Elinore POV:

I took a deep, shuddering breath, the phone cool against my ear. The silence on the other end was a canvas for all the memories, all the pain, but this time, it felt like a door closing, not trapping me, but setting me free. A wave of exhaustion washed over me, but beneath it, a strange lightness bloomed. It was done. Truly done.

Later that evening, at the competition's celebratory dinner, the clinking of glasses and cheerful chatter washed over me. My colleagues toasted my success, their smiles genuine, their praise a warm blanket. But even amidst the congratulations, a part of me felt detached, adrift.

I excused myself to the ladies' room, needing a moment of quiet. As I washed my hands, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. It was Carter. He' d posted a picture.

My fingers, almost against my will, tapped it open. It was a selfie. Carter, his arm draped casually around Brittney. She was leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder, a soft, adoring smile on her face. Their faces were pressed close, a picture of perfect, cozy intimacy.

The caption read: "Finally found peace with the one who truly understands me. Some people are just meant to be. #Soulmate #Forever."

My breath hitched. Soulmate? Forever? The words were a punch to the gut, but not in the way they might have been weeks ago. Now, it was a dull ache, a confirmation of what I already knew. They looked so natural together. So…right. A perverse thought flickered through my mind: They actually make a pretty good couple.

Brittney had already commented, "Couldn't agree more, my love. Always and forever."

I almost laughed. It was all so performative, so desperate, so them. Back when Carter and I first started dating, he used to preach about sharing. "Elinore," he'd say, his eyes earnest, "sharing our lives, our dreams, our smallest joys and biggest fears, that's the bedrock of real love. We tell each other everything, right? No secrets, no holding back."

He'd wanted to know every detail of my day, every thought in my head. And I, naive and head-over-heels, had given it all. I' d reveled in it, believing that this open, boundless sharing was a sign of a love that would last forever. I' d share a joke I heard, a frustrating moment at work, a new idea for a project. He'd listen, or pretend to, and I felt seen, heard, loved.

But somewhere along the way, Brittney had slithered into that sacred space. Suddenly, my stories were met with a distracted nod, a quick "uh-huh." My frustrations were "overdramatic." My triumphs were "lucky" or "not a big deal." And his life? His life became an open book only to Brittney. His bad days were hers to soothe. His small wins were hers to celebrate. My sharing desire for him had withered and died, replaced by a deep-seated weariness.

"Elinore? You okay in there?" My colleague, Sarah, called from outside the door. "They're about to cut the cake!"

"Coming!" I quickly locked my phone, pushing the intrusive image of Carter and Brittney away. I wasn't going to let them ruin this night. This was my night.

Back at the table, a photographer was rounding up everyone for a group photo. I smiled, letting my colleagues pull me into their excited cluster. Laughter erupted as the flash went off. I saw the photo pop up on social media minutes later, tagged in it by a dozen friends. My smile was bright, but I consciously decided not to repost it on my own feed. No need to feed the beast.

As if on cue, another notification flashed across my screen. Brittney again. This time, it was a story. A short video. It started with Carter's back, shirtless, as he put on a shirt. Then, it zoomed in on her hand, resting possessively on his bare lower back before quickly pulling away. The caption: "Just a normal Tuesday morning with my favorite person. Some bonds are just meant to be unbreakable. Feels good to finally be home."

Home. She was living with him. My old apartment. My stomach churned. She was rubbing it in, twisting the knife. She had been doing this for months, subtly at first, then more overtly. Pictures of her cooking in my kitchen, leaving behind her hair ties, "accidentally" forgetting her perfume on my dresser. She thought I hadn't noticed. She thought I was blind.

And Carter? He was either oblivious or complicit. Probably both. He always saw Brittney as the helpless victim, the one who needed saving. He never saw her as the calculating puppet master she was. He never saw how she systematically dismantled our relationship, brick by painful brick.

My phone buzzed again, a new message. Carter. "Elinore, about your stuff. When are you coming to get it? Brittney wants to get settled."

I stared at the message, a cold fury building in my chest. Brittney wants to get settled. Not we, not I. It was always Brittney. I didn't reply. I just locked the screen.

Then, a second message from him came through. This time, it was a picture. A picture of my favorite mug, the one I' d bought on our first trip together, sitting on my kitchen counter. Brittney's hand, adorned with a delicate ring I' d seen her wear before, was wrapped around it, her perfectly manicured thumb resting right where mine used to.

My blood ran cold. That mug. It was a small thing, but it was mine. It held memories, quiet mornings, shared smiles. And now, her hand, her ring, desecrating it. A wave of possessive anger, hot and sharp, washed over me. This wasn't just about a mug. It was about her invading every last corner of my life, my space, my memories.

Before I could react, another message. A text. "Elinore, you really should come get your things. Brittney's starting to feel uncomfortable with your stuff around."

Uncomfortable? My jaw clenched. This was a deliberate provocation. She was baiting me. And Carter, spineless as ever, was her messenger.

Then, the final message. A video. My heart lurched, a sickening premonition twisting my gut. I didn't want to open it. I knew, with a dreadful certainty, that whatever was in that video would be worse than anything she had posted before. But a primal fear, cold and heavy, compelled me. My thumb, trembling slightly, pressed play.

Elinore POV:

The video started playing. My breath caught in my throat, a knot of ice forming in my stomach. The shaky footage showed the inside of my old apartment. No, their apartment now, a cold voice corrected me. The camera panned slowly, deliberately, towards the living room.

And there he was. Apollo. My beautiful Apollo, my rescue dog, the one I loved more than anything. He was whimpering, cowering in a corner, his tail tucked between his legs. Brittney's voice, high-pitched and taunting, floated from off-screen. "Look at him, Carter! He's so dirty! And he keeps barking at me! Your ex-girlfriend's dog is so annoying."

Then I saw it. Brittney, holding a broom, poking him, jabbing him. Apollo yelped, a sound of pure terror, trying to scramble away. Brittney giggled, a chilling, cruel sound that vibrated through my phone. "Oh, is he scared? Good. He should be. You're just like your owner, a little aggressor."

My body started to tremble, a violent tremor that shook my entire frame. "What are you doing?!" I screamed at the phone, my voice hoarse, as if she could hear me. "Stop it! Stop hurting him!"

The video continued. Brittney's face came into view, twisted into a triumphant sneer. "This is for all the times Elinore thought she was better than me," she hissed, her voice low and menacing. "For all the times she thought she had you, Carter. You chose me. And now, her precious dog gets to pay the price for her arrogance."

Apollo let out a series of desperate barks, then a truly gut-wrenching whine. The sound tore through me, ripping away whatever composure I had left. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

I slammed the phone down onto the table, grabbing my car keys. "Taxi!" I yelled into the empty room, my voice cracking. "I need a taxi! Now!" My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock the apartment door. Apollo. My sweet, loyal Apollo. The image of him cowering, whimpering, was burned into my mind.

As I fumbled for my wallet, my phone buzzed again. Another message from Carter. "Elinore, you better not be planning anything stupid. Apollo is fine. He just needs to learn his place."

He said Apollo was fine. But Brittney's video… My mind raced, grappling with the conflicting information, but the terror for Apollo won out. "If you hurt him, Carter, I swear to God, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life!" I typed back, my fingers flying.

No response. Just the terrifying silence.

The taxi felt like it was moving in slow motion, every red light an agonizing eternity. My phone buzzed again. It was Brittney. A picture.

A single, horrifying photo. Apollo, lying motionless on the kitchen floor. A dark, spreading stain beneath him. His eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were dull, vacant. Lifeless.

And the caption, a single, chilling phrase: "Oops. Looks like he couldn't handle the pressure. #AccidentsHappen #ByeByeDoggy"

My world tilted. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. No. No, no, no. This couldn't be real. My Apollo. My brave, loving Apollo. The dog who had protected me from a coyote, who always greeted me with boundless joy. He was gone. Killed. Tortured. By them.

A guttural scream ripped from my throat, raw and desperate. The taxi driver glanced back, startled, but I didn't care. I pounded on the window. "Faster! Faster! Please!"

When the taxi finally screeched to a halt outside my old building, I fumbled with the payment, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I burst out of the car, sprinting towards the entrance. My code. My fingers, numb with shock and rage, struggled with the keypad. Error. Error. Again. Tears streamed down my face, blinding me.

"Carter!" I shrieked, hammering on the door, my knuckles raw. "Brittney! Open this door, you monsters!" My voice was a desperate, primal sound, echoing in the quiet hallway. "I'm calling the police! I swear to God!"

The door creaked open. Carter stood there, his face pale, but his expression was not of remorse. He was wearing the same sleep shorts from Brittney's video. His eyes were cold, almost challenging. "Are you done with your little tantrum, Elinore?" he asked, his voice low, tinged with a strange mix of annoyance and something else-fear?

A sickening metallic smell hit me. Blood. My stomach lurched. My eyes darted past him, into the apartment. The kitchen doorway was visible from where I stood. And there, on the floor…

Brittney emerged from behind Carter, her eyes wide, feigning innocence. She was clutching a towel to her head, a small smear of something dark on the white fabric. "Oh, Elinore," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He was so aggressive. He just…he jumped at me. I had to defend myself."

My vision tunneled. Everything went red. He jumped at you? The words echoed in my head, a grotesque lie. Apollo, the gentlest soul. My Apollo. Tortured and killed.

A roar tore from my throat. I shoved past Carter, who stumbled back, surprised. My gaze locked onto Brittney. I saw red. Pure, unadulterated rage. I launched myself at her, my hands finding purchase in her hair.

"You bitch!" I screamed, slamming her head against the wall. The sound was sickening, a dull thud. "You absolute psycho bitch! What did you do to him?! What did you do?!"

Brittney shrieked, a high-pitched, piercing sound. "He attacked me! He attacked me! He bit me! I swear!" She clutched at Carter, tears streaming down her face, real tears this time. "Carter, help me! She's crazy! She's going to kill me!"

The memory flashed through my mind: Brittney, weeks ago, scoffing at Apollo, calling him "just a mutt." Brittney "accidentally" kicking his food bowl. Brittney complaining he smelled "too much like dog." It had been a slow, insidious torture, culminating in this horrific act.

My hand found her face, and I slapped her. Hard. The crack echoed in the room. "You lying, manipulative monster!" I roared. "You think I don't know what you are?!"

Before I could land another blow, a massive force hit me from behind. Carter. He grabbed my arms, twisting them, and shoved me hard against the opposite wall. My head smacked against the plaster, stars exploding behind my eyes. Pain shot through my skull.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Elinore?!" Carter bellowed, his face inches from mine, his eyes blazing with fury. He was cradling Brittney, stroking her hair as she sobbed into his chest. "Look what you did! Look at her head! You're insane!"

Brittney, still weeping, wailed, "She's just like her dog, Carter! Wild and dangerous! He tried to bite me, and she tried to kill me! We're not safe!"

Carter glared at me, his face filled with disgust. "You're a maniac! She's hurt! You need to apologize, Elinore! Right now!"

Apologize? To her? For this? My gaze, still swimming from the impact with the wall, drifted back to the kitchen. And there he was. Apollo. A small, still form on the cold tile. The blood, so much blood. It wasn't just a stain. It was a pool.

Something inside me snapped. The pain in my head, the throbbing in my chest, the cold, empty ache where Apollo's love used to be. It all coalesced into a single, terrifying thought.

"You killed him," I whispered, my voice raw, broken. "You both killed him. My Apollo." I raised my eyes to Carter, the last vestiges of love, of anything, burned away by the inferno of grief and rage. My voice rose, clear and chilling. "You're dead to me, Carter Mack. And I swear, I will make you pay for this. Both of you. I will make your lives a living hell!" My hand, still trembling, instinctively reached for the closest weapon. The heavy glass ashtray from the coffee table.

Elinore POV:

My hand closed around the heavy glass ashtray, its weight a sudden, grounding force in the whirlwind of my rage. My eyes, still blurred with tears and fury, locked onto Carter. He was still clutching Brittney, his face contorted in a mix of anger and shock. My gaze flickered to Brittney, her head buried in his shoulder, her sobs theatrical.

"You killed him," I repeated, my voice a low growl, barely recognizable as my own. The ashtray felt cold, hard, lethal in my grip.

Carter finally looked at my hand, at the weapon I held. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. "Elinore, what are you doing? Put that down! You're insane!"

But his words were just noise, a buzzing in the background. All I could see was Apollo. His lifeless eyes. The blood. And the faces of the two people who had done this.

I lunged.

It happened in a blur. Carter instinctively pushed Brittney behind him, but she was clinging to him, slowing him down. The ashtray swung, a clumsy, uncontrolled arc fueled by pure, desperate grief.

Thwack.

The sound was sickening. A dull, heavy thud that reverberated through the room. Brittney screamed again, a genuine shriek of pain this time, as the ashtray connected with the side of her head. She slumped against Carter, blood blossoming quickly on her blonde hair, staining his pristine white shirt.

"Oh my god, Brittney!" Carter cried, his voice trembling with a horror that was finally real. He was no longer focused on me, but on her, the gash on her temple, the sudden gush of red.

Brittney gasped, her eyes fluttering open, unfocused. She stared at Carter, her hand reaching up weakly to touch his face, smearing blood across his cheek. "Carter," she whispered, her voice thin and reedy. "Are you... are you still going to protect me? Even after this? You won't... you won't choose her, will you?"

I watched them, my chest heaving, the ashtray still clenched in my hand. He was kneeling, cradling her head, his face pale with shock. And she, even with blood streaming down her face, was still performing, still manipulating. Still asking for reassurance that she was his priority.

A hollow, mirthless laugh bubbled up from my throat. It started as a choked sound, then escalated into loud, deranged cackles that filled the room. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging, but they were tears of raw, agonizing heartbreak and bitter irony, not sadness for him.

"You two," I choked out, a fresh wave of laughter tearing through me. "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect for each other. A match made in hell." I wiped my bloody hand across my face, smearing it. "You want to be together? Fine! Be together! Forever! I hope you rot in hell, both of you!"

I dropped the ashtray, the clatter loud in the sudden silence. It rolled across the polished floor, stopping at Carter's feet. I didn't look at him. I couldn't. There was nothing left to see. Nothing left to feel.

My legs, still shaking, carried me towards the kitchen, towards the silent promise of Apollo. With each step, the metallic scent grew stronger, sickeningly sweet. I saw him then, really saw him. My poor, sweet boy. His small body was crumpled, unnatural, in a pool of dark, congealed blood. His favorite squeaky toy lay beside him, untouched, unplayed with.

A fresh wave of nausea washed over me, but I fought it down. I knelt beside him, ignoring the sticky warmth on the floor. My hands, still trembling, reached out to touch his soft fur, cold now, lifeless.

"Apollo," I whispered, my voice breaking. "My sweet, brave boy. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

I gathered him into my arms, his body surprisingly heavy, eerily still. His fur, once so vibrant and warm, was matted and stiff with blood. He felt like a broken puppet, no longer animated by the joyful spirit I knew.

I rose slowly, clutching Apollo's body to my chest. My eyes were fixed forward, not on Carter or Brittney, who were still huddled together on the living room floor, Brittney whimpering. They were ghosts, irrelevant.

I walked past them, my bare feet leaving bloody prints on the floor. I didn't spare them a glance. There was nothing to say. No words could bridge the chasm they had dug. No explanation could erase the horror of this night.

As I reached the front door, I paused, my hand on the cold metal knob. I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Carter. He was looking at me, his eyes wide, a strange mix of fear and dawning comprehension on his face. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, to explain, to plead.

But I cut him off, my voice a flat, dead whisper. "This is it, Carter. This is where it ends. You and I. We're done."

I pushed the door open, the fresh night air a cold shock against my face. As I stepped out, I heard Brittney's voice, weak but still manipulative, pulling Carter back. "Carter… my head hurts so much. I think she broke it…"

I didn't hear Carter's reply. I didn't care. The door clicked shut behind me, severing the last thread of a life that was now utterly, irrevocably over. I walked into the night, Apollo heavy in my arms, leaving behind the wreckage of my past, ready to face the terrifying, empty future. Whatever it held, it would be better than this. It had to be.