He Saved His Sister and Left Me to Die

Naya's apartment smelled like lavender and old books—a comforting combination that had always felt like home. I sat cross-legged on her couch, the small cardboard box balanced on my knees. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted the lid.

"I can't believe you still have these," Naya said, settling beside me with two cups of tea. Her dark eyes watched me carefully, the way they had ever since I'd called her from the airport.

"These were the first ones," I explained, lifting out a yellowed medical bill. "The ones that started everything."

My father's name was printed at the top, followed by a series of medical codes and charges that had once seemed insurmountable. Twenty thousand dollars for emergency surgery. Another fifteen for the ICU stay. The numbers blurred as I stared at them.

"Jack paid these without hesitation," I said quietly. "I was working three jobs, about to drop out of college. He just... appeared. Like some kind of guardian angel."

Naya's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "And then became your worst nightmare."

I nodded, setting the bills aside and pulling out a small photograph—Jack and me at our engagement party. His arm was around my waist, his smile bright and possessive. I looked happy. Naive.

"Becca," Naya's voice dropped lower. "You know Kennedy froze your accounts right after this was taken, right? She made sure you couldn't access a single penny while she was orchestrating your father's—"

"Don't." I held up my hand. "I know what she did."

The memory of those days crashed over me—the sudden inability to pay for my father's ongoing care, the accusations from the hospital billing department, the look of confusion and then anger in my father's eyes as he realized his daughter had apparently abandoned him.

"She framed me perfectly," I said, my voice hollow. "Made it look like I'd stolen the money and run. By the time I could prove otherwise..."

My father was gone. The aneurysm had struck while he was alone, calling my name.

Naya's apartment suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. I stood abruptly, moving to the window. "I need to finish my paperwork tomorrow and get back to Quinn."

"Quinn would understand if you needed more time," she said gently.

I shook my head. "I don't want to be here longer than necessary. This isn't my home anymore."

---

The cemetery was quiet in the early morning light. Dew clung to the grass, soaking the hem of my jeans as I made my way through the rows of headstones. My father's grave was simple—a flat marker with his name and dates. I'd been unable to afford anything more elaborate at the time.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, kneeling to place the small bouquet of white lilies against the stone. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

The wind rustled through the nearby trees, carrying the scent of pine and earth. For a moment, I felt a strange sense of peace. This place held no ghosts for me—just memories of a man who had loved me completely.

"Rebecca."

The voice shattered my solitude like glass. I didn't need to turn to know who it belonged to.

"Please," Jack said, stepping from behind the nearby mausoleum. "Just five minutes."

I rose slowly, clutching my purse strap so tightly my knuckles whitened. "How did you find me?"

"I've had investigators looking for you for seven years." He moved closer, his eyes red-rimmed. "When I heard you were back in town..."

"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question.

"I've been searching for you," he corrected. "Every day since I thought you died. Do you have any idea what that's like? To lose someone you love and then find out they're still alive?"

Something cold and hard settled in my chest. "No, Jack. I don't."

His expression crumpled. "I've changed. I've spent every day trying to become someone worthy of asking for your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue.

"For what happened at the warehouse. For choosing Kennedy when—"

"When you thought I was already dead?" I stepped back, my hand moving instinctively to my chest. "Or for this?"

I pulled open my jacket, revealing the thin scar that ran down my sternum—the permanent reminder of what his choice had cost me.

"I have an artificial heart, Jack," I said flatly. "The shrapnel missed my real one by millimeters. Dr. Martinez said I was lucky to survive."

His face drained of color. "What?"

"And that's not all." My voice grew steadier with each word. "Remember when you kicked me? When I told you I was pregnant and you accused me of lying?"

Jack's mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

"I lost our child that day," I continued. "Before the warehouse. Before you chose Kennedy over me. I was already broken when that bomb went off."

A tear slid down his cheek. "Rebecca..."

"I'm married now," I said, turning away from him. "To Quinn Spencer. We have a son."

Behind me, I heard a sound like a wounded animal—raw and broken. When I glanced back, Jack was on his knees beside my father's grave, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

I walked away without looking back again.