Chapter 2

Serena’s POV

The first thing that surfaced was the face of a younger Aaron, his eyes crinkling with unguarded warmth.

Then, an even clearer night took over.

It was a night just like this when Luke shoved me violently toward the sidewalk as a reckless truck ran a red light.

Luke was crushed beneath the wheels. His last glance back at me was to scream, "Run!"

And I ran.

That became a debt I could never repay.

I owed a human life, and all I had left to pay with was a few fleeting months.

I was dying.

And Aaron didn't know a thing.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the window.

I was lying on the hard mattress in my rented apartment, wrapped in a heavy quilt, the bedside lamp glowing softly.

Dr. Jordan Cole was sitting beside the bed, holding the folded lab report I had tucked into my bag.

I had no idea how or when he had found me in that stairwell.

"Late-stage," Jordan said, his voice raw. "Serena, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I turned my head away, remaining silent.

"You're checking into the hospital right now," Jordan said, slamming the report onto the nightstand. "I'll arrange a room for you this second. Stop following him around! Do you hear me?"

"I'm not leaving."

"Serena!" He swallowed his rage. "What are you throwing your life away for?"

"Jordan," I whispered, staring at the ceiling. "I can't just forget Luke."

Jordan stared at me for a long time, unable to say another word.

Luke's name was an immovable stone, one even Jordan couldn't dislodge.

A few days later was the annual industry gala.

I shadowed Aaron as usual under the title of his assistant, handing out business cards and greeting guests.

The event was held at a luxury suburban resort, the crystal chandeliers blindingly bright.

Samantha arrived on the arm of Aaron's mother, Eleanor Hayes.

Sipping her wine, Samantha deliberately brushed past me, her shoulder slamming into mine. Half a glass of red wine splashed across the back of my hand.

"Oh my," Samantha raised her voice, drawing immediate attention. "Ms. Lewis, can't you even stand on your own two feet?"

Several people turned to look.

I pulled out a tissue to wipe my skin, saying nothing.

Aaron stood two steps away. He saw it happen, then looked away just as quickly.

"Come here," he commanded, gesturing with his chin.

I walked over.

"Apologize to Samantha," he said, not loud, but clear enough for everyone nearby to hear. "You bumped into her and turned her wrist red."

The chatter around us died down. A few people who had been laughing went dead quiet.

I lifted my eyes and glanced at Samantha’s pristine wrist. Not a drop of wine had touched her.

"I didn't touch her."

"Are you going to apologize or not?" Aaron arched an eyebrow. "Ms. Lewis, do my words mean nothing to you now?"

Samantha gently linked her arm through his, flashing a smug smile while lightly running her manicured nails over his cuff.

I lowered my head. "I'm sorry."

The words weren't loud, but they were clear enough for the dozen people surrounding us.

All I had hoped for was that he would acknowledge I hadn't touched her—that he would let me stand there quietly.

Instead, he hauled me forward, demanding I take the blame for something I never did in front of a crowd.

I took it. Because the debt was mine.

Aaron didn't fire me.

I stayed in the hall, taking drinks for him, jotting down names, forcing myself to endure until the party finally wound down.

As we walked toward the exit, Samantha suddenly let out a theatrical gasp, deliberately dropping her clutch and a set of car keys onto the asphalt.

"You pushed me again!" She spun around, pointing an accusing finger at me.

"I didn't."

"Everyone's watching! If it wasn't you, who else could it be?" Samantha’s eyes welled with tears as she turned to Aaron. "Look at her!"

Aaron's expression darkened.

He walked up, snatched my phone straight out of my pocket, ripped my crossbody bag from my shoulder, and handed both to Samantha.

"You're not riding in my car tonight," he said coldly. "Walk yourself back."

"Aaron," I said, looking up at him. "We're miles outside the city."

"I heard you," he said, tugging at his collar. "Samantha was wronged. You need to learn your lesson."

He turned and climbed into the car, and Samantha slid in right beside him.

The headlights washed over me as the luxury sedan pulled out, its taillights shrinking into two red specks before turning onto the highway and vanishing.

The guests had all cleared out.

The biting winter wind tore through my thin suit jacket, chilling me to the bone. There wasn't a single car in sight, just a distant line of highway lights.

I stood by the edge of the parking lot with no bag, no money, and only a cheap backup phone in my pocket.

I hadn't uttered a single word in my defense.

In the past, these cruelties happened behind closed doors, hidden behind drawn blinds where only I would ever know.

Tonight, it played out under the crystal chandeliers for everyone to witness.

I had thought that by standing in front of him, taking every bullet, he would at least shield me from public humiliation.

Tonight, I finally saw clearly: he was the one pulling the trigger, stripping away my dignity for the world to see.

The wind glued the damp fabric of my blazer to my skin, and violent shivers racked my body.

Only then did Jordan's call come through.

His voice shook with fury over the receiver, begging me not to move, promising he was in his car and would reach me in twenty minutes.

I hung up.

I didn't want him to see me like this tonight.

Slowly, I crouched down, burying my face into my knees.

And still, I refused to walk away.

No matter how Jordan pleaded, it was useless.