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.

Marceline stepped out of the cab, her fingers trembling slightly as she rummaged through her purse for the fare. The driver cast a wary glance her way, his sharp eyes assessing her carefully, a hint of concern flickering across his face, but he refrained from voicing his thoughts. Instead, he accepted the cash with a curt nod. She managed a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, nodded politely, and shut the door behind her. The cab rumbled away, trailing behind it a cloud of exhaust and the relentless, weary hum of the city that lingered in the air like a distant echo of a life she had once known.

The iron gate loomed before her, its rusted bars standing tall and unyielding, a fortress to her tumultuous past. It was familiar yet felt like a stranger, like a place that once held warmth, now veiled in the cold fog of time and trauma. She took a shuddering breath, exhaled shakily, and reached forward to push it open. The hinges creaked ominously, the sound slicing through the quiet afternoon like a whisper from a long-forgotten nightmare.

As she approached the apartment door, a sudden wave of dizziness crashed over her, overwhelming her senses. Her knees buckled slightly, but with sheer force of will, she steadied herself, refusing to succumb to the tide of unease that threatened to pull her under. Her heart thundered violently in her chest, and her thoughts spiraled, each one unraveling in a chaotic dance.

With hesitant hands, she pressed the doorbell, the chime echoing down the stillness of the hallway.

No answer.

She pressed again, the sound fading into the oppressive silence that enveloped her like a shroud.

Her breath quickened, each inhale heavy with anxiety. The silence behind the door felt suffocating, thick with unspoken words and long-buried memories, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something to break the stillness.

Just when I thought I had finally forgotten it all… he had to show himself again, Marceline thought bitterly, her inner voice laced with anguish. Why is it always me? Why can’t life just let me breathe for once?

She hovered at the brink of despair, about to sink to the ground, when the door creaked open, breaking the tension.

“Marceline?” a soft voice called, uncertainty weaving through it, nearly trembling with disbelief.

Cora stood there, her eyes wide and searching, a mix of shock and relief crossing her face. She clutched the doorknob as if trying to ascertain whether she was seeing a ghost or a miracle.

Marceline mustered a small, weary smile, her lips barely lifting. “Hey…”

Cora gasped—half laugh, half sob—and before Marceline could even step over the threshold, she was enveloped in a warm, desperate embrace, one that felt like a lifeline.

“Oh my God, I’ve missed you so, so badly,” Cora murmured against her shoulder, holding her tightly, as if releasing her might send Marceline vanishing into the wind.

“The same here,” Marceline whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of everything she had been holding in—the burden of her past clawing at her throat.

As she finally stepped inside, her legs dragged heavily, each movement a struggle as if the air around her had turned to lead. She collapsed onto the couch, her body falling against the cushions like a discarded rag doll, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment as exhaustion threatened to consume her.

“What would you like to have?” Cora asked, concern etching deeper lines across her face, her nurturing instinct flaring to life.

“Water,” Marceline replied hoarsely, her throat dry and parched. “Please, just water.”

Cora nodded quickly, her expression a mixture of worry and urgency as she disappeared into the kitchen. The apartment breathed with a warmth that wrapped around Marceline, its scent redolent with cinnamon and warm vanilla—a faint trace of a candle Cora had probably lit earlier. The aroma wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, offering a momentary balm to her raw, frayed nerves.

Marceline sat still, her heart racing, trying to control her breathing, fighting against tears that threatened to spill over the dam she had carefully built around her emotions.

A few minutes later, Cora returned, carrying a glass filled with cool, clear water. She handed it to Marceline, who took it with trembling fingers, raising it to her lips and drinking slowly, as though each sip was a tether, grounding her back to reality.

“I was expecting you tomorrow,” Cora said gently, concern deepening the warmth in her voice as she took a seat across from her, scrutinizing Marceline with those familiar, caring eyes.

Marceline set the empty glass on the table beside her, her gaze drifting toward the window but seeing nothing beyond the heavy clouds of her thoughts, weaving in and out of focus.

“I needed someone to talk to,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “My head... it feels like it’s about to catch fire.”

Cora leaned forward, brows knitting together with worry. “You don’t look okay. Are you feeling sick?”

Marceline hesitated, her eyes flicking to Cora’s and then away again, the weight of her secrets pressing down on her.

“I’m fine,” she replied, the words slipping out too quickly, too flatly, devoid of conviction.

Cora didn’t believe her; she could see it etched in the lines on Marceline’s face, but she chose not to press the matter. Not yet.

“So... the job,” Cora said cautiously, treading into the territory of small talk, trying to lighten the mood. “Did you get it?”

Marceline let out a brittle laugh—a humorless sound that shattered the brief silence, her hands clenching into fists on her lap, a storm brewing within her.

“Do you know who the CEO of the company is?” she asked, her voice tight, simmering with a barely contained edge.

“No.” Cora leaned back casually in her chair, a sliver of mischief glimmering in her eyes, as if she were sharing the juiciest gossip rather than a grave revelation. “I only found out the CEO is ruthless and doesn’t take shit from anyone. But as long as you do your job well, you’re safe.”

Marceline’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup, the ceramic feeling cool against her clammy palms. She swallowed hard, the sensation scraping her throat like shards of glass. “Of course he would be ruthless,” she muttered to herself, bitterness curling in her words.

Cora blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Marceline lowered her voice to a whisper, as though entrusting a secret that might shatter her world. “I met Cross,” she breathed, the admission weighing heavily on her chest, as if she had just released an insidious truth.

Cora straightened in her seat, alarm flashing across her features like a sudden summer storm. “Which Cross are you talking about?” Her voice acquired a sharp edge, urgency infusing every syllable. “Don’t tell me it’s who I’m thinking.”

Marceline gave a slow, deliberate nod, each movement steeped in gravity. “He’s the one.”

Cora gasped, her eyes widening. “What? Oh my God. Celine, I’m so sorry—I didn’t even know he was the CEO. If I’d known, I never would’ve suggested you apply for that position!”

Marceline raised a trembling hand, imploring silence as she fought against the tide of memories crashing over her. “It’s fine, Cora. I’m not blaming you. You couldn’t have known,” she reassured her friend, the words faltering at the end, like something deep inside her was fracturing.

Cora leaned forward, her expression morphing into one of deep concern. “So what happened? Did you lose the job?”

“I wish I had,” Marceline whispered, her voice barely above a murmur, filled with an unsettling calm. “Because what I’m about to step into... It’s a nightmare I never imagined would come back to haunt me.”

Cora stared intently, her mouth slightly agape. “What are you talking about? Please, make me understand.”

Marceline’s lips twisted into a bitter semblance of a smile, devoid of humor. “He gave me the job,” she said slowly, each word laden with resignation. “And an offer that’s too intoxicating... and far too perilous.”

Cora leaned closer, hanging on her every word. “What kind of offer?”

“He wants me to marry him,” Marceline articulated, her breath hitching as the enormity of the statement crashed over her.

Cora’s eyes nearly burst from their sockets. “What?!”

“To him, it’s not marriage,” Marceline continued, her tone hardened with bitterness. “It’s a weapon. A tool in his arsenal. He told me this is his way of breaking me, of forcing me to understand the anguish his mother endured because of mine. I could wear his ring, but in reality, I would merely be a vessel for his revenge.”

Cora sprang to her feet, disbelief radiating from her. “Cross must be out of his goddamn mind! He’s insane! Does he have any idea what you went through because of him?”

Marceline looked away, a wave of shame creeping up her spine, cold and unwanted. “What could I possibly tell him, Cora? That I lost the baby I carried for him? That I drowned in grief while he vanished? That night after night, for an entire year, I cried until I could hardly breathe.” Her voice trembled as the memories clawed at her sanity. “He’d just say I was seeking sympathy. That I was pathetic.”

Cora’s eyes brimmed with tears as she sank back onto the couch beside her. “So... what was your response? Please, tell me you didn’t accept it.”

Marceline remained silent for a moment, the weight of the world settling on her shoulders.

“I signed the contract,” she murmured, her voice resigned.

Cora jerked her head around, disbelief etched on her face as she stared at her friend like she had lost her sanity. “You what?” she snapped, incredulity washing over her. “Marceline, no! Tell me you’re joking!”

“I had no choice,” Marceline replied, her voice eerily calm, as though she were speaking of a past already resigned to fate. “He didn’t give me the luxury of rebellion or choice. It was either marry him or watch my family disintegrate.”

Cora’s expression froze in horror. “What are you saying?”

“He threatened them, Cora. My mother, my sisters. He promised they wouldn’t survive if I refused,” Marceline recounted, her voice shaking but resolute. “I saw it in his eyes—he meant every terrifying word.”

Cora’s face contorted with rage. “He’s a monster. A heartless, vindictive monster.”

“I know,” Marceline whispered, a heaviness dragging her down like an anchor. Her shoulders sagged, as if the burden of her sacrifice had already stripped her of will. “But I can’t risk losing them. Not them. If giving up my freedom and my happiness saves my family... then so be it.”

Cora reached out, enveloping her in a fierce hug that felt like a lifeline in turbulent seas. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve checked. I thought you were safe. I thought we had escaped the past...”

“I thought so too,” Marceline murmured against Cora’s shoulder, feeling the warmth seep into her chilled bones. “I thought I’d moved on. That I could forget. That I could finally live in peace. But he’s back, and this time... he doesn’t just want to hurt me; he wants to obliterate me completely.”

Cora held her tighter, a protective embrace brimming with fierce loyalty. “You don’t deserve this, Celine. You never did. You should be the one demanding revenge, not submitting to it. How dare he punish you for something you didn’t do!”

A long silence enveloped them, the air thick with unshed tears, reminding them of the storm brewing just beyond their walls. Outside, the wind howled softly, rustling leaves as if the world itself mourned with her.

Slowly, Marceline pulled back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “This isn’t love, Cora. This isn’t even hatred. It’s something darker. He wants to destroy me from the inside out.”

“Then fight back,” Cora urged, her voice fiery with determination. “Even if you feel trapped, find your strength. Make him regret ever thinking you’re weak.”

Marceline managed a small, broken laugh, tinged with desperation. “I don’t know if I have any strength left.”

“Well, then I’ll remind you,” Cora replied firmly, cupping her friend’s face in her hands, the intensity of her gaze penetrating through Marceline's armor. “You’re not alone in this. I’m with you. We’ll get through this—one breath at a time.”

In that quiet, pain-drenched moment, Marceline didn’t feel strong, nor did she feel brave. But amidst the storm of despair, she felt a flicker deep within her—a flicker that hinted at resilience waiting to ignite.