Elna POV:

Garrison's words about my lack of "feeling" were a dull throb in my awareness, a constant reminder of his casual cruelty. But something had shifted inside me. The void he spoke of wasn' t empty anymore. It was hardening, solidifying into a core of quiet defiance. He hadn't noticed. He was too consumed by Katia, by his own inflated sense of self-importance.

He dropped Katia and me off at a high-end shopping district, a wave of his hand dismissing us. "I have a meeting," he curtly stated, speeding off without a backward glance.

The moment his car disappeared, Katia' s sweet façade dissolved. Her eyes, once fluttering with feigned fragility, snapped open, sharp and predatory. She turned to me, a sneer twisting her lips.

"So, the little stray is back," she drawled, her voice dripping with contempt. "Still haunting Garrison, are we? Don't you ever get tired of being a charity case?"

Her words were a prelude. Suddenly, a group of women emerged from a nearby boutique, their laughter echoing through the street. My blood ran cold. I recognized them. Katia's clique from college. The girls who had made my life a living hell.

"Well, well, if it isn't Elna Martin," one of them, a tall blonde named Tiffany, smirked. "Still looking like you crawled out of a gutter, I see."

They encircled me, their eyes raking over me with disdain. I instinctively recoiled, my body tensing, pressing against the cold plate glass of a shop window.

The memories hit me like a tidal wave, a sudden, suffocating rush. The school hallways, the whispers, the mocking laughter.

"She' s so weird," they' d say, their voices loud enough for me to hear. "Doesn' t talk. Doesn' t react. Is she even human?"

They called me a ghost, a mute, a freak. I was invisible, yet constantly under their scrutiny. Isolated. My meticulously organized locker would be emptied, my books thrown into the garbage. My art supplies, the only thing that brought me a semblance of peace, would be ruined. My lunch money would mysteriously vanish.

I tried to tell the teachers, the counselors. "They' re picking on me," I' d whisper, my voice barely audible. But they would just nod, their eyes distant, then say, "Elna, dear, are you sure you' re not imagining things? You' re so sensitive." Or worse, "Perhaps you need to make more of an effort to fit in."

I went home, hoping for solace. My parents, practical and emotionally reserved themselves, listened with blank faces. "Don' t make trouble, Elna," my mother would say. "Just ignore them. They' ll get bored." My father would add, "You' re too sensitive. You need to toughen up."

So I learned to ignore. I learned to numb. I learned to make myself smaller, invisible. I learned that seeking help only led to further disappointment, further isolation.

Anyone who dared to show me kindness, a fleeting moment of connection, would become their next target. A shy boy who offered me a shared umbrella in the rain found his locker vandalized. A girl who complimented my drawings was ostracized. I watched, helpless, as my attempts at connection brought suffering to others. It was easier to be alone.

They made me the class pariah, their preferred target. It started with taunts, then escalated. They' d trip me in the hallways, "accidentally" spill drinks on my clothes. One time, they dragged me into the girl' s locker room, forcing me to listen as they discussed my body, my "flat chest," my "odd eyes." Katia, always the ringleader, reveled in my discomfort.

"Look at her," Katia would sneer, "she doesn' t even cry. Is she even alive?"

They' d spread vicious rumors about me, unfounded stories about my family, my past. Messages filled with crude drawings and threats would appear on my phone. My home phone would ring, only to hear heavy breathing on the other end. I became an expert at dodging, at disappearing. I missed so many classes, hiding in the library, in empty classrooms, anywhere I wouldn' t be found.

One particular memory, sharper than the rest, flashed through my mind: Katia, whispering to a group of boys, pointing at me. Later that day, I was cornered in an empty stairwell, hands grabbing at me, crude words thrown in my face. I remembered the cold fear, the utter helplessness. Katia had orchestrated it all.

The blonde girl, Tiffany, reached out, shoving me roughly. "Still so boring, Elna? Haven't you learned your lesson?"

My body swayed, but I didn't fall. My gaze, however, was fixed on Katia. Her eyes, once again, held that familiar triumphant glint. This was her show.

"The usual, Elna," Katia said, gesturing grandly at the boutiques. "You're paying."

My mind snapped back to the present. Paid? I had no money. They wanted to humiliate me again.

"Come on, girls!" Katia chirped, linking arms with Tiffany. "Let's show Elna what real shopping looks like. She's loaded now, isn't she? Garrison's little pet."

They marched into a high-end boutique, a store full of impossibly expensive clothes. I followed, my heart pounding. They began to pull clothes off the racks, designer dresses, cashmere sweaters, silk scarves, tossing them into a growing pile.

"This one, Elna!" Katia held up a sequined gown. "It'll look divine on me. What do you think?" She didn't wait for my answer. "And these shoes! And that bag!"

The sales assistants, impeccably dressed and poised, watched with cautious smiles. They recognized Katia. They recognized the Crawford name. They also recognized the uncomfortable tension.

"Anything I can help you with, Miss Smith?" one of them ventured, her voice polite but wary.

Katia tossed her hair, a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Just making selections, darling. My… friend here will be taking care of the bill. She has excellent taste, don't you, Elna?" She turned to me, her eyes glittering. "And Garrison always ensures she has unlimited funds."

A collective murmur rippled through the staff. Garrison Crawford. The name carried weight. A name that opened doors, smoothed over unpleasantness, and silenced questions. A name that now, apparently, authorized my financial ruin.

Elna POV:

The mention of Garrison' s name was like a magic spell. The cautious smiles of the sales assistants turned into obsequious grins. Their previously discerning eyes now held a calculating gleam as they ushered Katia and her friends towards the most expensive racks. They brought out champagne. They brought out jewelry. It was a carnival of excess, all at my expense.

The pile of clothes, shoes, and accessories grew into a small mountain. My mind, usually so orderly, struggled to keep track of the escalating cost. It had to be tens of thousands. More.

Finally, Katia, beaming, presented the grand total. The assistant, her voice overly sweet, listed a figure that made my blood run cold. It was astronomical. A number I didn't possess.

"Elna, darling," Katia said, her smile unwavering. "It's your turn. Pay up."

My throat was dry. "I… I don't have that kind of money," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Katia' s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. "What do you mean you don't have it? Garrison gave you unlimited funds, didn't he?"

"My cards are probably blocked," I explained, my voice flat. "I've been… away."

A ripple of unease went through Katia' s clique. They looked at me, then at the mountain of merchandise, then back at Katia, their eyes wide. This was not the humiliation they had anticipated. This was a potential embarrassment for them.

"She's lying," Tiffany hissed. "She always makes excuses."

I stood my ground, my posture stiff. The cold, hard core of defiance from earlier resurfaced. I wouldn' t be bullied into this. Not anymore. Not for them. My gaze met Katia' s, unwavering. I felt no fear, only a strange, quiet resolve.

Katia' s face flushed. Her perfect façade was cracking. She hated being undermined, especially in front of her cronies. With a frustrated sigh, she snatched Garrison' s black card from her purse. "Fine! I'll pay for it myself! You' re just pathetic, Elna."

She slammed the card onto the counter. The sales assistant, ever the professional, swiped it smoothly. The transaction went through. Katia managed a strained smile as she signed the receipt, then glared at me.

As soon as the threat of financial embarrassment was averted, Katia' s friends regained their swagger. They surrounded me again, their whispers sharp as needles.

"Still the same Elna, always so useless," one girl sneered. "Remember how she used to just take it? Never fought back."

"Yeah, she' s pathetic," another agreed. "Let's remind her what she really is."

Katia' s eyes gleamed as she caught their drift. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Come on, Elna. Let's have a little private chat."

She dragged me towards the back of the boutique, past the fitting rooms, and into a pristine, white-tiled bathroom. Her friends followed, blocking the entrance. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a harsh glow.

Before I could react, Katia ripped at the emerald dress, tearing the silk. Her friends joined in, their laughter echoing in the small space. My dress was in tatters, revealing the simple undergarments beneath. They laughed louder, pointing.

"What's this, Elna?" Katia sneered, her fingers tracing a faint, old scar on my arm, a relic from a childhood accident. "Trying to hide your imperfections? You're not so perfect without Garrison's money, are you?"

Her friends chimed in, mocking my body, my lack of curves, my general "unattractiveness."

"And look at her face," Tiffany said, poking my cheek. "Still so blank. Doesn't she feel anything?"

"Oh, she feels something," Katia hissed, her face inches from mine. "She feels nothing for Garrison, I can tell you that. He told me himself. He said she was cold. Distant. That's why he needed someone like me. Someone warm. Someone real."

She leaned in closer, her voice a venomous whisper. "He told me he hated how you never reacted. How you never cried. He said it made him feel like he was with a doll. But with me… with me, he feels everything. He feels alive."

My chest clenched. His words then, Empty. A void. Now echoed by Katia, twisted into a weapon.

"You know," Katia continued, a cruel smile spreading across her face, "he even said you were like a neglected pet. He kept you out of pity. But now he has me. And I' m certainly not a pet." Her eyes glittered with triumph. "I'm his future. You're just his past. His mistake."

Suddenly, a commotion came from outside the bathroom door. Voices, hushed and urgent. Katia' s face hardened. She signaled to her friends.

The door burst open, and one of her friends, a wide-eyed girl named Jessica, stumbled in, holding something. It was a small, white rabbit. Its fur was matted with what looked like blood, and one of its ears was torn. Its tiny body trembled in her grasp.

"Look what we found in the alley!" Jessica giggled, her eyes bright with malicious glee. "Someone abandoned it. It's so cute!"

My breath hitched. The rabbit looked terrified, its eyes wide and pleading.

"Hmm," Katia mused, her eyes fixed on me, a cruel plan forming in her mind. "Elna, darling. You're so good with animals, aren't you? So empathetic. Why don't you… comfort it?" She snatched the rabbit from Jessica' s hand and thrust it into my arms, its small body shaking.

"Show us how much you feel, Elna," Katia sneered, her voice cold. "Kiss it. Lick it. Make it feel loved." Her friends snickered, their eyes fixed on me, waiting.

I froze, the trembling rabbit in my arms. My mind recoiled. This was beyond humiliation. This was… grotesque. I clutched the rabbit instinctively, trying to shield its injured body. The animal whimpered, its fear palpable.

"What's wrong, Elna?" Katia taunted. "Can't bring yourself to show some affection? Or is it that you only care about yourself?" She grabbed my jaw, forcing my head down towards the injured rabbit. "Do it! Or we'll tell Garrison you abused it."

The malicious gleam in her eyes, the insistent pressure on my head, the whimpering animal-it was too much. A wave of nausea washed over me. My hands shook. I tried to pull away, to protest, but their laughter filled the small room, deafening me.

I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek. I was powerless. Again.

"Enough!" Katia' s voice cut through the air, her tone sharp. She snatched the rabbit from my grasp, tossing it carelessly to one of her friends. "She' s not worth the effort. Let's go. I'm bored."

They left me in the bathroom, my clothes torn, my body shaking, the phantom touch of their cruelty lingering on my skin. I sank to the floor, my mind numb.

Hours later, Garrison returned home. He found Katia in the living room, weeping hysterically, her arm bandaged. She was curled up on the sofa, looking fragile and tormented.

"Garrison, darling!" she sobbed, rushing into his arms. "It was Elna! She… she went crazy! She attacked me!"

"What happened?" Garrison demanded, his face a mask of concern. He held her close, stroking her hair.

"She found out I paid for her shopping, and she just… snapped!" Katia wailed, her voice muffled against his chest. "She said I was trying to replace her, that I was a fake! She grabbed my arm, she twisted it! She even tried to… to hit me!"

She pulled away slightly, revealing a deep scratch on her arm. "Look! She did this to me!"

Garrison' s eyes blazed with fury. "Elna did this?"

Katia nodded, her face streaked with tears. "She was muttering about how she wished I was dead, how she wanted to… to see me suffer."

Just then, Mrs. Higgins, the long-time housekeeper, appeared at the archway, wringing her hands. "Mr. Crawford, sir, I heard… I heard Miss Elna raising her voice. She seemed very upset. And then… I heard a struggle. I saw her… she had Miss Katia by the arm, sir."

My heart sank. Mrs. Higgins. She was loyal to the Crawfords, always had been. Her testimony would seal my fate.

Garrison' s eyes, already burning with rage, intensified. He looked at me, standing frozen in the doorway, my torn dress barely covering me. His face was a thundercloud. He believed them. He believed her.

Elna POV:

Garrison's face was a mask of cold fury. He didn't shout. His voice was dangerously low, a tremor of suppressed rage that was far more terrifying than any scream. "Elna, what is this new lie? What did you do to Katia?"

The words tumbled out, desperate and clumsy, a pathetic echo of a girl who still thought the truth mattered. "Garrison, she's lying! She and her friends, they tore my dress. She cut herself, I saw her! She’s manipulating you!"

He scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that echoed in the cavernous living room. "Pay her back? With what, Elna? Your empty promises? Katia is delicate, she would never harm herself. And Mrs. Higgins saw you! She has no reason to lie!"

His eyes burned into mine. "You're trying to destroy my family. Is that it, Elna? Are you trying to punish me for not choosing you?"

"I tried to save you!" I cried, my voice raw with a pain he refused to see. "They want my kidney, Garrison! They want to cut me open!"

He laughed. It was a chilling, mirthless sound that finally, irrevocably, shattered the last shard of the girl I used to be. "Delusional," he spat, his disgust a physical thing in the air between us. He turned, his gaze falling on a half-empty bottle of expensive scotch on a nearby side table.

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seize me, but something else rose to meet it: clarity. It was a terrible, crystalline clarity that cut through all the confusion, all the pain. He knew. He knew I was severely allergic to alcohol. A single sip could send me into anaphylactic shock.

This was not a punishment. This was an execution.

"No, Garrison! Please!" The plea was instinct, a final, futile protest from a body that still wanted to live, even if the spirit within it was dying.

He ignored me. As he poured the amber liquid, a memory flashed, sharp and cruel. Garrison, on one of our first dates, holding my hand under a starry sky. “I’ll always protect you,” he’d whispered, his voice thick with sincerity. “You’re mine, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

My body reacted violently. My throat swelled instantly, my chest seized, and a burning rash erupted across my skin. I choked, gasping for air that wouldn't come, my vision blurring as he released me. I crumpled to the floor, my body convulsing.

Through the haze of pain, I saw Katia rush to his side, a perfect picture of concern. "Garrison, darling! She's having a fit! I told you she was unstable!"

Garrison didn't even look at me. He looked at Katia, his gaze softening with a tenderness that was now a grotesque mockery. "I'm so sorry you had to see this, sweetheart." He turned to the housekeeper. "Mrs. Higgins, call the car. We're taking Katia to the hospital. She's clearly traumatized."

As he led Katia towards the door, he paused. "Elna," he said, his voice flat and cold, "when we get back, you will apologize to Katia for everything. And you will mean it."

Then he was gone.

Lying on the floor, each breath a battle, my mind was terrifyingly calm. He knows, I thought, not with panic, but with the certainty of a judge passing sentence. He knows and he did it anyway.

When they returned hours later, I had managed to crawl to a sofa, my body a wreck. Mrs. Crawford was with them, her face twisted into a mask of pure hatred.

"You wicked, hateful creature!" she shrieked, lunging at me, her hand cracking across my already bruised face. She grabbed my hair, pulling my head up until my neck strained. "You think you can come into our home, poison our children, and get away with it? You ruined my son! You ruined Corliss! Everything was fine until you came!"

Her words were a torrent of abuse. I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. I simply watched her, my eyes as empty and cold as a winter lake. I was cataloging this. Every word. Every blow. Every injustice. They were no longer wounds. They were evidence.

Garrison stood by, watching. His silence was his consent, his final, damning signature on my death warrant.

Garrison gave a curt nod, his face unreadable. "Clean her up," he ordered the housekeeper, his voice flat. "And make sure she doesn't leave this room. Minimum care. Just enough to keep her alive."

Just enough to keep me alive. For the harvest.

I stared at the framed photo on the bedside table. Garrison and me, smiling. A ghost of a girl with a man who never existed. With methodical calm, I reached out, my hand trembling not from weakness but from nascent strength, and turned the photo face down.

The girl in that picture was dead. She died of poison, tonight. In her place, something new was taking root in the void. Something cold, and hard, and patient.