on.

Julian’s face darkened.

"Still putting on a show?"

"This isn't my home."

I stood up and handed the fake marriage certificate directly to him.

"We were never legally married, so there's no need for a divorce."

"Saved you a ton of paperwork. Shouldn't you be thrilled?"

He froze.

A flash of raw panic flickered in his eyes.

I couldn't tell.

Was he panicking because he felt a shred of guilt, or because he regretted not forging the document more convincingly?

"If I hadn't done that, you would have kept losing your mind."

"I gave you a wedding. I took you on a honeymoon. Does a piece of paper really matter that much?"

Julian’s voice dropped, trying to sound dismissive.

Yet his words felt like a sledgehammer crushing my chest.

Without love, nothing mattered.

Julian’s face contorted with growing anger—the frustration of someone losing control.

"Let's see how long you last out there! You'd better stay proud, because I won't let you come crawling back on your knees!"

He threw his vicious parting words and spun his wheelchair around.

In his agitation, he knocked over one of the stacked suitcases.

I dodged to the side, but a falling picture frame struck me squarely across the back.

A sharp, fiery sting flared up from my old wound.

I whipped around, but froze dead in my tracks.

The frame didn't hold a photograph.

Inside was a mounted bullet.

I would never forget that caliber. It was the exact type of bullet that had been extracted from my spine five years ago.

"It was you."

My voice shook violently, my eyes locking onto Stella.

All these years, I could never understand.

The insurgents had already retreated—why would someone shoot me in the back while I was carrying Julian to safety?

If that person was Stella, everything made horrifying sense.

I slowly rose to my feet, taking heavy, deliberate steps toward her.

Instantly, my mother threw herself in front of Stella.

Julian wheeled forward, blocking her too.

"That happened years ago! Why can't you just let it go?!"

"Stella fired the gun by accident! She didn't mean any harm!"

An accident. What a convenient, sickening word.

A simple "accident" was supposed to erase years of agonizing trauma.

Waking up screaming from nightmares, the nerve damage flaring up until my entire body shook.

They had known all along. And they had both chosen her.

"Elena, stop throwing tantrums."

"If you want to hurt Stella, you'll have to kill me first!"

My mother didn't hesitate for a single second.

Stella shot me once. And today, my family shot me all over again.

I no longer had the strength or the desire to suppress five years of suffocating agony.

I slowly bent down and picked up the heavy frame from the floor.

Channeling every ounce of strength in my body, I hurled it across the room.

The glass shattered on impact, slicing a deep, bloody gash across Stella’s cheek.

Crimson poured down her face.

High-pitched shrieks filled the room.