After James Vance was diagnosed with Stockholm syndrome, I caught him and the girl who'd led the bullying against us back then, naked and tangled together.

I stood in the doorway. Cold wind poured through the gap, numbing my fingertips.

After what felt like forever, I finally managed a smile—bitter, mocking:

"Why did it have to be her?"

He jerked his head up, voice shaking:

"Scarlett… the doctor said… the doctor said this could stimulate me and help my condition recover."

Looking at him stammering like that, I suddenly felt something lift off my chest.

So we were never the same kind of people after all.

James and I started with secret notes passed between classes in high school.

——

Teenage sweethearts, eyes full of summer light.

In the blink of an eye, years had passed. He'd spoiled me into a princess who never had to lift a finger—he couldn't even bear to let me twist open a bottle cap myself.

So when Michelle Mason sent me that disgusting video, my only reaction was disbelief.

The man in the footage looked like James, sure, but I was certain it had to be some malicious deepfake.

Still, after work, I found myself—almost possessed—heading to the address Michelle had sent.

Only now, standing here, taking in the tangled sheets, the buttons he'd fastened wrong in his panic, the smirk playing at Michelle's lips—only now did the pain hit. It spread from my chest through my whole body, like ten thousand needles piercing every inch of skin.

James finally got dressed. The panic in his eyes faded, replaced by forced composure.

"This was the first time. And the last."

His voice still shook—like he was trying to convince me. Or maybe himself.

"I promise you, there won't be a next time."

He paused, throat bobbing, then added:

"I… I had no choice. It was just to treat the illness."

I smiled, looking straight at him, and said each word clearly:

"James Vance, you make me sick."

I didn't look back. I walked out of the hotel, grabbed a cab, and went home.

The wedding photo still hung on the wall. In it, his arm was around my shoulder, his eyes overflowing with love.

Now it just looked like a cruel joke.

It felt like something had torn a hole straight through my chest. I couldn't breathe.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed open the study door.

James had set this room up years ago as our "memory vault." He'd said when we were old, we'd sit in the sun together and look through everything.

I glanced around. Notes from high school lined the bookshelf. The first lipstick he'd ever bought me—saved up for weeks—sat in the drawer. Even our photo booth strips from later dates were carefully arranged in an album.

I ran my fingers over it all. Then, tucked inside one notebook, I found a yellowed slip of paper.

It read:

"Scarlett Quinn, don't get too close to me anymore. They'll bully you."

My chest seized.

Back then, James's family had nothing. His clothes were always washed to a faded gray, and lunch was just plain steamed buns and pickled vegetables. That's why Michelle Mason and her crowd made him their target.

He was scared that if I stayed close, they'd come after me too. So he'd written this note, trying to push me away.

But the more he tried, the more my heart broke for him. The more I wanted to stay.

The front door opened, snapping me out of it—James was back.

Before I could react, he stormed into the study and shoved his phone in my face:

"Did you leak this?"

I glanced at his phone screen. The headline read: "Michelle Mason's History of Bullying Classmates."

Seeing her exposed sent a wave of satisfaction through me.

I met his eyes and smirked. "Serves you right."

James looked like he might explode. A vein pulsed at his temple, and his voice cracked with rage.

"Scarlett, you've changed! How did you become so petty? Digging up someone's past like this—how are you any different from the bullies back then?"

"She knows she was wrong. She can change. But you? You've become exactly the kind of person I hate most."

His words cut deep, poison-tipped and precise. Pain flooded through me.

I clenched my fists and spoke slowly, making sure he heard every word. "She changed? If she changed, can my mom come back to life?"

The anger froze on his face. He went completely blank.

I laughed—cold, hollow. "James, don't forget. You, you useless coward—you're a murderer too."

The memories crashed over me all at once.

That day, Michelle had brought her crew. She ground James's lunch under her heel and ordered him to kneel down and lick it clean. His eyes were red, but he didn't fight back.

I couldn't stand it. I grabbed Michelle by the hair and hit her. I made a scene—to protect him—and the teacher called our parents.

My mom rushed to the school. On the way, swerving to avoid a truck that ran a red light, she never woke up again.

I stared into his eyes, my heart sinking like a stone. "James, the thing I regret most in my entire life is standing up for you. It got my mom killed."

The fire in him guttered out. His voice dropped, almost pleading. "Scarlett, it's all in the past. Michelle apologized. Can't you let it go? We're still alive. We still have to live. There's no point staying trapped back there."

I said nothing. Just watched him, cold.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but in the end he only sighed, turned, and stumbled away.

After he left, I looked around the study—all those memories—and felt nothing but bitter irony.

I carried everything to the balcony. Notes, ticket stubs, photo albums. I burned it all.

The flames leapt up, and all that old sweetness turned to ash.

When the last scrap crumbled to nothing, I turned to head back to the bedroom and finish packing. Then my phone started buzzing like crazy.

The company group chat. Hundreds of messages flooding in.

I opened it, and the words hit me like a slap:

"Scarlett Quinn is such a slut. Who knew she was this kind of whore."

"Heard she was sleeping around at 18."

"Someone said she had an abortion. Her private life is a total disaster."

"And get this—the kid wasn't even Mr. Vance's! She cuckolded James Vance?"

An invisible fist crushed my chest. The pain blacked out my vision; I could barely breathe.

These were secrets I'd buried deep. No one knew except James. No one.

Right after Mom died, I'd cut off all contact with him. I couldn't face him—couldn't face myself. The girl who got her mother killed trying to protect him.

For a long time after that, I deliberately avoided every place where I might run into him. I never looked for him again.

But then the truck driver who killed my mom tracked me down. He said the accident cost him his job, buried his family in debt—that I'd ruined his entire life.

Red-eyed, he spat his hatred at me.

During that period, I was a walking corpse. Desperate beyond words. I climbed to the rooftop, ready to end it all.

James heard somehow. He came tearing up those stairs like a madman and grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.

Eyes rimmed red, he kept repeating that none of this was my fault. He said the way I'd protected him back then was the bravest thing he'd ever seen—that I was his hero.

Later, when I found out I was pregnant with that monster's child, he stayed by my side through every hospital visit.

Later still, when our careers took off, he helped me gather evidence. Together, we put that truck driver behind bars.

But now he was using these secrets as a blade, driving it straight into my chest.

I kept asking myself: how did the man who walked me through my darkest years become this?

Before I could process anything, my phone buzzed again. A video this time. From Michelle.

I tapped it open. My stomach lurched.

James and Michelle, tangled together on screen.

She faced the camera with a provocative smile, enunciating every word:

"James, all that stuff about Scarlett online? I leaked it."

"You won't blame me, will you?"

He paused mid-motion. Clearly caught off guard. Then continued anyway.

"Not next time. I'll handle it."

Violent nausea slammed into me. I stumbled to the bathroom, gripped the toilet, and vomited until nothing was left. My stomach was empty but I couldn't stop heaving. Acid and bile burned up my throat, choking me until tears streamed down my face.

In the spinning darkness, my phone rang again. Another message from Michelle.

A photo this time. She was wearing stilettos, one heel pressed against James's face, her expression dripping with triumph.

The caption read:

"Back then, I could step on James Vance. Now? Same story."

I stared at those words. No tears came. Even the pain had gone numb, like the body being carved apart wasn't mine.

No anger. No breakdown. I just mechanically pressed and held the screen, saving every video, every photo, every message she'd sent.

When I finished, I opened the booking app and bought a ticket. Tonight, 11 p.m. A city I'd never been to.

I just needed to escape this place drowning in betrayal.

The moment payment confirmed, wind howled outside. Rain hammered the glass like fists, and within seconds it became a downpour.

A notification popped up:

Due to weather, your flight is delayed by 12 hours.

I stared at the screen, hollow as a puppet with its strings cut.

After a long while, I opened my photo album. Starting from high school, I deleted every picture of us together. Every shot I'd once treasured like it was priceless.

One by one.

Until none remained.