Broken Doll No More: Her Ruthless Revenge

Erica POV

The rain in New York does not wash things clean.

It just makes the filth wet.

I stumbled out of the club and onto the sidewalk, where the deluge soaked my dress instantly, plastering the cheap fabric to my skin like a second, suffocating layer.

I was shivering, but not from the cold.

I was shivering from the violation.

My phone buzzed against my palm.

I looked down at the screen.

It was the hospice nurse.

"Erica," she said, her voice soft. Too soft. "It's time. Your grandmother... she is asking for you."

My heart simply stopped.

Grandma was all I had.

She was the only person in this wretched world who loved me without conditions.

"I'm coming," I choked out.

I tried to hail a cab, waving my arm frantically.

None of them stopped.

They saw a soaked, hysterical girl crying on the street and sped up.

My fingers dialed Anthony's number before I could stop them.

It was a reflex.

For three years, he had been my emergency contact, my supposed safety net.

He answered on the second ring.

"What?" he snapped.

"Anthony, please," I sobbed into the receiver. "My grandmother. She's dying. I need a ride. I can't get a cab."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the distinct clink of crystal glasses.

I heard Bianca's bright, cruel laugh in the background.

"We are toasting," Anthony said, his tone dripping with annoyance. "Do not ruin the mood."

"She is dying!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "Please. Just send a car."

"Walk," he said.

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in disbelief as the screen went black.

My legs gave out, and I dropped to my knees on the wet pavement.

I screamed.

It was a sound that tore through my throat, raw and primal.

A pair of boots stopped in my line of sight.

They were black combat boots. Muddy. Worn.

I looked up.

A man was standing there, towering over me.

He was huge, a wall of muscle in a dark jacket with a baseball cap pulled low.

He didn't look like a mobster.

He looked like a soldier.

He held out a hand.

It was scarred, the skin rough with calluses.

"Get up," he said.

His voice was deep, like gravel grinding together in a mixer.

"I have no money," I whispered, shrinking back.

"I didn't ask for money," he said flatly. "I said get up."

He didn't wait for me to answer.

He pulled me to my feet with effortless strength and opened the door of a black SUV parked at the curb.

"Where?" he asked.

"St. Jude's Hospital," I managed to say.

He drove like a professional—fast, silent, and precise.

He didn't ask why I was crying.

He didn't ask who had hurt me.

He just drove.

We arrived in ten minutes.

I jumped out before the car had fully come to a halt.

I ran to the elevator, my wet shoes squeaking on the floor.

I ran down the hall.

I burst into the room.

Grandma looked so small in the bed, diminished by the machinery around her.

Her skin was gray.

Her breathing was a wet, heavy rattle.

I grabbed her hand; it was already cold.

"Erica," she whispered, her eyelids fluttering open. "Is he here?"

She loved Anthony.

She thought he was a good man.

She thought I was safe with him.

I couldn't tell her the truth.

I couldn't let her die knowing I was alone in this world.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

I squeezed her hand gently.

"Yes, Grandma," I lied, forcing a smile. "He's parking the car. He sends his love. He loves me so much."

She smiled.

It was a weak, fragile thing, but it was there.

"Good," she breathed. "You are safe. My little canary. Safe."

Her eyes closed.

The rattle stopped.

The machine let out a long, high-pitched tone that signaled the end.

I laid my head on her chest.

I didn't cry.

I was done crying.

I felt something inside me harden.

It was like molten iron cooling in a mold, setting into an unbreakable shape.

I walked out of the room ten minutes later.

The soldier was still there.

He was leaning against the wall, flipping a coin with practiced ease.

"She's gone," I said.

He nodded.

He didn't offer fake sympathy.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"Nowhere," I said hollowly. "I have nowhere."

He looked at me, his dark eyes gleaming with a terrifying intelligence.

"You have a wedding to attend," he said.

I looked at him sharply. "How do you know?"

"I know who you are," he said. "I know who *they* are."

He handed me a card.

It was plain black. A phone number. Nothing else.

"When you are ready to burn it down," he said, "call me."

He turned and walked away.

I looked at the card.

Then I looked at my phone.

I opened Instagram.

There was a new photo on Bianca's story.

It was her and Anthony.

They were holding champagne flutes, beaming.

The caption read: *Finally getting rid of the trash.*

I touched my stomach.

I made a decision.

I would go to the wedding.

I would play their game.

And then, I would destroy them.