Dahlia POV:

I remembered my mother telling me that this little shop was all she had to leave me. She'd bought it with her own inheritance, a tiny nest egg she' d protected fiercely. After she died, it became my only anchor. Now it was gone, a pile of wet, splintered wood and shattered glass. Another piece of my history erased by Brooks Ferguson.

The pain in my abdomen was a hot, twisting knot. I wanted to curl up on the floor and wait for the world to end, but the agony wouldn't let me rest. I stayed there all night, soaked to the bone, the cold rain a merciless baptism.

The city news was a cacophony of speculation. "Brooks Ferguson's Ruthless Return: Revenge on a Former Lover?" The headlines were salacious, painting me as a scorned ex and him as a vengeful tycoon. They weren't entirely wrong.

When the first rays of sunrise pierced through the broken ceiling, I finally moved. I knelt in the debris and pressed my forehead to the wet, grimy floor. It was a farewell. I was looking for my mother's memorial tablet, a small, simple wooden plaque I kept behind the counter. It was gone. Lost in the wreckage. This gesture was all I had left.

"Praying for forgiveness?"

His voice, smooth and mocking, cut through the morning quiet. Brooks stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the rising sun.

"What, did you lose an earring?" he taunted, stepping closer.

I didn't answer. I just pushed myself to my feet and started walking away, my body screaming in protest with every step.

"I asked you a question," he said, grabbing my arm.

I spun around, my remaining strength flaring into a white-hot rage. I kneed him, hard, in the stomach. He grunted, doubling over.

"I was saying goodbye to my mother," I spat, my voice raw. "You destroyed her memorial."

He straightened up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it was replaced by his usual cold arrogance. "Is that all? I'll buy you a new one. A bigger one. Made of gold, if you like."

I just stared at him, the sheer depth of his cruelty a chasm between us. Then I turned and walked away, leaving him in the ruins.

He followed me down the street, his footsteps echoing mine. "Running away again, Dahlia? That's all you're good at."

I didn't slow down. "Go play with your new toy, Brooks. I hear she's very 'polished'."

I knew why he was back. He couldn't stand that I had left him. He couldn't stand that I had built a life, however small and fragile, without him. He had to prove he still owned me.

My body was a traitor. I wanted to fight him, to hurt him, to burn his world down just as he had mine. But I didn't have the strength. The disease was winning.

I made it to the hospital for my follow-up appointment. Dr. Howell and her team looked at my new scans, their faces a carefully constructed mask of professional neutrality. But I saw the pity in their eyes.

"Dahlia," Dr. Howell began, her voice gentle. "How many of the new painkillers do you have left?"

"None," I said.

Her eyes widened. "That was a three-month supply. You picked it up last week."

She didn't have to say the words. I knew. The cancer was a wildfire now, burning through me, and I was dousing it with gasoline, trying to numb a pain that was becoming absolute.

"Is there family we can call?" she asked, her gaze soft. "A friend?"

"I have someone who will claim the body," I said, the words from our phone call tasting like acid on my tongue. "He promised."

Her brow furrowed. "Your emotions have been so volatile lately. This isn't like you."

No, it wasn't. The old me, the one before Brooks returned, had been calm. I had accepted my fate. But he had ripped that peace away, forcing me back into a war I was no longer equipped to fight. I glanced at my phone. A news alert flashed across the screen: "Ferguson Pledges to 'Clean Up' Seattle's Blighted Neighborhoods." He was the disease, and I was the blight he wanted to erase.

"If you stop the medication," Dr. Howell said, her voice firm, "the pain will be... unimaginable. You won't last a day."

She handed me a new prescription, her eyes pleading. "Please. Just one at a time."

I took the bottle from her, and as soon as I was out of her office, I found a quiet corner in the hospital, and swallowed a handful.

The relief was temporary, a brief ceasefire before the pain regrouped and attacked again. I huddled on a bench, shivering, trying to breathe through the agony.

That's when I heard them again. The mother and young daughter from the other day, walking past.

"Mommy, that lady is crying," the little girl whispered.

"Shh, don't stare, honey."

"But she looks so sad. Doesn't anyone care about her? If she dies, who will be sad for her?"

I looked up, and my phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Brooks.

`Are you ready to come back to me yet?`

A cold, terrible thought took root in my mind. Who will be sad for me? Maybe no one. But I knew someone who would be forced to acknowledge my existence, even in death. Someone who had promised.

He could be my pallbearer.

I stood up, my resolve hardening. I walked to a deserted stairwell, the air cold and damp. I dialed his number again.

He answered instantly, as if he'd been waiting. "Decided you miss me?"

"I've thought about it," I said, my voice steady despite the tremors running through my body.

"And?"

I took a deep breath. "Brooks," I said, the words clear and precise. "Come get my body."

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Dahlia POV:

The silence on the other end of the line was short, broken by a low, contemptuous laugh.

"Playing games again, Dahlia?" Brooks's voice was laced with amusement. "It's a bold move, I'll give you that. But a little dramatic, even for you."

"I'm not playing," I said, my voice flat.

"Fine," he said, his tone shifting to one of bored indulgence. "You want to play dead? I'll play along. When the time comes, I'll give you a funeral so grand it'll make the front page. A marble mausoleum, a thousand white roses. Anything you want. Happy now?"

"Yes," I whispered, and hung up.

I walked out of the hospital, blinking against the harsh sunlight. The world felt distant, unreal. I saw the mother and daughter from the hallway getting into their car. On impulse, I walked over.

"You look like you need a ride," I said, my voice hoarse.

The mother hesitated, but the little girl's wide, innocent eyes looked at me with such open concern that she relented. I drove them to their small house in a quiet suburb, the little girl chattering in the back seat about her school play.

"Thank you so much," the mother said as they got out. "God bless you."

I just nodded and drove away. The brief, simple act of kindness felt like a memory from another life.

As I turned onto my street, I saw them. Brooks, Carlo, Grace, and the pack of hyenas, all standing near my parked car, a vintage Mustang my father had restored for me. It was the only thing of value I had left.

"Look what the cat dragged in," one of them sneered as I got out of the car.

Grace stepped forward, her smile as bright and fake as a plastic flower. She was holding a small, ornate jar. "Dahlia, I am so, so sorry about what happened to your mother's memorial. I felt just terrible. Brooks told me how much it meant to you."

"Get out of my way, Grace," I said, my patience worn to a thread.

"No, wait," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a surprise for you. When they were cleaning up the... mess... one of the workers found this. He thought it was just trash, but I recognized it from a picture Brooks showed me once."

She held up the jar. My mother's ashes.

My breath caught in my throat. I reached for it, a wave of desperate relief washing over me.

Her hand snapped back. "Oops," she said, her smile turning vicious. She opened the lid. "You know, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

And she turned the jar upside down.

My mother's ashes, a fine grey powder, drifted down onto the wet pavement, mixing with the grime of the street.

The world went silent. The city noise, the traffic, the jeering laughter of Brooks's friends-it all faded away into a dull roar in my ears.

Grace looked at me, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Oh, clumsy me. You're not mad, are you? It was an accident."

I looked from the grey smear on the asphalt to her smug face. She had done it on purpose. She had crossed a line that even Brooks, in all his cruelty, had never dared to cross.

"Great job, Gracie," one of the hyenas cheered. "That'll teach her."

Grace beamed, preening under the praise. She turned and walked toward her own car, a shiny new convertible, a gift from Brooks.

I turned to Carlo, my voice eerily calm. "I have a gift for her too."

He looked at me, his eyes wide with alarm. "Dahlia, no..."

"What can you possibly give her?" one of the others sneered. "A half-eaten sandwich?"

"I'm going to send her on a little trip," I said, my lips pulling back into a grin that felt sharp and wrong. "One way."

I got back into my Mustang. The engine roared to life, a familiar, angry growl. I slammed the gearshift into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

The car leaped forward, tires squealing.

From the rearview mirror, I saw the looks of drunken amusement on their faces curdle into shock, then horror.

"She's bluffing!" someone yelled.

"Is she? She's crazy!"

"Don't just stand there, stop her!"

But I wasn't bluffing. And I wasn't going to stop.

The Mustang, my father's beautiful, angry machine, slammed into the side of Grace's convertible with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact threw me forward against the steering wheel, but I barely felt it.

I hadn't even begun to let off steam.

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