Married my Ex's uncle after betrayed

The walk home took forty minutes. Crying had made my face look strange��skin taut, eyes swollen, as if the whole world had been submerged underwater. I didn't bother with mascara. Nobody needed me to dress up anyway.

I heard a sound first, then saw something. The key wasn't right. The lock wouldn't open.

I stood in front of the apartment door��my apartment door��and turned the key three times in the lock before accepting reality. The bolt had been changed. The lock was jammed. The door wouldn't budge.

��Ms. Lane.��

A man in a gray suit stood at the end of the hallway, back ramrod straight, expression deliberately aloof. I recognized him��Marcus, one of Caleb's junior assistants. He held a cardboard box, as if someone had warned you not to drop it.

��Mr. Sterling asked me to return your personal belongings.�� He handed me the box. ��He also wanted me to inform you that the joint account was closed this morning.��

I didn't take the box immediately; I just looked at it. The box contained a corner of a picture frame, the spine of a sketchbook, and a tangled phone charger. Three years of life's memories, packed away by someone else.

"He sent you to deliver it?" I stared at the cardboard box, my voice trembling. "He doesn't dare to come himself?"

Marcus, with a modicum of politeness, looked embarrassed. ��I��m sorry, Ms. Lane.��

I took the box. It wasn��t heavy, but that was precisely what made it the worst part.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I tucked the box under my arm and glanced at the screen��a notification from my bank app: Account Balance: Unavailable. Then, I received a text message from my main client contact at Meridian Group, a number I recognized: We regret to inform you that our contract with Lane Design Studio will not be renewed. Effective immediately.

I stood frozen in the hallway.

It rang again. Hartwell Creative. Same wording, different letterhead.

Another one. Prism Co.

In the time it took Marcus to disappear around the corner, I received three text messages. Two more appeared by the time I reached the elevator. Every single one of my clients��every single one��was somehow connected to Sterling's network. I'd vaguely known this before. But I'd never considered what it would mean if that network turned against me.

Now I understand.

I sat on the hallway floor, the suitcase on my lap, because my legs suddenly felt weak. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, a high-pitched, shrill sound. My knee throbbed, from where I'd scraped myself with gravel that morning. I shifted, the medical report rustling in my pocket.

Chronic illness. I could manage.

No apartment. No money. No clients. No Caleb.

I pressed my forehead against the suitcase and cried until my ribs ached.

---

That evening, I returned to a room I'd almost forgotten I could even enter��an old, run-down studio apartment I'd sublet years ago, never fully vacated, continuing to renew the lease monthly out of some inexplicable instinct. The radiators clattered. The overhead light bulb was too yellow. But it had floors, it had walls, and that was enough for now.

I spread my design files on the small table��some on my external hard drive, some paper drafts I'd grabbed before Caleb's assistant took inventory. Three ongoing projects. Months' worth of work. I sat cross-legged on the floor, pulled a bag of cookies from my bag, and ate them, trying to figure out my next move.

The doorknob turned.

I looked up.

It turned again, this time with more force, and then the door opened��not by force, but unlocked, as if someone had used a key��Vanessa walked in.

She wasn't alone. Two men stood on either side of her, broad-shouldered, silent, expressionless��the kind of people hired to keep a straight face. She wore a beige coat, her high heels clicking on the bare floor, a smile on her face that betrayed her never expecting to be rejected.

��That��s amazing,�� she said, glancing around the room with exaggerated disgust. ��I can��t believe you��ve stooped this low.��

��Get out.�� I stood up. ��How did you get the key?��

She ignored my question. One of the men walked to the table. Before I could even cross the room, he swept my drafts to the floor with one arm��a casual, effortless motion, like brushing crumbs off a table. The second man picked up my portable drawing tablet and slammed it to the ground. The screen hit the concrete with a sharp crack.

��Stop���� I lunged forward, falling to my knees, grabbing the drafts to avoid being trampled. My fingers gripped the edge of a layout I��d spent six weeks drawing.

��You��re so stubborn,�� Vanessa said, almost with admiration. �� As Caleb said.��

��You can��t do this!�� My voice trembled. ��You broke into my apartment����

��His name can open many doors for you.�� She tilted her head.��You��d better leave this city, Aria.�� She tossed her hair back as if it were a trivial matter. ��I��m not threatening you��I��m informing you. After all, you know he can make anyone disappear in this city.��

��You��re mad.�� I clutched the draft to my chest and stood up to face her. ��Do you think he��d want this? That is����

��He doesn��t need to.�� Her voice lowered, flat and gentle. ��He trusts me. He believes me. You��ve completely left��I��m just wrapping things up.��

��You lied to him. You stole my story, and����

The slap came quickly. The sound was more jarring than the pain, a sharp crack echoing against the bare wall. My head snapped to one side. I tasted copper.

For a moment, everyone froze.

Then, Vanessa smoothed her coat, straightened her sleeves, and walked towards the door. ��Leave this town,�� she said again, without turning back. ��This is the only time I��m asking you politely.��

The door clicked shut behind them.

I stood amidst the scattered drafts, one hand covering my cheek, the other still clutching a crumpled ball of paper. The tablet was strewn about. Scattered papers drifted under the table, along the baseboard, and piled up in a corner.

I slowly sat down, until I was seated on the floor.

The room was quiet. The radiator tapped softly. A car alarm wailed outside, then stopped abruptly.

My hand instinctively reached for my father��s Swiss Army knife, which I��d kept in the side pocket of the bag I��d carried since his funeral. I didn��t know why I always carried it. I��d never used it. It was just always with me.

I opened it, and in the reflection of the blade, that mere inch of polished steel, I vaguely saw my own face. One eye was swollen from crying. The mascara was long gone. A bright red mark remained on my cheek.

��Thief,�� Vanessa called to me. ��Jealousy,�� Caleb said. ��Liar.��

They took my apartment, my income, my clients, and the life I had built up over three years. Tonight, they came into this house and destroyed everything they could reach.

But they couldn��t take the truth. The truth remained within me, solid and unchanging, just like that rainy night three years ago when I didn��t flee the burning car, but rushed towards it.

I sheathed the knife.

I wouldn��t wait for him to believe me anymore.

I would strike first.