Ariana Mcneil POV

I left the institution, the sky opening up above me in a sudden, torrential downpour. Rain lashed down, soaking my thin clothes instantly. I walked aimlessly, the cold water chilling me to the bone, but I felt nothing. The physical discomfort was a distant hum against the deafening silence in my mind. Every drop that hit me felt like a cleansing, washing away the last remnants of my will to fight.

Just as suddenly as it began, the rain stopped. Dorian stood before me, a black umbrella held aloft, his dark suit clinging to his frame, damp in places. His eyes were unreadable, a complex mix of anger and something else I couldn't decipher. He had been watching me, I realized.

He grabbed my arm, his grip hard, and pulled me towards a nearby building, a high-end restaurant I recognized. I remembered seeing him through the window earlier, sitting in a private booth with Blake and Kinsley, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the restaurant lights. He dragged me inside, his fingers digging into my flesh. The pain was sharp, but I remained silent.

We entered the private booth. The air was thick with the scent of expensive liquor and cigar smoke. Blake Dominguez, his eyes narrowed, smirked at me.

"Look what the storm dragged in," Blake slurred, taking a swig from his glass. "The great Ariana Mcneil. Reduced to a drowned rat. How's Daddy dearest doing in prison? And your brother? Oh, wait. He's dead, isn't he?"

Blake was Dorian's best friend from law school, a man who consistently rode Dorian's coattails, his arrogance fueled by Dorian's power. He was a sycophant, but also a cruel brute, a man whose casual cruelty had set the stage for my entire tragedy. He reveled in my family's downfall, his eyes sweeping over my drenched form with undisguised contempt.

"Still warm, I bet," Blake said, his gaze lingering indecently on my body. "Maybe a little warmth would do you good, eh?"

A few of the other men in the booth chuckled, but the laughter died down quickly under Dorian's cold, steady gaze. Dorian lit a cigar, the smoke curling around his face, obscuring his expression.

"Keep it civil," Dorian said, his voice low and dangerous, a warning. "Remember your decorum." His tone was that of a commander addressing his soldiers, firm and unwavering.

The men fell silent, their earlier bravado wilting under his stare. Blake, though visibly annoyed, merely grunted and averted his eyes.

Dorian turned his attention to me, his brow furrowed. Before he could speak, Kinsley Hudson, slender and fair, emerged from behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She looked at me, a triumphant glint in her seemingly innocent eyes.

"Oh, Ariana, darling, what happened to you?" Kinsley cooed, her voice saccharine sweet. "You look absolutely dreadful. Those men, they can be so crude. Don't mind them."

She turned to the others, her voice laced with feigned indignation.

"Honestly, how can you speak to Dorian's wife that way? Especially when I'm here. Dorian has always been so protective of me. You know how much my late father meant to him, and how he promised to look after me, right, darling?" She squeezed Dorian's arm, her head resting on his shoulder. "Perhaps you need a new outfit, dear. I'm sure Dorian wouldn't mind. He's always so generous with me."

Dorian's hand gently stroked Kinsley's hair, a gesture of affection and reassurance I had never received from him. A bitter realization settled in. My past acts of rebellion, my attempts to fight back, to assert my worth, now felt utterly meaningless. I had drained myself of all fight, all hope. I simply wanted it to end.

I tried to leave, but Kinsley blocked my path.

"Wait, Ariana," Kinsley said, "I have something for you." She held out a delicate, antique silver locket. "This was my grandmother's. Dorian insists I keep it, but I feel you deserve it more, as Dorian's wife now, of course." She held it out to me, a smug smile playing on her lips. "It's a family heirloom. Very precious."

I reached for it, my fingers numb. The locket slipped from my grasp, clattering to the hard floor, shattering into several pieces. Kinsley shrieked, then crumpled to the floor, collapsing into Dorian's arms. She began to sob, clutching at his shirt.

"She pushed me, Dorian!" Kinsley cried, her voice muffled against his chest. "She pushed me and broke it! My grandmother's locket! It was so precious!" She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, her lower lip trembling. "My ankle, it hurts."

I watched her performance, a masterclass in manipulation. Dorian, as always, fell for it. His face hardened. He gently lifted Kinsley, cradling her in his arms.

"Is your ankle alright?" he asked, his voice tender, full of concern. He turned his furious gaze on me.

"What have you done now, Ariana?" Dorian growled, his voice low and menacing. "Apologize to Kinsley. Now."

"How would you like me to apologize, Dorian?" I asked, my voice flat, empty of any emotion. "Should I kneel? Or perhaps offer my body to Blake again? Would that suffice for breaking an heirloom?"

My words hung in the air, cold and shocking. My past self, the proud, sharp-witted Ariana, would have raged, screamed, fought. But that Ariana was long dead. This current version of me felt nothing. Humiliation, I realized, was a mere trifle when faced with the absolute certainty of my own demise.

"Just tell me what you want, Dorian," I continued, my voice calm, almost detached. "I'm tired. I want to go home before nightfall."

Dorian's eyes blazed with an intensity I hadn't seen before. He violently flung me away. I stumbled back, my head hitting the wall with a dull thud. The room fell silent. Everyone stared, frozen in place.

"Get out," Dorian commanded, his voice raw with fury. "All of you. Now."

The men scrambled, quickly vacating the booth. Kinsley, still clutched in Dorian's arms, looked at me with a triumphant smirk before he carried her out. As he reached the door, Dorian paused. He looked back at me, and for the briefest moment, I saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch—not hatred, but something I had never seen before. Confusion. Or perhaps, fear. Then he disappeared.

Minutes later, my phone vibrated. A text message from Dorian. "Come home. We need to talk. I can explain everything."

I looked at the message, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. Explain? After five years of calculated cruelty, after my family was destroyed, after my mother cursed me to die? I knew what explanation meant. It meant another manipulation, another twist of the knife. He would never understand. I would not wait for him. I had made my decision. And by the time he got home, it would be too late.