Blaire Morin POV:

The darkness was a welcome friend, pulling me deeper into its embrace. I felt the dull throb of my pulse, growing weaker, the edges of my senses blurring. But then, a sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth. A hand roughly clamped over my nose and mouth, forcing something down my throat. My body convulsed, fighting the intrusion, but I was too weak. My consciousness flickered, then extinguished.

I woke up to the sterile scent of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of machines. My throat burned, and my head throbbed. I blinked, trying to focus on the blurry figures hovering over me. Only nurses and an IV drip were my companions in the stark white hospital room.

Dr. Lamb, a kind-faced man whose eyes held a familiar weariness, leaned over my bed. "Blaire," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Again? What happened this time?"

He checked my pulse, his fingers gentle on my wrist. "You almost didn't make it, Blaire. We had to pump your stomach. You were lucky a neighbor found you."

My body ached, but my mind felt strangely hollow. "They... they lied to me," I rasped, the words scratching my raw throat. "Everything was a lie."

He was silent for a moment, his gaze compassionate. "I know things are hard, Blaire," he finally said, his voice laced with an exhaustion I recognized in myself. "But you can't keep doing this. Life is precious, no matter how dark it seems. Don't let anyone else dictate your worth."

I knew he was tired of me. Everyone was. This was the fourth time I'd ended up here in five years.

The first time was after Ashton supposedly went to jail. I had stood on the ledge of our penthouse apartment, the New York skyline mocking my despair. I' d blamed myself then, for his 'imprisonment,' for our family' s 'ruin.' I was about to jump when the thought of him, alone in a cell, without me, stopped me. I couldn't abandon him. I couldn't.

The second time, I was living in a cramped, roach-infested studio, barely scraping by. The hunger, the constant harassment, it was too much. I slit my wrists, watching the crimson bloom on my pale skin. But then I pictured the landlord finding my body, the eviction notice, the shame. Even in death, I was worried about practicalities. I wrapped the wounds myself, bleeding through cheap bandages.

The third time was just a few months ago, after a particularly brutal wave of cyberbullying led to my address being doxed. Swallowing a handful of sleeping pills, I hoped for a permanent escape. But the universe, or perhaps just a cruel twist of fate, had other plans. A neighbor heard my faint cries and called for help.

Dr. Lamb finished his examination, his expression grim. "When you're discharged, I'll make sure you won't be getting any more prescriptions for sedatives, Blaire. We need to find you a different path."

My voice was a dry whisper. "Dr. Lamb, have you... have you ever met a man who looks like me? My brother. He was... he was supposed to be here."

He shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips. "No, Blaire. Not since I started treating you. I'm sorry." He paused. "It was a young woman who brought you in this time. She said she was your neighbor."

As Dr. Lamb left, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursed through me. No. This time, I wouldn't let them win. I ripped the IV from my arm, a sharp sting. Blood welled up, but I ignored it, pushing myself off the bed.

I stumbled into the hallway. A young woman stood near the nurses' station, her back to me. She turned, and a cold dread coiled in my stomach. It was Kecia. Her eyes, usually so calculating, now held a glint of malicious satisfaction as they met mine.

"Couldn't even finish the job, could you, Blaire?" she sneered, her voice low enough so only I could hear. "Typical. Always making a mess and leaving it for others."

My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "When exactly did you become my neighbor, Kecia?"

Her eyes widened for a split second, a flicker of surprise, before she recovered. "Oh, Ashton asked me to keep an eye on you while he's... away. You know, make sure you don't do anything stupid." Her smile was sickly sweet. "He cares about you, Blaire, despite everything."

She turned to leave, her heels clicking on the polished floor. Then, she paused, glancing back at me. "Next time, try to be a bit more discreet. The hospital bills are adding up, and it's quite the inconvenience." She winked, a gesture of pure evil.

I watched her go, my face expressionless. The hospital gown fluttered around me as I walked out, past the nurses' station, past the pitying glances, and onto the street. The biting New York air hit me, a shock to my system. My apartment was only a few blocks away.

When I reached my building, the stench of dog feces was gone. The ugly red spray paint on the wall, the word "WHORE" that had haunted me for weeks, was scrubbed clean. Someone had been here. Someone had cleaned up the evidence of their torment.

My hands trembled as I unlocked the door. Inside, the small, squalid apartment was pristine. The broken glass from my last suicide attempt was gone. The overturned furniture was righted. But then, my eyes landed on the window. Behind the tattered curtain, a tiny, almost invisible camera lens gleamed. Ashton had been watching me. All this time. He hadn't been in jail. He had just been watching his sister slowly die.

He'd even cleaned up after my suicide attempt, not to help me, but to erase the proof of his monstrous game. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe.

I walked into the bathroom, the scene of my latest failure. The ceramic shards of my mother's favorite porcelain box, the one that held her ashes, were gone. The torn, framed photo of my parents and Ashton, a relic from a life now dead, was nowhere to be seen. Kecia must have found it. She must have seen me there, broken, bloodied, clutching the only remnants of my past.

The image of that night, my raw, primal scream echoing in the tiny bathroom, came rushing back. I was a pathetic mess, sprawled on the cold tiles, surrounded by my own blood and the shattered pieces of my memories.

Kecia wanted me to die, but not like that. Not in a way that would leave a trace for Ashton to find. She wanted to control even my death, to hide the truth from him.

A bitter, hysterical laugh tried to escape my throat, but it dissolved into a choked sob. I sank to the floor, my legs giving out. The cold tiles pressed against my skin, mirroring the chill in my soul. They had done this to me. All of it. For five years. And it was all a game.

Blaire Morin POV:

I grew up with everything. A penthouse overlooking Central Park, designer clothes, trust funds overflowing. My parents always said I had a fiery spirit, a will of my own. They called it passion; Ashton called it stubbornness. One thing was for sure: I never let anyone walk all over me.

That's why I couldn't stand being bullied.

My parents died in a plane crash when I was eighteen, leaving Ashton and me alone with our grief and the vast tech empire they' d built. Ashton, just five years my senior, became my guardian, my protector. Or so I thought.

A few months after the funeral, he brought Kecia home. "The house feels too empty, Blaire," he'd said, avoiding my gaze. "Kecia will keep us company." She was beautiful, in a fragile, porcelain doll way. But her eyes, even then, held a glint of something calculating.

Kecia played the role of the sweet, innocent orphan to perfection. In front of Ashton, she was all demure smiles and gentle touches. But the moment his back was turned, her true colors emerged. She'd "accidentally" spill coffee on my textbooks, "forget" to tell me about important family gatherings, and whisper insidious lies to Ashton about my supposed disrespect.

Ashton, blinded by her angelic facade, always fell for it. "Blaire, you're so spoiled," he'd scold, his voice tinged with the frustration Kecia had expertly planted. "You need to grow up. Kecia's been through so much, and you treat her like this?"

My blood would boil. I wasn't just spoiled; I was fiercely loyal, especially to Ashton. But his constant dismissal, his unwavering belief in Kecia, chipped away at me. One evening, after Kecia had deliberately slandered my name to Ashton, blaming me for a mistake she had made at the company dinner, something inside me snapped. Ashton had just finished berating me again, based on Kecia's tearful accusations.

"Blaire, you need to apologize," he'd demanded, his jaw tight.

Kecia stood behind him, a smug smirk playing on her lips, her eyes daring me.

I looked at her, then back at Ashton. "Apologize for what? For her lies?"

Kecia's face crumpled, a performance perfected over months. "Ashton, please, she's so mean to me!"

That was it. My hand moved before I even registered the thought. SMACK! The sound echoed in the silent dining room. Kecia stumbled back, clutching her cheek, her carefully constructed facade shattering. Her fake tears turned real, her eyes wide with shock.

"That," I said, my voice shaking with fury, "is what a real slap feels like. Don't you ever try to make me look bad again."

Kecia collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, begging Ashton to "do something."

Ashton's face was a mask of rage. "Blaire! Apologize to her! Now!"

"Never," I spat, my chest heaving.

He raised his hand, his eyes blazing, ready to strike me. It was the first time he'd ever even considered laying a hand on me.

"Go ahead," I said, my voice dangerously calm, even though my heart hammered against my ribs. "Hit me. And then we're done. You and I. For good."

His hand hovered, trembling with suppressed anger, the veins in his neck bulging. He couldn't do it. Not yet.

He slowly lowered his arm, his eyes still locked on mine, filled with a hatred I had never seen before. Then he turned, his back to me, and gently helped Kecia to her feet, whispering soothing words to her. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'll make sure she pays for this. I promise."

I scoffed silently. A "lesson." He wouldn't dare. He couldn't possibly understand what I would do to him if he tried. I was Blaire Morin. I never backed down.

I watched him comfort her, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Good. Let him comfort her. I' d get my revenge. He' d regret siding with that viper. This was just a small skirmish. I'd win the war.

I thought his "lesson" would be some petty grounding, or maybe cutting off my allowance for a month. I never imagined the depths of his cruelty.

Blaire Morin POV:

I was so naive. So damn arrogant. I thought I knew Ashton, thought I knew the limits of his anger. I was so wrong. My little plans for revenge, my smug belief that he wouldn't dare push me too far-they were child's play compared to the nightmare he orchestrated.

A few days after the slap, the world imploded. Ashton called me into his study, his face unreadable. "Blaire," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "the company is bankrupt. SEC investigation. I'm going to jail for six years."

My mind reeled. Bankrupt? Jail? It was impossible. Our family empire, built over generations, gone? Ashton, locked away? My protector, my rock, snatched from me? A cold, suffocating panic seized me. I was alone.

I tried to offer him my jewelry, my trust fund, anything to save him, to save us. He just shook his head, his eyes distant. "It's too late, Blaire. It's done."

He was gone within a week, supposedly behind bars. Our sprawling villa, the place that had been my home since birth, was seized. The staff disappeared. I was truly an orphan, adrift in a city that suddenly felt hostile and unforgiving.

For five years, that lie was my truth. Five years of scraping by in the grimiest corners of New York. Every door I knocked on slammed shut. Every job application, no matter how menial, was rejected. It was like an invisible force was working against me. I lived off ramen noodles and stale bread, sometimes scavenging for food. I ate from dumpsters more times than I care to admit.

The real agony began shortly after Ashton's 'imprisonment.' The phone calls started first, anonymous numbers accusing me of being a "prison wife," a "whore," suggesting I sell my body to pay for Ashton's legal fees. Then came the 'gifts'-dead rats, voodoo dolls, anonymous packages filled with rotten food.

My apartment building became a canvas for their hate. One night, I woke to the stench of dog feces smeared across my door. Another time, the word "DIE" was spray-painted in thick, black letters right above my peephole.

Sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford. I'd lie awake, listening to phantom knocks on my door, the chilling tinkling of what sounded like funerary bells, or worse, the mournful cries of a woman from the hallway. When I dared to look, there was never anyone there, just a scattering of fake money, 'hell money,' on my doorstep.

I considered leaving New York, escaping the constant torment. But Ashton was here. In prison. I couldn't abandon him. I had to be here when he got out. I had to be strong for him. He was all I had left.

The cycle was relentless. I'd break down, convinced I couldn't take another day, then piece myself back together, fueled by a desperate hope that Ashton would eventually return. The thought of him, alone and suffering, kept me tethered to this brutal existence.

When I swallowed those pills the last time, a wave of guilt washed over me. What if Ashton got out and I wasn't there? Who would be there for him? Even in my darkest moment, his welfare was my first thought.

And then, I woke up in the hospital. Saved. Again.

Why? Why save me? Why prolong this agony? If I was meant to suffer, why not let me die?

His "lesson" had been brutal. Five years of blood, sweat, and tears; five years of fighting for survival in a city that wanted to chew me up and spit me out.

I stumbled out of the hospital, the crisp air biting at my skin, leaving the lingering scent of antiseptic behind. My apartment was a few blocks away, and the walk felt endless. Every step was a fresh stab of betrayal. I had been foolish, so foolish.

Before, I had been too ashamed to visit Ashton in prison. How could I let him see me like this? Gaunt, bruised, wearing stained clothes I'd found in donation bins? He would be so disappointed. I always pictured him, still sharp, still commanding, even in a prison uniform. He was Ashton, after all.

Now, a new, chilling thought solidified in my mind. He was probably still living lavishly, while I was rotting away. My tears had dried up long ago, leaving only a hollow ache. I started walking, not towards my apartment, but towards the formidable walls of the federal prison, a place I had avoided for years. I needed to see him, or at least confirm he was there.

The prison guard looked at me, his eyes filled with pity, as I described Ashton, giving his full name and prison ID. He shook his head slowly. "Ma'am, we have no inmate by that name. Never have."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The concrete beneath my feet suddenly felt unstable. The sun, usually a welcome warmth, now felt like a harsh, mocking spotlight. I stood there, rooted to the spot, the guard's words echoing in my ears, louder than any scream. Ashton wasn't here. He was never here.

My world, already shattered, crumbled into dust. He had never been imprisoned. He had never lost everything. It was all a lie. A game. My "punishment." With a vacant stare, I turned and walked away, the prison gates mocking my five years of misplaced loyalty. I needed to go back. Back to the villa. I needed to see for myself.