Ellie Armstrong POV:

"Colt, I need Saturday off," I said, my voice cutting through the shop' s din.

He spun around, his face reddening, spittle flying from his lips. His bushy eyebrows furrowed into a thunderous scowl. "Saturday? You've had more days off this month than I've had hot dinners! What, another doctor's appointment for that useless hand of yours?" he growled, waving a wrench in the air. "If this Civic ain't running by then, you can kiss your job goodbye, Armstrong. And your next paycheck with it!"

"It's Lily's birthday," I interjected, staring him down. The air went out of him like a deflating tire. His face, usually a storm of gruffness, softened infinitesimally.

He looked me up and down, taking in my oil-stained overalls, the faded, patched-up work jacket that barely kept out the chill. My cheap boots were scuffed and worn, the laces frayed. He probably saw the ghost of the concert pianist, the one who used to float through his shop just to buy a new part for her antique car. Now I was just another grease monkey, same as him, maybe even worse.

Finally, he waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. But don't you dare come in late on Monday. And you can forget about your attendance bonus this quarter."

I nodded, the words barely registering. A bonus? That was a luxury I couldn't afford to care about. I turned and headed for the cramped, dusty locker room in the back.

I peeled off my grimy overalls, the heavy fabric stiff with dried oil and sweat. Underneath, I wore a thin, faded t-shirt and jeans, both washed so many times they were practically transparent. I pulled on my worn denim jacket, the elbows patched, the color bleached to a pale blue-grey. It wasn't much, but it was clean. Mostly.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was already dipping towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the industrial park. I climbed onto my old electric scooter, its plastic body cracked in places, the battery barely holding a charge for a full trip. It was slow, clunky, but it got me where I needed to go.

The wind whipped past my face as I pushed the scooter to its modest limit, a biting chill that made my eyes water. I drove west, away from the city's sprawling grid, towards the forgotten edges of the county.

After what felt like an hour, the paved road gave way to a dirt track, then a barely discernible path leading into a desolate stretch of undeveloped land. No manicured lawns, no polished headstones or weeping angels graced this place. Just wild, untamed nature.

Weeds, tall and aggressive, clawed at my ankles as I pushed the scooter through the overgrown grass. Jagged rocks, sharp and unforgiving, jutted out from the uneven ground. It was a place of forgotten things, a place where memories were left to fade into the earth.

I stopped in front of a small, inconspicuous mound of earth, barely distinguishable from the surrounding undulations. There was no marker, no nameplate. Just a small bump in the earth, like a child's forgotten toy.

Ellie Armstrong POV:

I pulled a small plastic bag from the scooter' s wire basket. Inside, there was a tiny, brightly colored plastic pony, a half-melted chocolate bar, and a single, wilted daisy. Lily' s favorites. The chocolate had softened in the heat, its once-sharp edges now a gooey mess.

I arranged the meager offerings carefully on the small mound of earth, my fingers trembling slightly as I laid them down. Then, I knelt, pulling at the persistent weeds that had sprung up since my last visit, clearing the space around her.

"Hey, sweet pea," I whispered, my voice rough, scratchy. "Mommy's here."

I sank onto the hard, unforgiving earth, the sharp stones digging into my knees. My scarred right hand reached out, brushing against the rough soil, tracing the outline of the small grave.

"I' m so sorry, Lily," I choked out, the words catching in my throat. "I' m so, so sorry."

A cold gust of wind swept across the field, rustling the dry grass, a mournful whisper. I tried to smile, a shaky, broken attempt that only twisted my lips into a grimace.

I pulled a worn, laminated sheet of music from the bag. It was a simple child' s song, one Lily loved.

"Want to hear your favorite song, baby girl?" I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I know I don' t have a piano, but I remember every note."

I raised my right hand, the mangled fingers hovering over the imaginary keys. I pressed down, my fingers going through the motions, a phantom symphony playing in my head.

No sound came, of course. Only the soft click-clack of my stiff knuckles, dry and hollow. I managed a few measures, my left hand mimicking the bass line, but then a sharp, searing pain shot through my right hand. My fingers curled, a pathetic, involuntary spasm.

"Ow," I whispered, shaking my head. "Mommy' s hand hurts, sweetie. I can't play it for you today."

I leaned forward, burying my face in my knees, the pain in my heart far outweighing the physical ache. Hot tears, thick and heavy, dripped from my eyes, splashing onto the dry earth, leaving dark, temporary stains.

My phone, still in my pocket, suddenly blared, its jarring ringtone ripping through the quiet sorrow. I startled, pulling it out. An unknown number. Again. But the pattern was familiar.

I answered, my voice still hoarse with grief. "Hello?"

"You have two hours, Ellie. Be at the estate. If you don't show, your little auto shop will be nothing but scrap metal by morning." Carter's voice, cold and devoid of any warmth, cut through the line. He always went for the jugular.

"You wouldn't dare," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper.

"Try me," he retorted, his tone deceptively calm, chillingly confident. "You know I always get what I want. Don't test my patience, Ellie. I' m offering you a chance to rejoin civilization, for old times' sake. Don't make me drag you back kicking and screaming."

He hung up.

I stared at the small mound of earth, my vision blurred by tears. I reached out again, my fingertips brushing the cold soil.

"Looks like bad people are causing trouble again, Lily-bug," I whispered, a fresh wave of tears choking me. "Don't you worry, though. Mommy will make sure they don't hurt anyone else. You be a good girl, okay? Don't be scared."

Ellie Armstrong POV:

The wrought iron gates of the Hopkins Estate loomed ahead, a familiar, imposing silhouette against the twilight sky. It had once been my home, the grand, opulent cage where I' d lived a life I no longer recognized. Now, it belonged to Carter and Alexandrea, a gilded monument to their betrayal.

I parked my sputtering electric scooter outside the heavy gates, its humble presence a stark contrast to the gleaming luxury cars parked within. As I approached the entrance, a burly security guard stepped out, blocking my path.

"State your business," he grunted, his eyes sweeping over my faded clothes with open disdain.

"Carter Hopkins is expecting me," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It felt strange to say his name, a bitter taste on my tongue.

The guard scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. "Mr. Hopkins? Expecting you? You must be mistaken. The staff entrance is around the back, cleaning crew comes in at six." He gestured vaguely with his thumb.

I glanced down at my worn-out boots, scuffed and caked with mud and grease. They looked exactly like they belonged on a cleaning crew. The irony was a bitter pill.

"He told me to come," I insisted, my voice gaining a hint of steel. "Tell him Ellie Armstrong is here."

The guard let out a harsh laugh, a booming sound that echoed in the quiet evening. "Ellie Armstrong? The ex-wife? You think Mr. Hopkins would let a tramp like you waltz through the front door?"

Just then, the smooth purr of an engine broke the silence. A sleek, black Bentley glided up behind us, its headlights piercing the gloom. The driver' s side window hummed down, revealing Carter's face. Five years had etched new lines around his eyes, but the arrogant confidence remained, untouched by time or conscience.

The guard' s demeanor instantly shifted. He straightened, his sneer replaced by an obsequious grin. "Mr. Hopkins, sir! Just dealing with a… misunderstanding."

Carter's gaze, cold and distant, swept past me without a flicker of recognition. He didn't even look at me, not really. He looked through me.

"Let her in," he commanded, his voice sharp, impatient.

The window slid up with a silent hiss, and the Bentley glided through the opened gates. I followed in its wake, feeling like a stray dog allowed to trail its master home.

As I stepped into the vast, cavernous living room, the mournful strains of a piano drifted from within. It was Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9, No. 2 – the third movement. My favorite. Or, it used to be.

The playing was hesitant, riddled with wrong notes, struggling to capture the delicate beauty of the piece. Alexandrea. Of course. She was sitting at the grand piano, clothed in a shimmering emerald green gown, her back to me. The piano itself, a magnificent Steinway, was my wedding gift from Carter, a symbol of our shared passion, now defiled by her clumsy touch.

"Ugh, this piece is impossible!" Alexandrea whined, abruptly stopping, a discordant clang echoing in the elegant room. "How did you ever play it, Carter? Ellie used to make it sound so effortless, like breathing." There was a venomous undertone to her words.

Carter, having shed his jacket into a waiting maid's arms, turned. His eyes, dark and sharp, finally landed on me, standing awkwardly in the entryway. His brow furrowed instantly, a wave of disgust washing over his face.

He took two steps towards me, then stopped, his nose wrinkling almost imperceptibly. He took another step back, as if a foul odor had just reached his nostrils. He pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes narrowed.

"What in God's name are you wearing?" he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "And you reek of… motor oil. Do you deliberately try to look pathetic, Ellie? Is this your grand revenge? To show me how far you've fallen?"

I stood rooted to the spot, my worn boots just shy of the plush Persian rug. I refused to cross that threshold. This wasn't my home anymore.

"This is how I live, Carter," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "It's called life. It happens when you don't have a trust fund and a powerful ex-husband to bail you out."