Chapter 3

Blake Poole POV:

The confirmation email for Mom's burial plot came through, a small victory in a losing battle. The cost was exorbitant, far more than I had left in my dwindling savings, even after selling off the few remaining valuables I possessed. It solidified the desperate need for my trust fund, for the last remnants of my mother's estate. And for that damned dress.

I took a deep, shaky breath, the metallic taste of fear and illness coating my tongue. I had to face Gabriela. I had to get the dress back, one way or another. It was more than just fabric; it was a symbol, the last thread connecting me to the world, to my mother, before I faded away.

As I made my way towards the opulent living room, where Gabriela often held court, a figure blocked my path. Corey. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed, an unfamiliar weariness clinging to him like a second skin. He looked... haunted.

"Blake," he said, his voice rough, a stark contrast to the easygoing tone I remembered from our childhood. "Why are you back?"

I didn't answer. My gaze dropped to his hand, then his leg. The one that, all those years ago, had delivered the blow that shattered my kneecap, ending my dreams. The memory was a fresh scar, throbbing beneath my skin.

My mind replayed the scene like a broken record: Gabriela' s tear-stained face, her whispered accusations about the fake kidnapping, her trembling finger pointing at me. Corey, his face contorted with rage, his eyes burning with a hatred I had never thought him capable of. He hadn' t just believed her; he had acted on her lies. He had kicked me, broken me, all for her. My promising career as a ballet dancer, the one thing that had brought me joy and purpose after Mom' s death, had ended in a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. I remembered the dull throb, then the searing pain, then the horrifying numbness as the doctor explained the irreparable damage. My life, my future, gone. Just like that.

And I hadn't felt anything then. Not truly. Only a strange, detached observation of the physical agony, as if it were happening to someone else. The emotional pain had already been too great, too overwhelming, to register another blow.

He saw my gaze, following it to his leg, to the ghost of the violence he had inflicted. A flicker of something, guilt perhaps, crossed his face. He flinched, pulling his leg back slightly.

"I... I shouldn't have," he started, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I was so angry. Gabriela... she was so scared. She said you twisted her ankle trying to push her into the car. I just... I reacted." He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly. "Blake, I'm so sorry. I swear, I never meant to... to break your leg. I thought you were dangerous. I thought you were trying to hurt her."

I recoiled from his touch, a visceral reaction. Sorry? After all this time? After destroying my life? The word felt cheap, meaningless. "Don't," I said, my voice barely audible. "Don't pretend you care now."

He visibly sagged, his shoulders slumping. "I do care, Blake. I always have. You just... you were so different after Eleanor died. So angry. So out of control."

I bit back a bitter laugh. Angry? Out of control? That was their narrative, their convenient excuse for abandoning me. I was a child who had her world ripped apart, and all I wanted was for someone to see me, to love me. Their love had been contingent on my compliance, my quiet suffering. When I dared to demand attention, they branded me insane.

"It doesn't matter," I said, turning away, the weariness settling deep in my bones. I didn't want his apologies. I didn't want his guilt. I simply wanted to complete my final mission.

"Where have you been, Blake?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "For three years, you just vanished."

"Around," I replied vaguely, the single word a wall between us. What was I supposed to tell him? That I'd spent the last year in and out of clinics, undergoing brutal treatments that left me weak and nauseous? That I'd been battling the demons of depression, the echoes of their accusations, the cold grip of a terminal illness?

My mental health had been a tightrope walk for years, a constant struggle against the darkness that threatened to consume me. Post-trauma, post-abandonment, post-diagnosed with severe depression. And then the cancer. A slow, agonizing invasion that started subtly, then roared to life. The doctors had been clear: 'Stage IV. Aggressive. Prognosis... grim. Get your affairs in order. Find support, Blake. You need your family.'

Family. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth. My family had been the architects of my suffering, the ones who had pushed me to the brink. They were the last people I would turn to for comfort. And besides, what was the point? The outcome was inevitable. I was dying. They probably wouldn't even care. The thought brought only a dull ache, not the searing pain it once would have. I was numb to their indifference now.

Corey opened his mouth to speak again, but a high-pitched, saccharine voice cut him off.

"Corey, darling! There you are!" Gabriela. She emerged from the living room, a vision in white, a delicate silk robe clinging to her slender frame. Her eyes, however, were not delicate. They were sharp, calculating, narrowing imperceptibly as she saw me with Corey.

She glided towards him, possessively slipping her arm through his, her eyes fixed on me with a barely concealed hostility. "What are you doing, darling? The caterers are here. You know how stressed I get." She paused, her gaze raking over me, a sneer playing on her lips. "Oh, Blake. Still here? I thought you'd have done enough damage for one day."

I met her stare, unblinking. "I'm not here to cause damage, Gabriela. I'm here for what's mine."

Her eyes widened, a theatrical display of innocence. "What's yours? Darling, everything here is ours now." She tightened her grip on Corey's arm. "Unless you mean the last shred of your reputation? Because I assure you, that's long gone." Her voice dripped with condescension. "Thinking of stirring up trouble again, are we? Trying to reclaim your position? It's pathetic, Blake. No one wants you here."

I felt a faint smile touch my lips. She truly didn't understand. She thought I was still fighting for their pathetic kingdom. My life was too short for such trivialities. The cancer had purged me of all those desperate, childish needs. I no longer cared for their love, their approval, their societal standing. All I wanted was peace. And my mother's dress.

"I don't want their love, Gabriela," I said, my voice soft, but firm. "I stopped wanting that a long time ago. What I want is my mother's wedding dress. The custom-made one. Where is it?"

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up in surprise, a flicker of genuine shock in her eyes. She hadn't expected that. She had expected a fight over Corey, over the family, over the money. Not the dress.

Then, a scornful laugh erupted from her. "The dress? Oh, Blake, darling. That's my wedding dress now. Ford and Brandt gave it to me. They said it was a symbol of my place in this family. A symbol of how much they love me." She held up her left hand, the engagement ring sparkling. "And it goes perfectly with Corey's ring, don't you think?"

My breath hitched. The ring. Corey's ring. The one he had given me, years ago, a simple silver band with a small sapphire. It was long gone, of course, discarded somewhere in the aftermath of my life. Now, he had given a diamond to her.

"You can't have it," Gabriela declared, her voice rising, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "Just like you can't have Corey. Or this family. Or anything else. Everything that was once yours, Blake, is mine now. Every single thing." She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

I looked at her, truly looked at her, her face a mask of malicious glee, and then at Corey, who stood beside her, his face pale and conflicted, but silent. He believed her. He always had. He always would.

A strange, quiet despair settled over me. She was right. They had taken everything. And I was too tired to fight. Too tired to even care. My world was shrinking, day by day, hour by hour. There was no room for battles, no energy for war. Only the quiet march towards the inevitable.