Elia POV:

I looked at the silk robe, then at the glittering diamonds on the necklace. They were expensive, undoubtedly. But to me, they were just objects, devoid of the power they once held to wound me. I picked up a loupe, my movements precise and practiced.

"The robe is silk, but the stitching is poor. It' s a custom piece, likely a knock-off of a designer. Value, minimal," I said, my voice flat, professional. "The necklace has decent clarity, but the setting is flimsy. I can offer you a fair consignment rate, or a direct purchase at a lower price."

I quoted a number, a figure plucked from years of experience in the vintage couture market. "My prices are competitive. You won't find better anywhere else."

Christian stared at the loupe in my hand, then at the small, worn notebook I held. "You're... you're doing this now?" His voice was thick with unspoken questions. "What happened to your designs? Your art?"

I paused, meeting his gaze. "My time is valuable, Mr. Prince. Do we have a deal, or not? If not, I have other appointments." I wanted them out. Out of my store, out of my life, out of my head. The air felt heavy, tainted by their presence.

He stepped towards me, his hand reaching out, grasping my forearm. "Elia, wait." His touch sent a jolt, not of longing, but of stark revulsion, through me.

His fingers brushed against the slight, almost imperceptible crookedness of my right index finger, then trailed to the faint scar tissue on my knuckles. His eyes widened, a flicker of horror crossing his face.

"Your hand," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "What happened?"

He remembered the endless hours I spent sketching, drafting, sewing. My hands were my life, my future. They were the tools of a prodigious talent, once recognized with accolades and awards, now reduced to the mundane. The injury had shattered that dream, forcing a pivot, a quiet rebuilding.

"It' s nothing," I said, pulling my arm away. The truth was, it was everything. The "accident," Gidget's cruel, calculated act, had shattered more than just bones. It had shattered my career, my identity. And he, Christian, had been there. He had chosen to believe her lies, abandoning me in my most desperate hour, leaving me to face the shattered fragments of my life alone.

"I don't design anymore," I stated, the words clipped. "Multiple surgeries, years of physical therapy. This is the best it'll get. At least I can still use it for basic tasks." My voice was devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the agony I had endured.

I turned to walk away, to disappear into the back of my store. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really do have other clients waiting."

But he called my name again, his voice raw. "Elia!"

I stopped, but didn't turn.

Then Gidget's saccharine voice cut through the air. "Elia, wait! Christian, darling, let her go. She's clearly not herself." Her face was a mask of feigned pity, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Elia, don't be so proud. If you're really struggling, we can help. Christian's company just went public, a small donation from our foundation will keep your little shop afloat for months."

She fluttered her eyelashes at Christian, a performance of pure, unadulterated charity. "It's for a good cause, darling. Supporting women in business, you know."

Christian nodded, his eyes fixed on me, a strange mix of pity and confusion in their depths. "Gidget's right, Elia. We want to help. Let me drive you home; you don't look well."

I finally turned, my gaze sweeping over them. "I don't need your help. Or your pity. And I certainly don't need a ride from a married man."

The words hung in the air, a final, definitive barrier between us. I walked back into the quiet sanctuary of my boutique, leaving them standing in the doorway, their faces a tableau of shock and indignation.

My assistant, Maya, looked up from her phone, her eyes wide. "Oh my god, Elia, was that the Christian Prince? And Gidget Norman? The philanthropist couple?" Her voice was hushed, reverent. "Everyone says they're practically saints, a real-life fairytale. He's so devoted to her, especially after what she went through, you know, with her 'abusive family trauma'." Maya gestured vaguely at her phone. "She just posted about donating a vintage gown for their upcoming charity ball, to raise awareness for victims of domestic violence. They're such a perfect, kind couple."

My laugh was short, sharp, and entirely devoid of humor.

Elia POV:

My laughter echoed in the quiet space, brittle and cold. "Saints," I repeated, the word a bitter taste in my mouth. They were indeed viewed as the epitome of the charitable, devoted couple, wrapped in a narrative of shared trauma and unwavering love. Christian, the steadfast husband; Gidget, the resilient survivor. And me? I was the forgotten villain, the unstable sister who had caused her so much pain.

He still believed her. He still believed her lies, her carefully constructed facade of victimhood. The thought was a familiar knot in my stomach, one I had long learned to live with.

I had loved him once, with a fierce, unwavering devotion that defied logic. Christian. My first love, my only love. I had chosen him, over everyone, over everything.

Then I found him. In our bed. Tangled with her. Gidget. My sister, my tormentor, her body a pale, naked blur against his. The air was thick with the stench of their betrayal, the cloying sweetness of her perfume.

I remembered the nausea, the sudden, violent lurch of my stomach. My world tilted on its axis, every star in my carefully constructed universe winking out.

Christian had been my neighbor first, a constant shadow in my tumultuous childhood. He' d seen Gidget' s cruelty, my stepmother' s indifference. He' d seen me, a small, scared girl, banished from the house after one of Gidget' s dramatic outbursts. He' d found me huddled in the cold, a tiny, shivering ball of misery.

He' d wrapped his worn denim jacket around me, his hands warm on my freezing skin. "Don't cry, Elia," he'd whispered, his voice a balm to my aching heart. "I'll always protect you."

I remembered the time Gidget had slammed a door on my ear, a childish fit of pique turning violent. Christian, barely older than me, had been there in an instant, cradling me, his eyes blazing with protective fury. "I'll always be here," he'd promised, his words a sacred vow. "I'll always be the first one to say 'Happy New Year' to you, the first one to hold you."

He knew. He knew the depth of my hatred for Gidget, the scars she had left, both visible and invisible. He knew.

My hand had flown out, instinct overriding reason. A sharp crack echoed in the room as my palm connected with Gidget' s cheek. "Why, Gidget?" I' d screamed, my voice raw with anguish. "Why do you always have to destroy everything?"

My hand was poised for a third strike, but Christian had caught it, his grip like iron. "Elia, stop!" he'd yelled, his voice strained. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, his body trembling. "She drugged me, Elia! I swear, I thought it was you!"

Gidget, meanwhile, had crumpled to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself, her body wracked with theatrical sobs. "Elia, how could you?" she'd wailed, her voice thick with false tears. "You always misunderstand me! I would never..."

I had seen that look a hundred times. The innocent, wounded doe, framed by tears and trembling lips. My head spun, the room blurring around me.

Then everything went black. I collapsed, the weight of the betrayal too much to bear.

Elia POV:

I woke to the sterile scent of a hospital room, the soft glow of the monitor a stark contrast to the darkness that had consumed me. Christian sat beside my bed, his face haggard, his eyes bloodshot. He pleaded, he begged, he provided carefully curated evidence of Gidget's alleged drugging, of his own innocence. He swore he hadn't touched her, that it was a terrible accident, a misunderstanding. He pleaded with me to believe him, to forgive him.

I wanted to. Desperately. I wanted to believe the man I loved, the man who had always been my protector. I tried to convince myself it was a cruel trick of fate, an unfortunate mistake. I yearned to put it behind us, to salvage the shattered remnants of our life together.

Just as our fragile peace began to mend, a notification pinged on my phone. Gidget. Always Gidget. She had posted a picture. A candid shot of her, laughing, nestled against a man whose face was turned away. But I recognized the familiar curve of his jaw, the dark hair, and more importantly, the discreet silver ring on his outstretched hand. The ring I had given Christian, a cherished anniversary gift.

My blood roared in my ears. The blurry memory of Christian's rushed, almost dismissive text message about an urgent business trip, just days before, came flooding back. He hadn't been on a business trip. He had been with her. With Gidget.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. He hadn't stopped seeing her. He had lied. Again. My vision tunneled.

I stumbled out of the apartment, a frantic urgency propelling me forward. I had to see, had to know. The night was a blur of taxi rides and flashing city lights. It was almost midnight when I arrived, the sky above a symphony of bursting fireworks, a cruel, mocking celebration of something I couldn't comprehend.

And then I saw them. Christian and Gidget. Standing on a balcony, wrapped in each other's arms, silhouetted against the exploding colors. He held her close, his head bent to hers.

"Is it a boy or a girl, darling?" Gidget' s voice, clear and bright, drifted across the distance. "Has our baby already celebrated its first New Year with us?"

The words were a physical assault. Our baby. My ears roared, a deafening white noise that drowned out everything. I couldn't process it. My body moved before my mind, a primal scream tearing from my throat.

I lunged forward, my hand connecting with Christian' s face, a sharp, stinging slap. Then I grabbed Gidget's hair, my fingers tangling in the silken strands. "You lied!" I shrieked, my voice cracking. "You swore it was an accident! You swore you were innocent!"

Christian reacted instantly, pulling Gidget protectively into his arms, shielding her from me. His eyes, usually so gentle, were blazing with a cold fury I had never seen directed at me. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging into my flesh, a searing pain blooming up my arm.

"What is wrong with you, Elia?" he snarled, his voice a low growl. "Are you insane? She's pregnant!"

The world tilted again. Pregnant. My sister. With his child. Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious. "Pregnant?" I choked out, my voice barely a whisper. "With your child? Who am I, Christian? Who am I to you?"