Marceline’s Dorm Room – Midday

The suitcase lay open like a wound at the foot of the bed, clothes carelessly tossed inside as if fleeing a battlefield. The walls, once warm with laughter and whispered secrets, now echoed with the ragged sound of Marceline’s breath.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she folded the last of her shirts—every motion brittle, mechanical.

“Celine, stop,” Cora’s voice cracked, more a plea than a command. She paced behind her, fists clenched at her sides. “You need to stop crying. This wasn’t your fault. That bastard—he played you. No one saw this coming. Not even me.”

Marceline swiped at the tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy and hollow as if the soul inside her had already started to slip away.

“I have to go,” she murmured, barely audible. Her voice was frayed like an old ribbon pulled too tight for too long. “I can’t stay here.”

Cora’s footsteps halted. “You’re leaving?” Her voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “You’re seriously leaving?”

Marceline didn’t look up. She reached for her charger, winding it tightly. “I don’t dare to walk through those halls again. Not with everyone looking at me like that. Whispering.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Cora snapped. “He used you! Humiliated you—and now you’re going to vanish like you’re the villain in this story?”

“I am the villain in their eyes,” Marceline whispered, stuffing the charger into her bag. “And maybe... maybe I deserve to be. I let myself believe in him. In his lies. I let him touch parts of me that no one ever had—and he threw it all to the wolves.”

Cora’s throat bobbed with emotion. “What are you going to tell your mother?” she asked softly.

“School’s closing in a few weeks,” Marceline replied, brushing her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. “I’ll tell her I just needed a break. Nothing more.”

“That’s not going to hold,” Cora said. “You know it. She’s going to be disappointed—”

“I know,” Marceline cut in. Her voice cracked, shattering what little control she had left. “She warned me. Told me not to get close to him. That he was danger-wrapped in charm. But I didn’t listen.”

Her hands clenched around a sweater—his sweater. She stared at it for a long moment before tossing it into the trash.

“I thought he loved me,” she whispered. “God, I was so stupid.”

Tears slid freely now, unchecked and burning. Each one held the weight of betrayal, the sting of humiliation. She pressed a palm against her chest like she could stop the ache threatening to pull her apart.

Cora’s own eyes brimmed with tears. She stepped forward, pulling Marceline into a fierce hug.

“Stop blaming yourself, Celine,” she whispered into her friend’s hair. “You don’t deserve this. Not any of it.”

And in that quiet dorm room filled with broken dreams and half-packed bags, two girls clung to each other—one trying to hold herself together, and the other trying to hold her up.

A while later, the door clicked open.

The hallway beyond was quiet, almost reverent. Her suitcase wheels whispered against the floor as she stepped into the corridor, head held high. Cora followed a few steps behind, silent support in her eyes.

But they weren’t alone.

Students lingered by doors and stairwells, pretending to scroll through their phones, whispering behind their hands. The echo of her scandal clung to the walls like mold.

Marceline kept her gaze forward, unflinching, even as her heart cracked with every step. Let them look. Let them speak.

She was walking through fire.

And she would rise from it.

Outside, the air was brisk and biting. She paused at the edge of the dorm steps and turned to look back just once. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t cry.

Not here.

“I’ll come visit,” Cora promised, her voice thick.

Marceline smiled, fragile but real. “Thank you—for not giving up on me.”

Then, without another word, she turned and walked into the afternoon sun. Every step away from the dorm was a step toward something new. Toward healing. Toward herself.

Even if she had to rebuild from nothing, she would rise again.

. … … … .

Mrs Valino Apartment:

The taxi pulled away with a soft cough of exhaust, leaving Marceline Valino standing alone at the gate—her silence louder than the world behind her.

She gripped the handle of her suitcase tighter, the metal biting into her palm. But she didn’t let go.

The house loomed ahead, warm lights spilling through the windows like nothing had changed. Like she hadn't been shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. Like she hadn't buried something irreplaceable—something she’d never even had the chance to love.

She climbed the steps slowly, each one heavier than the last, and rang the doorbell.

Just pretend everything’s fine. Smile. Breathe. Don’t fall apart.

The bell chimed, bright and cheerful—mocking her. A cruel sound for someone carrying a graveyard inside her chest.

The door opened.

"Marceline?"

Jennie stood there, wide-eyed, blinking like she was staring at a ghost.

A weak smile tugged at Marceline’s lips, brittle at the edges. “Hey, sis.”

“What are you doing here?” Jennie asked, her voice caught between confusion and delight.

“Shouldn’t I come in before you start the interrogation?” Marceline tried to tease. Her tone didn’t match the shadow in her eyes.

Jennie laughed and stepped aside. “Right, right. Sorry.”

The moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon polish and jasmine surrounded her—once comforting, now suffocating. A scent that belonged to memories she no longer trusted.

Her suitcase thunked gently against the tiled floor as she set it down, posture rigid, smile still painted on like armor.

Jennie’s brows furrowed. “You okay, Celine?”

Marceline turned, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Why do you ask that?”

“Your eyes…” Jennie stepped closer. “They’re all swollen. Have you been crying?”

Before she could answer, a voice sliced through the room like a blade.

"Why are you back so soon?"

Marceline froze. Her spine straightened instinctively, as though every nerve in her body was preparing for war.

Amanda Valino stood on the staircase in a robe, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but sharp. Always sharp.

“I finished exams early,” Marceline lied smoothly. “Thought I’d come home and rest.”

Amanda studied her for a long, suffocating second.

“Is anything wrong, Celine?”

“No,” she said, the word cracking slightly. “I just… missed you.”

Amanda nodded slowly, almost suspiciously. “Jennie, get your sister something to eat.”

Without another glance, she disappeared into the hallway.

Marceline exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“So…” Jennie said with a sheepish grin, “you said you’d bring your boyfriend home this time. Where is he?”

Her heart clenched like a fist in her chest.

“Can we not talk about that right now?” she whispered.

Jennie blinked, surprised, then softened. “Okay. I’ll get you something. Go freshen up.”

She padded toward the kitchen, still oblivious to the wreckage Marceline was dragging behind her like chains.

Suitcase in hand, Marceline climbed the stairs—each step echoing like a funeral bell. Her body was moving, but her soul felt far behind.

---

The Bathroom

The door clicked shut behind her.

Marceline stood still, staring at the spotless tiles, the folded towels, and the scent of lavender soap. Everything looked the same. But everything had changed.

She locked the door.

And collapsed.

Her knees hit the cold tile with a muted thud, hands gripping the edge of the sink as if it could anchor her. Her reflection stared back at her—eyes red and puffy, lips pale, her face a stranger’s.

“You’re disgusting. Just like your mother.”

His voice came unbidden—Cross. His words were engraved into her like a brand.

She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her nails into her palms until sharp pain grounded her in the present. But even that wasn’t enough to stop the memories from bleeding through.

She’d given him everything.

Her love. Her trust. Her body.

And when she’d needed him most—when her whole world was crumbling—he hadn't answered. Not one call. Not even a text.

She had lost their child alone.

Tears fell silently, soaking into her shirt. No wails. No sobs. Just a quiet, unending ache.

The kind of pain that hollowed a person from the inside out.

She shoved a towel into her mouth to stifle the sound that almost escaped. Not here. Not in this house. She couldn’t be weak. Not again.

Minutes passed—or hours. Time didn’t matter anymore.

Eventually, she stood.

She wiped her face. Smoothed her hair. She looked into the mirror until she didn’t see a girl shattered by love but a woman carved from loss and silence.

The tears had dried. The ache hadn’t. But she was upright. And that was something.

Let him laugh now, she thought. Let him walk away.

One day, Cross Dejeva would regret the day he called her nothing.

… … … …

A week later.

The days blurred together like smeared ink on rain-soaked paper. Each morning, Marceline painted on a smile like a mask stitched to her skin—graceful, cheerful, composed. No one saw the cracks. No one heard the sobs that echoed against her bedroom walls once the lights were out.

Grief lingered in her bones. Guilt clung to her like a second skin.

She laughed at the dinner table. She asked about her sister’s schoolwork. She watched sitcoms with Amanda.

And then, at night, she shattered quietly. Again. And again. And again.

Cross’s silence had become a louder torment than his insults ever were.

He didn't even check. He didn’t care enough to wonder what happened after he left.

The pain didn’t fade with time—it only sharpened. A constant, low-burning agony in her chest, like a hot iron buried deep in her ribcage. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Existing felt like a betrayal to the girl she used to be.

And now—on top of it all—her body was beginning to feel foreign.

She’d woken up nauseous twice. Her chest ached. Her emotions swung between fury and despair with no warning. The food smelled wrong. Her skin felt tight.

She’d hoped it was stress. A hallucination. A cruel trick played by her own mind to make the heartache worse.

But after a hushed conversation with Cora—her only friend outside this house who knew the truth—she’d gone out quietly and returned with a pregnancy kit hidden deep inside her handbag.

It sat now in the drawer beside her bed like a ticking bomb. Untouched. Waiting. Heavy with meaning.

Jennie’s voice snapped her back.

“Marceline, you haven’t started eating yet.”

She blinked and looked up, her spoon untouched. She hadn’t even realized the bowl was full in front of her.

“I’m just a little distracted,” she murmured, forcing a smile so brittle it could’ve cracked her face.

Jennie frowned but said nothing.

Amanda, however, was studying her with surgical precision.

“Marceline,” she said sharply. “What’s wrong with you?”

The question hit like a slap.

“What do you mean, Mother?” she asked, voice carefully composed.

“You’ve been acting strange,” Amanda said. “This… this isn’t like you.”

Marceline kept her gaze level. Calm. “I’m fine, Mother. Just a little tired. You don’t need to worry.”

She lifted the spoon to her mouth and forced herself to swallow.

And instantly regretted it.

A wave of nausea slammed into her so hard she nearly dropped the spoon. Her throat burned. Her stomach churned violently.

She stood so fast her chair scraped against the floor.

Then she ran.

The bathroom door barely shut behind her before she dropped to her knees, clutching the toilet as she emptied what little she'd eaten.

Tears pricked at her eyes—not from pain, but from shame. Her hands trembled. Her body didn’t feel like her own anymore. It felt hijacked by something unknown. Something terrifying.

She tried to rise.

The edges of her vision turned black. Her knees buckled.

And the world tipped sideways.

Her body collapsed to the cold tile.

The last thing she heard was Amanda’s voice, distant and echoing, filled with something unfamiliar—panic.

“Marceline! Celine!”

Then silence.

Hospital Room

The world came back in fragments.

The steady beep of a monitor.

The sterile sting of antiseptic.

The cold weight of something missing.

Her dignity, maybe.

Marceline opened her eyes.

Bright white ceiling. A thin blanket pulled over her legs. The soft ache in her arm from the IV needle. But none of that compared to the ice-cold stare boring into her skull.

Her mother.

Amanda Valino stood at the edge of the bed like a verdict had already been delivered. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Eyes like sharpened glass.

“Mother…” Marceline croaked.

“Spare me that,” Amanda snapped, her voice low and venomous. “Now tell me, young lady. Who’s responsible for that bastard inside you?”

The word hit like a slap.

Marceline’s breath caught in her throat. Shame coiled like a serpent in her stomach. Her voice trembled. “I… I don’t know what you mean—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Amanda’s voice cracked like a whip. “The test results don’t lie. You’re pregnant. And unless the Holy Ghost touched you in your sleep, someone’s responsible.”

Marceline’s pulse roared in her ears. Her body felt foreign—heavy, distant. A prison she couldn’t crawl out of.

“Speak,” Amanda hissed. “Who did this to you?”

The name clung to her throat, a thorn lodged too deep to pull free. She didn’t want to say it. Saying it would make it real. Would make him real again.

But it slipped out in a broken whisper.

“…Cross.”

Amanda flinched. Her eyes widened in disbelief, then sharpened into a storm.

“What did you just say?” Her voice was barely human.

“Cross Dejeva,” Marceline repeated, tears now spilling down her cheeks. “He’s the father.”

Silence. But not peace.

It was the kind of silence that hung before an explosion.

Amanda’s lips curled, not in confusion—but in fury. Disgust. Betrayal. “I warned you. I warned you to stay away from that boy. That snake. And now you’ve—” she broke off, choking on her own rage. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Marceline sobbed. “It was a mistake, I swear—”

“Mistake?” Amanda barked. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? You’ve stained this family’s name. Do you think you can cry your way out of this?”

Marceline bowed her head, the shame crashing over her in waves. Her heart was a raw, pulsing wound. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Her entire body trembled.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispered again and again, like a prayer.

Amanda didn’t soften.

She stepped back like Marceline was something foul. Something rotting.

“I won’t have this filth under my roof,” she said, every word a dagger. “You want to act like a whore, then suffer like one. You’re on your own, Marceline. I cut ties with you.”

The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t.

“You… what?” Marceline gasped.

“I mean it,” Amanda said coldly. “You are no longer my daughter.”

And then she turned to leave.

“No!” Marceline cried, ripping the IV from her arm, pain flashing but ignored. Blood welled, but she dropped to the floor, crawling toward Amanda with trembling hands.

“Please, Mother. Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me—don’t abandon me,” she sobbed, clinging to the hem of Amanda’s coat like a dying child.

Amanda looked down at her—no pity, no warmth. Just contempt.

“You’re nothing but a disgrace,” she spat. “I regret ever having you.”

Then she shoved Marceline’s hands away and walked out.

The door slammed behind her, loud and final.

The door didn’t just close.

It shut—with finality, with judgment, with the weight of a mother’s rejection sealing the room like a tomb.

Marceline didn’t move.

She stayed there on the cold linoleum floor, knees scraped, IV still dangling from her arm, blood trickling down her skin like shame. Her body trembled, but her mind was blank—like her soul had gone quiet from the shock.

She whispered to no one. “I’m sorry.”

The walls didn’t answer.

The buzzing fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a pale glow on her pale skin. The air smelled of bleach and betrayal.

Marceline pressed her palm to her chest like she could hold her heart together if she just pushed hard enough. But it was no use. The cracks ran too deep.

Amanda was gone.

And with her went every thread of warmth, of protection, of home. All Marceline had now was the steady echo of her own heartbeat—erratic and desperate—and the hollow ache of a future unraveling in real-time.

She dragged herself back to the bed, body limp like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her hands shook as she pulled the blanket around herself—not for warmth, but for illusion. As if covering up could somehow erase the ugliness her mother had seen.

She stared at the ceiling again, but this time, it felt farther away. Like the world itself was retreating.

… … … … ..

Amanda’s Apartment

Nightfall bled across the sky like bruises on pale skin.

The air was cold.

Not the kind of cold that nipped at your skin—but the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there, clawing at your chest with every breath. Marceline stood outside her mother’s door, her fists raw from knocking, her voice hoarse from pleading.

“Mother, please… please open the door,” she whispered, barely louder than the night breeze.

Nothing. Not even footsteps on the other side. Just silence.

That silence mocked her. It curled around her like smoke, choking the last flickers of hope from her lungs.

Her fingers shook as she reached for her phone—her last thread of connection, of salvation. Cross. His name glowed on her screen, too familiar. Too dangerous.

She hit the call button.

Ring.

Ring.

Voicemail.

She swallowed, chest rising in shallow gasps. Again.

Ring. Ring. Still no answer.

Again.

Pick up, please pick up.

Again.

Each ring was another slap to the face. Each second he didn’t answer was another crack in her already shattered soul.

Her thumb hovered above the redial icon, her hands trembling uncontrollably now. She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said aloud, her voice shaking like broken glass. “I don’t even want you to take responsibility.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her other hand clutched her stomach—that little flicker of life she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t planned for… but couldn’t ignore.

“I just need help, Cross.” Her breath hitched. “Just something to survive. Just a little money. Just a little… anything.”

The phone slipped from her hand, landing on the concrete with a hollow thud.

She crumpled next to it.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.

Just... defeated.

“I was good,” she whispered to the night. “I was good to you. Why would you leave me like this?”

She felt it now—not just sadness. Rage. Hurt. Abandonment.

The sharp ache of realizing that the person you gave everything to… couldn’t even give you a callback.

She pressed her forehead against the cold step, the tears flowing without shame now. “Why is it so easy for people to throw me away?” she choked.

And then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

Marceline froze. Her breath caught mid-sob. Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes wide and glassy.

Jennie stood there, small and soft in the golden light of the hallway.

No judgment. No disappointment.

Just heartbreak.

She knelt beside Marceline and gently wiped the tears away like a ritual. Like maybe, if she wiped hard enough, she could erase the pain.

“You can come in,” Jennie whispered.

She didn’t wait for Marceline to move. She just helped her up, steady hands lifting broken bones and bruised pride.

Marceline wanted to crumble again, to fall into her arms and sob, but she held herself upright as Jennie guided her inside.

Then she saw her mother.

Amanda.

Standing in the hallway, arms folded, her face carved from stone. No flicker of sympathy. No trace of softness. Only ice. Absolute and final.

“Pack your things,” she said coldly. “Tomorrow you’re going to your cousin’s house.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t explain.

She just turned her back—and walked away.

And that silence?

It was louder than any scream.

And all Marceline could do was stand there, hollowed out, as the world she once knew closed in around her like a cage.

… … … … ..

Time blurred in the weeks that followed Marceline’s exile. Days melted into nights filled with sleepless tears, and silence became her only companion. Her cousin's house was never home—it was survival wrapped in obligation, an echo of all she had lost.

She’d traded textbooks for dirty aprons, dreams for exhaustion. She worked whatever odd jobs came her way—washing dishes, scrubbing floors, taking orders with a tired smile stitched to her face. Her pride bled out quietly with every bite of shame she swallowed.

But worst of all were the nights. When the house went quiet the walls stopped pretending to care. When her body curled into itself on the too-small mattress, one hand always protectively over her belly, whispering apologies to the life inside her.

Her mother’s last words still clung to her like frostbite:

> “You're going to earn your own money and take care of that bastard in your belly. Don’t expect me to feed that thing.”

Each word had been a knife. And they never stopped cutting.

This morning was no different. The ache in her lower back had returned, heavier than usual, but there was no time to think, let alone rest.

“Marceline! What are you dawdling for? Get your act together!” her aunt barked from the kitchen.

“Yes, Auntie!” she called, blinking back dizziness as she grabbed the tray stacked high with dishes. The metal bit into her palms, and her knees already felt like glass ready to shatter.

She stepped into the bustling dining area. Her breath came faster. She gripped the tray tighter.

> Just a few more hours. You can cry later.

She never saw the grease slick on the floor. One misstep—and the world tilted.

She slipped.

The crash of breaking plates was deafening. A gasp rippled through the restaurant, but Marceline didn’t hear it.

Because pain—white-hot and blinding—ripped through her abdomen. She collapsed hard onto the floor, the breath punched from her lungs.

At first, she couldn’t even scream. The agony was so sharp, so raw, it stole the sound right out of her.

Her hands flew to her stomach, cradling it protectively. Tears burst from her eyes, unbidden. “Auntie…” she choked out, voice trembling, cracked. “It hurts. Something’s wrong.”

Her aunt rushed to her side, the irritation in her voice gone. “Stay still, don’t move! We’ll get help!”

Marceline looked down.

Blood.

It spread beneath her, thick and vivid, and the moment she saw it—something inside her shattered.

“No…” she whispered. Her fingers trembled as they pressed into her belly, desperate, panicked, pleading with the universe to stop what was already happening.

“No, no, please—not this…”

Her vision blurred, her heart racing in terror. The pain kept coming in waves, rolling over her like a tide determined to drown.

Tears streamed down her face, but not from the pain—not really.

It was fear.

It was helplessness.

It was the unbearable ache of knowing she might be losing the one thing—the only thing—that had been truly hers.

“Auntie… the pain…” she whimpered, her body folding in on itself. “It’s too much…”

Her aunt knelt beside her, panic overtaking irritation. “Don’t move, don’t move. I’ll take you to the hospital,” she said, but her voice shook.

That’s when she saw it.

The blood.

Pooling beneath Marceline like a silent scream.

“No…” the girl whispered, the world tilting.

She could feel it—life slipping away. Something precious, something hers, tearing itself from her body. Her fingers trembled as they pressed against her belly as if she could hold it in, hold on.

Her aunt's hands were on her, her voice far away, but Marceline couldn't focus. The sounds around her dimmed. Her strength gave out. Her body went limp.

She felt herself slipping.

Not just into unconsciousness.

But into a place of darkness where hope couldn’t reach.

And with one final, rattled breath—

She let go.

… … … … .

Hospital Room — Dusk.

The sterile white walls hummed with silence. Machines beeped steadily, indifferent to the storm brewing inside her chest.

Marceline stirred, her lashes fluttering against tear-swollen cheeks. The light above was dim, a gentle glow that could’ve almost passed for peace—if not for the look on her aunt’s face.

The moment their eyes met, Marceline knew.

Something was wrong.

“Auntie?” Her voice cracked like brittle glass. “Why do you look like that?”

Her aunt's mouth trembled as she stepped forward, hesitating. “I’m sorry, Marceline.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Marceline sat up a little, suddenly alert. “What… what do you mean? Why are you sorry?”

The answer came like a blade to the gut.

“You lost the baby. It—it didn’t make it.”

The world stood still.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t understand. The words made no sense. They echoed but didn’t land.

“What?” Marceline breathed, a whisper too soft to carry the weight of her horror. “No… no, no, tell me you're lying.” Her voice broke, turning sharp. “Please tell me you're joking.”

Her aunt only shook her head. Tears rimmed her eyes.

“No…” Marceline gasped, her hands flying to her stomach—flat now, hollow, achingly empty.

Her body shook violently. “No! No! You can’t be gone! You promised me—” Her voice cracked into a scream. “HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME?!”

She folded over, clutching her belly as if she could still hold onto what had already slipped through her fingers. “I didn’t even get to say your name…”

Her cries tore through the walls like thunder. Grief consumed her in an unrelenting wave. It stole her breath, ripped at her chest, and crushed her from the inside out.

> This can’t be happening.

This isn’t real.

This was all she had left.

Tears streamed freely, staining the gown, the sheets, and her skin. Her sobs were no longer quiet—they were broken screams from a girl whose entire world had just crumbled.

“This is your fault,” she spat suddenly, her voice filled with venom and despair. Her eyes darkened with fury, madness, and pain. “Cross Dejava, you did this to me.”

She glared at nothing—at the ceiling, the walls, the memory of him.

“I hate you,” she whispered. “I hate you for not answering. For not caring. For letting me suffer alone.”

Her voice cracked again, the weight of those final words too much to carry.

And then—just silence. Deafening. Suffocating. Unforgiving.

Her aunt tried to reach for her, but Marceline turned away, curling into herself like a broken bird with clipped wings.

A mother with no child.

A heart with no light.

Five Years Later

Time had carved its own scars across Marceline’s life—some deeper than others, none fully healed.

The past five years had taught her the art of endurance. Of silencing sobs at midnight. Of rising when there was no one left to catch her fall.

Now, with the last of her pride folded into a suitcase, she stood once again on the soil of Spain—the land that had once stripped her bare.

It wasn’t home.

It was a memory.

And it hurt to breathe it in.

Her gaze drifted toward the apartment window as city lights shimmered in the dusk. Her fingers curled tighter around the mug in her hand—lukewarm coffee, the drink of the weary.

Her voice was quiet. “Can’t believe I’m back here…”

Behind her, Jennie peeked from the kitchen, brow raised. “You’re going to crush that interview tomorrow, you know that, right?”

Marceline blinked, offering a faint smile. “I’m not so sure.”

“You’re smart. Capable. You’ve fought dragons in human form. Who wouldn’t want you on their team?”

A soft laugh escaped her, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Once I get the job, I’ll be able to pay off Mama’s hospital bills. Get her back on her feet. And maybe start saving for the surgery.”

Her voice trailed off. Not in doubt—but in weight. The kind of pressure that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes with every breath.

Even after everything—the cruel words, the abandonment—she couldn’t leave Amanda to die.

Not when she remembered her mother’s trembling hands or the way her body folded in on itself in pain. Not when Marceline had once looked up at her with the hope only daughters could hold.

“Spain…” she whispered, eyes narrowing on the skyline. “Let’s see what the hell you’ve got for me this time.”

… … … …

DEJAVA CORPORATION – INTERVIEW DAY

The lobby buzzed with ambition—heels clicking like war drums, voices coated in false charm. Marceline sat alone in the chaos; her resume clutched so tightly that her knuckles ached. Her chest rose and fell with ragged, shallow breaths, the nerves bubbling up like bile. She hadn't eaten and hadn't slept much either. Hope was a cruel thing—too fragile to lean on, too stubborn to silence.

She was here for her mother. For the surgery. For survival.

The receptionist called her name, slicing through her spiral of thoughts like a blade.

“Next—Marceline Valino.”

Her legs protested as she stood, tension coiling through her spine like a whip. The walk behind the assistant felt like a slow march to a battlefield. The elevator creaked upward, but the silence was louder than any sound. It wrapped around her throat, suffocating, taunting.

Then the assistant stopped before a black double door. “You can enter.”

No explanation. No reason for the isolated room.

Her gut twisted. Something was wrong.

She pushed the door open.

And time—time stopped.

He sat there.

Cross Dejava.

His name shattered against her ribs like glass. Her vision narrowed, pulse roaring in her ears.

The man who had destroyed her. The one who had once whispered promises against her skin—then turned his back when she bled when she cried when she lost everything.

Now here he was. Draped in expensive silk, smirking like the devil on a throne.

“Wow,” he said, rising slowly, his voice low and lethal. “Look who we have here.”

Every muscle in her body locked. Her blood ran cold. But she refused to let her knees buckle. Not now.

She met his eyes. And all the years of torment, of unanswered calls, of mourning alone—flashed behind her gaze like wildfire.

“Marceline Valino,” he said with cruel amusement. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

She forced her voice out, cold and steady. “Not like I planned on seeing you either.”

He chuckled darkly. “Five years, and you’re still this feisty? Gods, don’t you miss me?”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream. To claw that arrogant look off his face. But she said nothing. The silence was safer. Sharper.

She turned on her heel. “I guess the interview’s over. I’ll be going.”

But then—his voice, casual and cutting, like a blade dipped in honey.

“You’ve got the job,” he said. “But there are rules.”

Marceline stopped mid-step. The temperature in the room dropped. Her stomach twisted into knots.

A chill raced down her spine. She didn’t turn around.

Not yet.

Because she knew—whatever those rules were, they would come with a price. One she wasn’t sure she could afford. Not with what was left of her heart.

And in that moment, standing beneath his smirk and the weight of five years of grief, she realized something terrifying:

She had walked back into the arms of the storm.

“What rules?” Marceline asked, her voice brittle as glass, but her spine steel.

Cross smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that curled with arrogance and amusement. He leaned back on the leather couch like a king on a throne, lounging in his own cruelty.

“Rule number one: This is just a marriage of convenience,” he said, voice silk-wrapped steel.

She blinked, stunned, as the air in the room thickened.

“Rule number two: You’re not allowed to get physically attached to any other male. Ever.”

Her breath caught in her throat. What the hell was he saying?

“Rule number three: Your body and soul belong to me.”

The words hit like a slap. Possessive. Degrading. Unapologetically cruel.

“Rule number four: Never get ahead of yourself. Know your place.”

Each word was a nail in a coffin—hers.

“Rule number five: You can’t fall for me. This marriage has nothing to do with love.”

Something inside her cracked at that. Not because she wanted his love—but because once, foolishly, naively, she had. And now he was throwing the very idea back at her like trash.

“Rule number six: You can’t end this marriage. Only I can decide when it ends,” he finished, nonchalantly, as though he’d just listed dinner options—not the terms of her imprisonment.

Marceline stared at him, cold horror creeping down her spine. “What’s this supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“It’s the job,” he said, still lounging, looking like the devil dressed in designer. “A contract marriage. You marry me, you get the job. You don’t… well, good luck finding another way to save your dear mother.”

Her heart stopped. The room tilted. She stared at him, searching for any flicker of humanity in his eyes.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she whispered. “Tell me this is just another one of your twisted jokes.”

“You have 24 hours,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “Read the contract. Sign it. Or don’t. Your choice.”

She swallowed the scream clawing up her throat. “And what if I refuse?” she asked, daring him.

He stood then—slowly, deliberately. Power radiated from every step as he stalked toward her like a predator. The air turned cold, heavy with danger.

“What did you say?” he asked softly.

“I said I won’t sign it,” she snapped. “I’m not that weak, naive girl you used to control. I’m not your toy, Cross. I won’t let you use me again.”

His smirk vanished. His face darkened.

“You’re nothing to me, Marceline,” he growled. “Do you understand? Nothing. Just a pawn.”

“Then find another pawn,” she spat. “Because I’d rather starve than marry a monster like you.”

He moved closer, so close she could smell the expensive cologne—cool, sharp, suffocating.

“Don’t make me force you, Celine,” he warned, voice low. “I’m still trying to be nice.”

“Go to hell. Take your job and shove it,” she hissed, turning sharply toward the door.

But she didn’t make it three steps before his next words stopped her cold.

“Walk away now,” he said calmly, “and I’ll make sure your mother never gets that surgery. I’ll buy out the hospital. I’ll make sure she dies waiting.”

The world went silent.

Marceline froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

She turned back slowly, her legs trembling. Tears burned in her eyes—but they would not fall. Not in front of him.

She looked at the man who had once kissed her like she was air, who now held her fate—and her mother’s—in his merciless hands.

He had become her nightmare.

And she had just woken up in it.

Marceline froze. The air in the office felt suddenly thinner like the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced with fire and ice.

Cross's words echoed in her skull, cold and deliberate.

“Take her younger sister; I’m sure you know the address of her school. Her sick mother is at home, all alone, right now. You know what to do,” he said coldly, the chill in his tone cutting deeper than any blade.

Marceline froze. Her breath hitched. Her world tilted.

Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief as his words sank in—slow, brutal, suffocating. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm of fear and fury.

“You wouldn’t—” she choked out, her voice a mere whisper of its former strength, strangled by the lump forming in her throat.

Her body trembled, a storm of panic tearing through her as the image of her little sister flashed across her mind’s eye. Innocent. Bright-eyed. Defenseless.

Cross stared back at her, unblinking, a predator who knew exactly where to cut. “Marceline, you know I have too many ways to catch the cat. I just decided to go for the simplest. The blood of your family will be on your hands if anything happens to them because of you.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The ice behind his words was enough to pierce through skin and soul alike.

“You… how do you know all this?” she asked, brokenly, barely holding herself together.

“You might be surprised,” he said with a smug curl of his lips. “When I say I know everything about you, Celine, I mean everything.”

Her knees felt weak like they might give way under the weight of it all. Her lips trembled as the tears she had fought so hard to hold back now rolled freely down her cheeks.

“Why me?” she asked, her voice cracking as her body folded in on itself—like something shattered inside her chest.

He smiled, cruel and careless. “Take it as me granting that wish you made five years ago.”

She let out a bitter, broken laugh through the sob in her throat. “I hate you,” she whispered.

“I don’t care. I don’t like you either,” he said, devoid of remorse. “This is just a marriage of convenience. You mean nothing. I only picked you because you’ll be easy to discard… just like before. You’re disposable, Marceline Valino.”

Marceline squeezed her eyes shut. She hated that it still hurt. She hated that it still mattered.

“You should be happy, Marceline,” he added with venom-laced sarcasm.

“Why are you doing this to me, Cross? Why?” she snapped, voice rising, cracking under the weight of anguish and betrayal. Her fists clenched at her sides.

“You don’t deserve to know,” he replied coldly. “I get to solve your problems for you. All you have to do is play the part of Mrs. Dejava.”

She stared at him—really stared at him. The man she had once loved was now a stranger in front of her, twisted by power and vengeance.

“After all these years… I thought maybe you’d changed,” she said, her voice low and trembling. “But hell no. You’re still the devil you were back then.”

Cross merely tilted his head, eyes gleaming darkly. “Thank goodness. You and this devil will make quite the pair.”

“You’ll pay for this. You’ll feel every bit of pain my mother felt,” he whispered, trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re punishing me for something I know nothing about. How could you?”

“I don’t care,” he said with terrifying calm. “I’ll break you, Marceline.”

Her heart thundered in her chest as she picked up the pen with shaking hands. Her whole body screamed at her not to do it. But she had no choice. Not with her mother’s life on the line. Not with her sister in danger.

She signed.

Each stroke of her signature felt like etching chains around her own neck.

Then she turned to face him—her eyes, red and swollen with tears, yet burning with defiance.

“You can’t break me, Cross,” she hissed. “I’m no longer a plastic doll you can bend and toss away. I’m ironing now. I won’t shatter.”

His gaze darkened. But she didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.