The Fiancé Who Stole My Life

Elna POV:

Garrison's words about my lack of "feeling" were a dull throb in my awareness, a constant reminder of his casual cruelty. But something had shifted inside me. The void he spoke of wasn' t empty anymore. It was hardening, solidifying into a core of quiet defiance. He hadn't noticed. He was too consumed by Katia, by his own inflated sense of self-importance.

He dropped Katia and me off at a high-end shopping district, a wave of his hand dismissing us. "I have a meeting," he curtly stated, speeding off without a backward glance.

The moment his car disappeared, Katia' s sweet façade dissolved. Her eyes, once fluttering with feigned fragility, snapped open, sharp and predatory. She turned to me, a sneer twisting her lips.

"So, the little stray is back," she drawled, her voice dripping with contempt. "Still haunting Garrison, are we? Don't you ever get tired of being a charity case?"

Her words were a prelude. Suddenly, a group of women emerged from a nearby boutique, their laughter echoing through the street. My blood ran cold. I recognized them. Katia's clique from college. The girls who had made my life a living hell.

"Well, well, if it isn't Elna Martin," one of them, a tall blonde named Tiffany, smirked. "Still looking like you crawled out of a gutter, I see."

They encircled me, their eyes raking over me with disdain. I instinctively recoiled, my body tensing, pressing against the cold plate glass of a shop window.

The memories hit me like a tidal wave, a sudden, suffocating rush. The school hallways, the whispers, the mocking laughter.

"She' s so weird," they' d say, their voices loud enough for me to hear. "Doesn' t talk. Doesn' t react. Is she even human?"

They called me a ghost, a mute, a freak. I was invisible, yet constantly under their scrutiny. Isolated. My meticulously organized locker would be emptied, my books thrown into the garbage. My art supplies, the only thing that brought me a semblance of peace, would be ruined. My lunch money would mysteriously vanish.

I tried to tell the teachers, the counselors. "They' re picking on me," I' d whisper, my voice barely audible. But they would just nod, their eyes distant, then say, "Elna, dear, are you sure you' re not imagining things? You' re so sensitive." Or worse, "Perhaps you need to make more of an effort to fit in."

I went home, hoping for solace. My parents, practical and emotionally reserved themselves, listened with blank faces. "Don' t make trouble, Elna," my mother would say. "Just ignore them. They' ll get bored." My father would add, "You' re too sensitive. You need to toughen up."

So I learned to ignore. I learned to numb. I learned to make myself smaller, invisible. I learned that seeking help only led to further disappointment, further isolation.

Anyone who dared to show me kindness, a fleeting moment of connection, would become their next target. A shy boy who offered me a shared umbrella in the rain found his locker vandalized. A girl who complimented my drawings was ostracized. I watched, helpless, as my attempts at connection brought suffering to others. It was easier to be alone.

They made me the class pariah, their preferred target. It started with taunts, then escalated. They' d trip me in the hallways, "accidentally" spill drinks on my clothes. One time, they dragged me into the girl' s locker room, forcing me to listen as they discussed my body, my "flat chest," my "odd eyes." Katia, always the ringleader, reveled in my discomfort.

"Look at her," Katia would sneer, "she doesn' t even cry. Is she even alive?"

They' d spread vicious rumors about me, unfounded stories about my family, my past. Messages filled with crude drawings and threats would appear on my phone. My home phone would ring, only to hear heavy breathing on the other end. I became an expert at dodging, at disappearing. I missed so many classes, hiding in the library, in empty classrooms, anywhere I wouldn' t be found.

One particular memory, sharper than the rest, flashed through my mind: Katia, whispering to a group of boys, pointing at me. Later that day, I was cornered in an empty stairwell, hands grabbing at me, crude words thrown in my face. I remembered the cold fear, the utter helplessness. Katia had orchestrated it all.

The blonde girl, Tiffany, reached out, shoving me roughly. "Still so boring, Elna? Haven't you learned your lesson?"

My body swayed, but I didn't fall. My gaze, however, was fixed on Katia. Her eyes, once again, held that familiar triumphant glint. This was her show.

"The usual, Elna," Katia said, gesturing grandly at the boutiques. "You're paying."

My mind snapped back to the present. Paid? I had no money. They wanted to humiliate me again.

"Come on, girls!" Katia chirped, linking arms with Tiffany. "Let's show Elna what real shopping looks like. She's loaded now, isn't she? Garrison's little pet."

They marched into a high-end boutique, a store full of impossibly expensive clothes. I followed, my heart pounding. They began to pull clothes off the racks, designer dresses, cashmere sweaters, silk scarves, tossing them into a growing pile.

"This one, Elna!" Katia held up a sequined gown. "It'll look divine on me. What do you think?" She didn't wait for my answer. "And these shoes! And that bag!"

The sales assistants, impeccably dressed and poised, watched with cautious smiles. They recognized Katia. They recognized the Crawford name. They also recognized the uncomfortable tension.

"Anything I can help you with, Miss Smith?" one of them ventured, her voice polite but wary.

Katia tossed her hair, a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Just making selections, darling. My… friend here will be taking care of the bill. She has excellent taste, don't you, Elna?" She turned to me, her eyes glittering. "And Garrison always ensures she has unlimited funds."

A collective murmur rippled through the staff. Garrison Crawford. The name carried weight. A name that opened doors, smoothed over unpleasantness, and silenced questions. A name that now, apparently, authorized my financial ruin.