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.