Kianna Johnson POV:

It was late when we finally returned to the house. The damp air of the docks clung to us, a cold reminder of the night's events. Grant's existing injuries were clearly exacerbated. His face was drawn, a pale mask against his dark hair, but he still moved with that infuriating, silent efficiency, guiding Dariana gently inside before turning to me.

Dariana, however, was not so quiet. "I can't believe you, Kianna!" she whined, her voice cutting through the quiet evening air. "Dragging Grant into such a dangerous place! You saw how much he was hurting. He almost collapsed!" She clutched her arm theatrically, as if she were the one who had sustained injuries.

I stopped dead in the hallway, turning slowly to face her. I hadn't looked at her directly since the hospital, but now I did. Truly looked. When she had first arrived, a timid, trembling girl, I' d genuinely felt for her. I' d offered my room, my clothes, my time. I remembered buying her books, trying to find gentle activities she could enjoy. I' d wanted to be a real sister to her, for Grant's sake, yes, but also because I truly pitied her fragile state.

But now, the image of her pressing her hand on my head underwater, her eyes alight with malice, flashed in my mind. The transformation was chilling. It had been gradual, I realized now, watching her. Slowly, subtly, she had grown bolder, more demanding. Each time I had indulged her, thinking I was being kind, she had taken another inch, then another. She had used my genuine empathy, my misguided desire to please Grant, as a weapon.

"Dariana," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Go to your room."

She froze, her mouth agape. The theatrics drained from her face, replaced by genuine shock. No one, least of all me, had ever spoken to her like that. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, her eyes darting to Grant.

Grant, without a moment's hesitation, stepped forward, placing himself slightly in front of her. A small, protective shift in his stance. My heart, already a bruised mess, tightened painfully. There it was. Always her.

I didn't argue. I didn't fight. I just turned and walked into my room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The sound was surprisingly final.

The next morning, Grant was at my door, just as he always was. He looked even paler under the fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to his dark suit. His left arm was tightly bandaged, but he stood tall, his shoulders squared, an image of unwavering duty.

"Good morning, Kianna," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Dariana has been disciplined. She understands her actions yesterday were inappropriate and endangered your safety." He sounded rehearsed, like a robot reciting lines.

I merely glanced at him, then continued to sip my lukewarm coffee. I didn't ask what "disciplined" meant. I knew it would be a slap on the wrist, a gentle reprimand. Dariana was never truly punished.

"She's confined to her room for the next few days," he continued, a slight defensiveness in his tone. "And I've ensured she won't interrupt your schedule." He seemed to expect praise, or at least, acceptance.

"Confined to her room?" I finally looked at him, my eyes cold. "For endangering my life and manipulating you into a potentially fatal situation?" My voice was quiet, but it held an edge that made him flinch. "Is that what you call 'discipline,' Grant?"

He dropped his gaze, his eyes fixed on the spotless floor, avoiding my stare. A hint of shame, perhaps? Or just discomfort at being questioned?

Just then, Dariana materialized at the top of the grand staircase, looking like a ghost in a flowing white nightgown. She descended slowly, one hand on the banister, the other pressed to her forehead. "Oh, Grant, my head hurts so much," she moaned, her voice weak and breathy. "I think I have a fever." She cast a quick, furtive glance at me, a flash of triumph in her eyes before she perfected her portrayal of suffering.

Grant immediately moved to her, his hand gently touching her forehead. "Dariana, what are you doing out of bed? You should be resting." His voice was laced with concern, a stark contrast to the distant tone he'd used with me. The golden tether pulsed, a bright, undeniable connection between them.

I watched, a bitter taste in my mouth. She was a master of manipulation, and he, her willing puppet. My heart twisted, not with pain, but with a profound weariness. I pushed my coffee cup away, the sight of it suddenly nauseating.

I stood, ignoring both of them, and walked into the living room. From the doorway, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Grant was gently spoon-feeding Dariana a bowl of oatmeal, his head bowed, murmuring soft words of comfort. She smiled up at him, a genuine, radiant smile full of a possessive delight. It was the same tender smile he used to give me, the same intimate gesture I thought was mine alone.

A bitter, self-deprecating laugh bubbled in my throat. Men. So easily fooled by a pretty, fragile face. So easily manipulated by carefully curated tears.

Kianna Johnson POV:

A wave of nausea washed over me. The image of Grant spoon-feeding Dariana, of her sweet, triumphant smile, played on an endless loop in my mind. It was like a needle, jabbing into an open wound, twisting each time. I felt an overwhelming urge to run, to escape the suffocating air of this house, this elaborate lie.

I needed to breathe, to scream, to break something. In the past, when the weight of the world became too much, I used to drive. Fast. To the seediest, loudest places I could find. The anonymity, the raw energy, it was a release. A distorted sense of safety in the chaos.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. The memory of Dariana's eyes underwater, the cold calculation, was a fresh horror. I straightened my spine, forcing down the lump in my throat. "Grant," I said, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence. "Get the car. We're going out."

He appeared from the kitchen doorway, his expression unreadable. "Kianna? Are you feeling alright? You look pale." He took a step towards me, concern etched on his face.

"I said, get the car," I repeated, my voice colder now. "And don't bother with questions. Just do your job."

His jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, but he merely nodded. "Right away." He turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the large house.

We ended up in a dive bar, a place throbbing with loud music and the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume. I walked straight to the bar, ignoring the leering glances, and ordered a line of the strongest shots they had. I intended to drink until I couldn't feel anything anymore.

Grant stood a few feet behind me, a silent, imposing shadow. He was out of place in his sharp suit, but his presence was a shield, keeping others at bay. I just wished it could shield me from myself.

I threw back shot after shot, the burning liquid doing little to numb the icy ache in my soul. My head began to spin, the music a dull throb in my ears. Everything was a blur, a chaotic mess, just like my life.

Then, a hand landed on my lower back. "Hey there, pretty lady," a slurred voice breathed next to my ear. "Why are you all alone?"

I flinched, pulling away with a grimace. "Go away," I muttered, my voice thick with alcohol and disgust.

He chuckled, undeterred. His hand reached for my arm, his fingers tightening. "Come on, don't be shy. Let's have some fun."

My eyes darted to Grant. He was still there, watching. He always did. In the past, a single look from him would have sent a man like this scurrying. My heart, in its foolish, broken way, still expected him to intervene. To be my protector.

But he didn't move. He stood there, a stone statue, his gaze fixed on me, yet strangely distant.

The man's grip tightened, pulling me closer. "Don't you ignore me, sweetheart." His voice was rougher now, impatient.

"Let go of me!" I snapped, my anger finally breaking through the haze of alcohol.

His face contorted in a sneer. "Feisty, aren't we? I like that." He yanked me harder, his fingers digging into my flesh.

My stomach churned. The bile I' d felt earlier now threatened to erupt. "Grant!" I gasped, a raw, desperate cry tearing from my throat.

The word hung in the air, unfinished. Because in that exact moment, a high-pitched shriek sliced through the throbbing music.

"Help! Grant! Help me!"

My head snapped around. Across the crowded, smoky room, I saw her. Dariana. She was surrounded by a group of rough-looking men, her face stark white with terror, her fragile frame trembling. When had she even gotten here?

And then, Grant moved.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't glance at me, not even for a flicker. His eyes, suddenly wild with a primal fear I had never seen, locked onto Dariana. He was a blur, a force of nature, tearing through the crowd, his powerful body an unstoppable arrow aimed directly at her.

He was gone. Left me. Just like that.

His every instinct, every fiber of his being, was solely focused on her. My "protector" had abandoned me without a second thought. The realization was a devastating blow, far worse than any physical pain. It was a cold, hard truth, finally laid bare.

Kianna Johnson POV:

The sight of Grant's retreating back, his unyielding focus on Dariana, sliced through me. It was a clean, brutal cut, severing the last thread of hope, of any lingering illusion. The world tilted, then snapped sharply back into focus. The alcohol, which had dulled my senses, was instantly purged by a rush of pure, unadulterated pain. I couldn't breathe. My lungs felt crushed, my chest hollow.

He had left me. He had chosen her. Without a second thought.

The man still holding my arm, the one I had momentarily forgotten, felt the shift. He took my moment of shocked paralysis as an invitation. "Hey, where'd your boyfriend go?" he sneered, pulling me closer, his grip bruising. "Looks like you're all mine now, sweetheart."

Something snapped inside me. Not the fragile, heartbroken Kianna, but a raw, furious beast. My hand shot out, grabbing an empty beer bottle from the bar. Without thinking, without hesitation, I swung it.

The bottle connected with his head, a sickening thud followed by the sharp crack of glass. It shattered, splattering his face with blood and beer. The sound, loud and sudden, silenced the chaotic bar. Every eye in the room turned to us.

The man staggered back, a hand flying to his bleeding forehead. His eyes, initially wide with shock, narrowed into a vicious glare. "You crazy bitch!" he roared, his voice thick with rage. He lunged at me, a jagged shard of the broken bottle clutched in his hand.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact. For the pain. For anything. A strange sense of calm settled over me. What did it matter now?

But the blow never came.

Instead, I was suddenly enveloped in a familiar, powerful embrace. The scent of woodsmoke and faint antiseptic, uniquely Grant's, filled my senses. His body, hard and unyielding, shielded me. His arm, the one already injured, took the brunt of the attack. I heard a choked gasp of pain, a sound that should have ignited concern, but only fueled the cold, bitter realization.

He had come back. But it was too late.

He held me tight, his body trembling slightly, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a desperate, fleeting comfort. But then I saw his eyes. They were not on me. They were on the man, blazing with a dangerous, murderous intent. A primal rage that had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with ownership.

"What did you do?" Grant's voice was a low growl, a predatory rumble that sent shivers down my spine. The man, still clutching the broken glass, recoiled, fear flashing in his eyes. Grant was a force of nature when truly angered, and the man knew it.

Grant turned his head slightly, his gaze finally falling on me. His eyes, usually so controlled, were wide with fear, his face pale. "Kianna? Are you hurt? Did he touch you?" His voice was a strained whisper, thick with concern.

I stared at him, a hollow, mirthless laugh bubbling up my throat. Hurt? Did he touch me? The irony was a bitter pill. He was asking if I was hurt, after he had just ripped my heart out and stomped on it.

I pushed him away, a sudden surge of strength fueled by pure rage. My body was still weak, and I stumbled, but he caught me, his hands firm on my arms.

My eyes, I knew, were cold. Dead. I looked at him, truly looked, and saw nothing but the hollow shell of a man who had betrayed me. My voice was a raw, broken whisper, heavy with disdain. "You're a good dog, Grant. A very good dog."

My gaze flickered past him, to Dariana, who now stood behind him, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching his arm. "But your loyalty," I continued, my voice gaining strength, each word a venomous dart, "it was never truly mine, was it?"