The Three-Year Lie: Her Sweet Revenge

Erica POV:

The rain was a merciless sheet, plastering my hair to my face and soaking my scrubs to my skin as I stumbled out of The Obsidian. I didn' t feel the cold. I didn' t feel anything except the echo of their voices, a cruel litany playing on a loop in my head.

Farce. Not the brightest. Bitch. It was always for her.

And that name. Bianca.

The sound of it was a physical blow, a phantom hand closing around my throat, stealing my breath. It hurled me back in time, to the cold linoleum floors of a university dorm, to the vicious whispers that followed me down hallways, the jeers that echoed in the lecture hall.

Bianca House hadn't just been a mean girl; she was a virtuoso of cruelty. It started with rumors, little whispers that I' d cheated on exams or slept with professors for grades. Then it escalated. My textbooks would disappear before finals. A bottle of bleach "accidentally" spilled on my only formal dress before a scholarship interview. They locked me in a dark janitor's closet for hours, her laughter echoing outside as my panicked breaths turned into ragged sobs, reigniting a childhood claustrophobia I thought I'd conquered. The torment was systematic, relentless, and it had culminated in a brutal physical assault by her friends in a deserted parking lot that left me with a broken rib and a spiraling case of PTSD.

I had dropped out for a semester, a broken, terrified girl from a working-class family who had no resources to fight the daughter of a wealthy, influential dynasty.

And then, Anthony Holden had appeared.

He was in my rescheduled economics class, a silent, watchful presence who sat in the back. He started by leaving an extra coffee on my desk. Then he' d walk me to my car after late-night study sessions. He never pushed, never pried, just offered a quiet, solid strength that I desperately needed. He listened, truly listened, when I finally, haltingly, told him about Bianca. He' d held me, his arms a fortress, and whispered, "She will never hurt you again. I promise."

He seemed so different from the other wealthy boys, so disdainful of their shallow games. He helped me get a new scholarship when mine was inexplicably revoked. He paid off my mother's sudden, crushing medical debt, waving it off as "a drop in the ocean." He' d rebuilt my shattered world, piece by piece.

He had become my savior.

And I, in my desperate hunger for love and safety, had believed him. I had trusted him with the broken pieces of my soul.

"Gullible little nurse," Emmanuel' s mocking voice echoed in the storm.

He was right. I was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

A sob tore from my throat, and I tripped on the slick pavement, my knees hitting the concrete with a jarring thud. I didn' t even try to get up. I just knelt there in a puddle, the dirty city water soaking the knees of my pants, and laughed. A hollow, broken sound that was swallowed by the storm. They had played me so perfectly, using my deepest traumas, my most desperate needs, as weapons against me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a frantic, insistent vibration. I ignored it. It was probably the hospital, a colleague, or-a fresh wave of nausea hit me-Anthony, continuing the charade.

But it buzzed again. And again. Finally, I fumbled for it with numb fingers. The screen was cracked and slick with rain, but I could make out the caller ID. Nana.

My heart lurched. I swiped to answer. "Nana? Are you okay?"

It wasn' t my grandmother' s warm, crackling voice. It was a frantic nurse from her assisted living facility. "Erica? It' s your grandmother. She' s had a massive stroke. The paramedics are taking her to Mount Sinai. You need to get here. Now."

The world dissolved into a storm of panic and rain. "I' m on my way," I gasped, scrambling to my feet.

The city, which had felt vibrant with promise an hour ago, was now a hostile maze. Every taxi was taken. The subway entrance was flooded. I stood on the corner, waving my arms like a madwoman, tears and rain mixing on my face, chanting, "Please, please, please."

A black town car screeched to a halt beside me. The back window rolled down, revealing a man in a crisp military uniform. His face was all sharp angles and quiet authority. "You look like you' re in trouble. Get in."

I didn' t hesitate. I threw myself into the back seat, gasping out, "Mount Sinai Hospital. Please. It' s my grandmother."

He just nodded, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror for a split second, and the car shot forward into the raging traffic.

I arrived at the ICU just as the doctor was stepping out of her room. His face was grim. "We' ve done everything we can," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "It' s a matter of hours. I' m so sorry."

I walked into her room on legs made of lead. Nana, my rock, the woman who had raised me after my parents died, looked so small and frail against the stark white pillows, a web of tubes and wires tethering her to this world.

Her eyes fluttered open, clouded but lucid. "Erica, baby," she rasped, her hand weakly reaching for mine.

"I' m here, Nana," I choked out, squeezing her cool fingers.

"Where… where' s Anthony?" she whispered. "I want to see him. Want to see the man who finally made my girl happy."

A fresh wave of agony crashed over me. I pulled out my phone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed his number. It rang once, twice, then went to voicemail. I called again. This time, the call was immediately rejected.

Desperate, I sent a text, my thumbs flying across the screen. Nana is dying. Mount Sinai ICU. She' s asking for you. Please, Anthony. Please.

I waited. One minute. Five. The message remained unread. The little gray checkmarks were a symbol of my utter abandonment.

"He' s… he' s on his way, Nana," I lied, the words thick and poisonous in my mouth. "He got stuck in a meeting, but he' s rushing here. He loves you so much."

A faint smile touched her lips. "Good boy," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut. "Take care of my Erica…"

Her hand went limp in mine. The steady beep of the heart monitor dissolved into one long, final, piercing tone.

I collapsed over her, my body convulsing with sobs, a primal scream of loss tearing from my soul. I had lost the last piece of my family. I had lost the beautiful future I' d so foolishly believed in. I had lost everything.

I don' t remember the next few hours. It was a blur of paperwork, quiet condolences, and a profound, hollow numbness. Anthony never called. He never texted back.

As I sat in the sterile quiet of the hospital waiting room, waiting for the funeral home, a morbid curiosity took hold. I opened my phone, my fingers moving of their own accord, and navigated to Bianca House' s Instagram page.

It was public. And the very first post, uploaded an hour ago, was a picture. Bianca, looking radiant and delicate, wrapped in Anthony' s arms. They were at The Obsidian, a bottle of champagne on the table between them. He was smiling, that rare, breathtaking smile, but it wasn't for me. It was for her. The caption read: Celebrating my future with my one and only. @AnthonyHolden

The picture was a final, brutal confirmation. While my grandmother was dying, while I was frantically trying to reach him, he was celebrating with her. He had chosen her. He would always choose her.

Something inside me, something that had been weeping and breaking, went silent. It froze, then hardened into a shard of ice.

I stood up, my movements calm and deliberate. I walked to the nurses' station, my own professional mask sliding into place.

I made two calls.

The first was to my OB-GYN' s office. "I need to schedule a termination," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion.

The second was to the head of my department at the hospital. "Dr. Evans, it' s Erica Richards. My grandmother just passed away. I need to take the next two weeks off for bereavement."

"Of course, Erica. Take all the time you need. The wedding is in three weeks, isn' t it? Don' t worry about a thing here."

"About that," I said, my voice as cold as the ice in my veins. "The wedding is cancelled. I' ll be taking a six-month leave of absence after my bereavement. I' ve just been approved for the humanitarian aid mission in Syria."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line.

"My flight leaves on the morning of what was supposed to be my wedding day," I continued calmly. "But before I go, I have a wedding gift to deliver. A very, very big one."