Don't Hurt Me Again

"Is he here?" I asked, my voice echoing in the marble foyer of the Brown estate.

The butler, a man who had watched me grow from a grieving teenager into a silent fixture of this house, shook his head. "Mr. Gage is at the office, Miss Miller. But Madam is in the conservatory."

"Thank you, Arthur."

I didn't hand him my coat. I kept my duffel bag gripped tight in my right hand, the weight of it a grounding reminder that I wasn't staying. I walked through the halls I had spent seven years trying to belong in. The portraits of Brown ancestors seemed to sneer at me from their gilded frames.

I found Eleanor Brown sitting among her prized orchids. She looked up from a gardening journal, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. When her eyes landed on my bag and my bare ring finger, the journal slipped from her lap.

"Mia," she said, her voice soft. "You look like you’re dressed for a journey."

"I’m leaving, Eleanor." I stepped forward and placed a small velvet box on the wicker table between us. "I’ve ended the engagement. I’m here to return the family heirloom and say goodbye."

Eleanor didn't reach for the box. She didn't scream or remind me of how much her family had spent on my education. She simply stood up, her silk blouse shimmering in the morning sun.

"I expected this day would come," she whispered. "I just hoped my son would grow a soul before it arrived."

"I can't do it anymore," I said, my throat tightening. "I can't be a debt that needs to be serviced."

Eleanor walked toward me, her expression etched with a sadness I hadn't expected. She reached out, resting her cool hands on my shoulders.

"I’m so sorry, dear," she said. Her eyes searched mine, filled with a sudden, sharp clarity. "It was Gage’s job to protect you. Not just from the world, but from the shadow of what happened to Jackson. He failed you. He’s the one who broke this, not you."

"You aren't angry?"

"How could I be angry at a girl for choosing to breathe?" She let her hands drop. "Go, Mia. Don't look back at this house. There is nothing for you here but ghosts and a man who doesn't deserve your silence."

"Goodbye, Eleanor."

"Goodbye, Mia. Be happy. For Jackson’s sake, be happy."

I turned and walked out, the air in the foyer feeling lighter with every step. I didn't wait for Arthur to open the door. I pushed through it myself and didn't stop until I reached my car.

I drove toward the city center, away from the manicured lawns and the suffocating expectations. My destination was a high-rise apartment on 5th Street. It was the only thing I had left of my brother—a property he’d invested in years ago, held in a trust that the Browns couldn't touch.

The elevator hummed as it rose to the 22nd floor. When the doors opened, I stepped into a space that smelled of dust and old memories. I dropped my bag on the hardwood floor and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched out before me, chaotic and indifferent.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in three years.

"Hello?" a woman’s voice answered, cautious and hurried.

"Chloe? It’s Mia."

There was a long silence on the other end. I could hear the background noise of a bustling studio—the scrape of palette knives, the muffled chatter of students.

"Mia Miller?" Chloe gasped. "Are you calling from the grave? Or did the Prince of Industry finally let you off your leash?"

"I'm out, Chloe. I’m at Jackson’s place."

"Wait, for real? You left him?"

"I left him. I need to work. I need to paint again."

"Thank god!" Chloe shouted, and I could hear her clapping. "We’re at the collective on 4th. Get your butt down here. We’re prepping for the winter showcase and I have a canvas with your name on it. No questions asked, just bring your talent."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Walking into the art collective felt like stepping back into a skin I had outgrown. The air was thick with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil. My old friends didn't treat me like a fragile victim or a socialite. They threw a charcoal-stained apron at me and told me to get to work.

"Hey, Mia," Chloe said, leaning against a stool an hour later. "Can you do me a massive favor? I’m stuck here with a client, but I need to pick up the zoning permits for the new gallery space. The county government office closes at four."

"I can do that," I said, wiping a smudge of blue paint from my cheek. "Give me the paperwork."

The county government building was a fortress of beige stone and bureaucracy. I stood in a slow-moving line in the records department, clutching a folder and watching the clock. To my left, a sign pointed toward 'Marriage Licenses and Ceremonies.' A small crowd of couples stood there, some nervous, some beaming.

My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. The caller ID made my stomach turn.

*Gage.*

I let it ring until it cut off. He called again immediately. And again. On the fourth attempt, I stepped out of the line and answered.

"Where the hell are you, Mia?" Gage’s voice exploded through the speaker. He sounded frantic, his usual composure shattered. "I went home and your things are gone. My mother told me some nonsense about you ending the engagement. What kind of game is this?"

"It’s not a game, Gage. I’m done."

"You’re done?" He let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "You have nothing. No family, no career, no status. You’re a mistress’s daughter who's lived off my family’s charity for seven years. You’ll be begging to come back by dinner time."

I looked at the 'Marriage' sign. A man in a sharp charcoal suit stood a few feet away from me, looking at his watch. He looked bored, solid, and entirely disconnected from the drama in my ear.

"I don't need your charity," I said, my voice dropping to a low, cold vibrato.

"Then what are you doing? Where are you?" Gage demanded. "I'll come get you. We’ll fix this. I’ll buy you that villa you wanted. Just tell me where you are."

"I'm at the government office, Gage."

"The government office? For what? To file a grievance?"

I watched the man in the charcoal suit step toward the clerk’s desk. I felt a strange, reckless surge of adrenaline. I was tired of being the victim in Gage’s story.

"No," I said, staring straight ahead. "I’m getting married."

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute.

"You’re what?" Gage hissed, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and disbelief. "To who? You don't know anyone else!"

"You'd be surprised who's been waiting for me to be free," I lied, the words tasting like iron. "Don't call me again, Gage. My husband wouldn't like it."

I hung up and turned my phone off. My heart was hammered against my ribs, but for the first time in seven years, I felt alive.

I looked up, and the man in the charcoal suit was staring at me. He had overheard everything. His eyes were dark, calculating, and held a flicker of something that wasn't boredom anymore.

"That was quite a performance," the man said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, my face flushing. "I had to make a point."

"Usually, when people lie to their exes about getting married at the courthouse, they have a groom lined up," he said, stepping closer. He didn't look like a stranger; he looked like an opportunity. "You look like you're missing a crucial piece of the puzzle."

I looked at the marriage license desk, then back at him. "Are you offering?"

The man smiled, and it wasn't kind. It was the smile of a man who saw a deal he couldn't pass up.

"I might be. My name is Silas. And I think we have a common enemy."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a stranger. This was the man from the cemetery. Gage’s greatest rival.

"You followed me," I whispered.

"I anticipated you," Silas corrected. He gestured toward the clerk. "So, Mia. Do you want to just tell him you're married, or do you want to make it a legal reality?"

The clerk looked up at us, tapping her pen. "Next! Are you two here for a license?"

Silas didn't look at the clerk. He kept his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for me to jump off the cliff.

"Yes," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "We are."