Chapter 2

Jax finally let go of my face. He pushed my head away with a harsh movement. My neck snapped back.

He turned from me. His eyes found the wall covered in my Post-it notes. His face twisted in a sneer.

He kicked the wall. The sound was loud. A few notes fluttered to the floor.

"What is this garbage?" he growled. "Your life's instructional manual? Don't tell me you need notes to breathe, too."

He started to rip them down. One by one. He read them aloud, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

" 'Remember to eat breakfast.' 'Take medication at 8 AM.' 'Colton calls on Tuesday.' "

He tore another one. " 'This is your home.' "

He laughed, a cruel, harsh sound. "You need a reminder of where you live, Joleen? What a genius. Or is this all part of the act? To get sympathy?"

My Post-it notes. They were my anchors. My lifeboat in a sea of forgotten moments. They were my proof that I was still here.

I tried to get up from the chair. My legs felt like jelly. I slid to the floor.

"Please," I croaked. "Don't. Don't tear them."

I crawled on my hands and knees. Trying to gather the scattered pieces of paper. They were my memories. My instructions. My life.

Jax watched me. A cold, detached look in his eyes.

He put his foot down. Right on top of a small yellow note. My hand reached for it, but his shoe was too heavy.

He bent down. Slowly. He picked up the note from under his foot.

It was an old one. Faded ink.

" 'Happy birthday, Jax,' " he read aloud. His voice was flat. " 'You are my sun.' "

He paused. Just for a second. His fingers tightened around the small paper.

"Still keeping this?," he scoffed. "What, planning to use it for your next victim? Remind them of my past stupidity?"

Then, with a deliberate motion, he tore the note into tiny pieces. He held them up. The paper confetti drifted down. Landing on my hair. My shoulders.

My hand still outstretched. Trying to catch the fragments. But they slipped through my fingers.

Harlow stepped forward. She gently took Jax's arm.

"Jax, darling," she cooed. Her voice was soft. "Don't get yourself worked up over her. She's pathetic. Like a stray dog."

She turned to the cameras that had suddenly appeared. I hadn't even noticed them. They were everywhere.

"This is exactly what I mean," Harlow said to the camera. Her voice was full of fake sympathy. "She's so lost. So broken. It's truly heartbreaking."

She looked back at Jax. "We came here to help, remember? To show everyone your generous spirit. Your forgiveness."

"A reality show," she whispered to him. But it was loud enough for me to hear. "We'll call it 'Rust Belt Redemption.' A story of a compassionate billionaire returning home to save a lost soul. It's gold, Jax. Pure gold."

Jax looked at Harlow. A flicker of something in his eyes. Then he nodded. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

He looked at me. Still on the floor, surrounded by torn paper.

"Get up, you brain-damaged trash," he snarled. He kicked a stray note near my head. "You're going to be a star. Everyone will see what a mess you are. And they'll see how I, Jax Mosley, am going to save you."

He turned and walked out, Harlow clinging to his arm. The cameras followed them.

I lay there for a long time. The empty wall stared back at me. Silence. But my head. My head was screaming.

The next morning, I woke up with a dull ache in my head. A Post-it on my wrist said: "Eat oatmeal. Take pills."

I shuffled to the kitchen. My home felt empty. The walls were bare.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. It slammed against the wall. The sound made me jump.

Jax walked in. Behind him, a crew of people. Lights. Cameras. Microphones.

Harlow was there too. Her arm linked through Jax's. She smiled at the cameras. A wide, dazzling smile.

A man with a headset stepped forward. He held a clipboard.

"Joleen Spencer?" he asked, his voice booming. "I'm Mark, the director of 'Rust Belt Redemption.' And this is your chance to turn your life around!"

He gestured to Jax and Harlow. "These two amazing philanthropists, Jax Mosley and Harlow Bridges, have returned to their hometown. They want to give back. To help the less fortunate."

He leaned in conspiratorially, but his voice was still loud. "We heard about your struggles, Joleen. Your... condition. We want to document your journey. To inspire others. To raise awareness. And, of course, to get you the help you desperately need."