I blew gently on the bowl of porridge in front of me, just warmed.

For a moment, the rising mist blurred my vision. My eyes, dry and sore, began to sting faintly.

Then the silence shattered—my phone, vibrating and screaming like it was possessed. I glanced down and saw a familiar name flashing insistently on the screen.

Charles.

Without thinking, I answered. Muscle memory.

I even put it on speaker.

"Mindy, where the hell were you last night? I told you to pack up and get the hell out. Are you deaf? You think if you hide, you can just get away with this? I'm telling you right now—either you apologize to Rhyn, or you come clean out your crap this second."

His voice pounded through the speaker in sharp, rapid-fire bursts, like a machine gun of blame and frustration.

I didn't speak. Not until he was done.

Then I said, almost lazily, "I'm coming now."

The moment I pushed open the gate of Charles's villa, something flew straight at me.

An ashtray.

I didn't dodge fast enough. It hit me square on the forehead, sharp pain slicing through my skull. Warm blood trickled slowly down the side of my face.

I reached up, pressing my hand to the wound, and looked at him.

There was a flicker in my chest, not of rage—but something colder. He could've killed me. And part of me wondered if that would've been so bad.

He stood in the middle of the living room in grey loungewear, the kind rich men wear when they want to appear casual but in control.

When he saw the ashtray had actually hit me, his expression faltered. He even took a step forward, as if reflexively, but stopped himself.

"Are you that stupid? You couldn't duck?"

I couldn't tell if he was upset because he might've hurt me, or because the ashtray now had blood on it.

"I'm not a soldier," I said. Speaking tugged at the muscles in my forehead, sending another jolt of pain through me. My face must've looked awful—contorted and pale.

Behind him stood Rhyn—the woman from the night before.

She curled her lip at me like I was something sour she'd accidentally tasted. Her lace camisole slipped from one shoulder, skin gleaming like milk, lips glossed and parted in suggestion.

It didn't take much imagination to figure out what had happened between them before I arrived.

"Where the hell were you last night? And your phone was turned off!" Charles snapped, like a man used to shouting and being obeyed. Maybe he was angry because I no longer flinched.

But whatever fire he threw at me, it no longer scorched.

I walked over to the table, grabbed two tissues, and pressed them against the gash on my forehead.

"No battery," I replied flatly.

"I'm asking you where the hell you were!"

"Does it matter? Yesterday, you told me to get out. I'm here to pack. If you don't trust me, you can have someone watch."

I didn't want this to drag out. It wasn't worth the energy.

But he was like a lion jabbed one too many times—suddenly wild. In two steps, he was on me.

And then his hand slammed down on my head.

There was a dull, sickening thud as my already bleeding forehead struck the edge of the table.

Rhyn let out a shrill scream.

Under the harsh, white light, I turned my head slightly and looked at Charles.

His eyes were cold—steeped in shadow and something crueler. His face, sharp-edged and handsome like a sculpture, remained frozen. But when his gaze landed on me, it was the way one might look down at a filthy insect crawling near their feet.

"Let me ask you again," he said, each word clipped. "Where were you last night?"

I was weak—my whole body hollowed out by illness and injury. The blow had left me dazed, my senses drifting. I had no strength left to fight back.

But years of being crushed underfoot had left something twisted inside me—something that no longer wanted to stay quiet.

I knew exactly what would make him lose control.

"I slept with a stranger," I said slowly and clearly. "Wanted to see if it felt good. To know if someone like you—who screws like a stud horse—actually delivers any pleasure at all."

Something inside his bloodshot eyes cracked.

Then, without a word, he grabbed the cold water jug off the table, yanked out the wooden stopper, and poured the entire bottle over my wounded forehead.

Ice-cold water ran down my face in a shockwave, stinging the raw flesh like needles.

When he was done, he tossed the empty jug backward without looking. It hit poor Rhyn square in the chest.

Another scream.

She was so loud. Always screaming.

I bit down hard on my lower lip, stubbornly silent. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes but didn't fall.

"Mindy," he snarled. "You think you can leave me now? After all these years—eating my food, living in my house, wearing clothes I paid for—you're no better than the dog in the backyard. Except even the dog knows loyalty."

He grabbed at my clothes, trying to tear them, as if looking for evidence—proof of betrayal marked on my skin.

Seven years of buried emotion finally broke loose in me like a dam collapsing.

I lashed out with everything I had, wrenching myself free, screaming and grabbing anything within reach to hurl at him.

"You're insane, Charles! A true lunatic! Why wasn't it you who died?! You're nothing—nothing—compared to Grayson!"

He didn't flinch. Didn't even raise a hand to block.

Just stood there, silent and still, as objects hit and shattered around him.

His dark eyes burned into mine, something feral moving in their depths.

"So you admit it now?" he said. "You're done pretending? All these years, you've been next to me, but who were you looking at? I loved you for so long—do you even know who I am to you? Was I ever myself? Or just a mirror of him? You clung to me like a dog. All because of this face… this face that looks just like my brother's?"