Chapter 3

I huddled in my chair, trying to make myself small. Mark's words swirled around me. I couldn't make sense of them. Why would Jax want to help me? He was the one who ripped my notes. He was the one who called me trash.

My eyes drifted to the empty wall. My mind felt blank, just like the plaster. No notes. No instructions. Just a vast, empty space.

Jax stepped forward. The cameras zoomed in. Their lenses were like hungry eyes.

"Joleen," he said. His voice was harsh. "Seven years. And you still can't take care of yourself? What have you done with your life?"

I looked at him. I remembered his face. The one tearing up my life. The one with the cruel smile. But his name... it was still a blur.

Jax' s face darkened. He hated being forgotten.

Harlow immediately stepped in front of him. Her hand on his chest. A concerned look on her face for the cameras.

"Jax, darling, don't be mad. She can't help it. Her memory is... fragile." She patted his arm. "Don't take it to heart."

Then, she turned to the cameras. Her face softened into a performance of pity.

"We heard about Joleen's situation," Harlow explained to the lens. "I mean, we really thought she was doing well. Seven years ago, we were told she left for... a better life."

She paused, shaking her head sadly. "We never imagined she'd end up like this. So alone. So vulnerable."

"Jax has always felt a deep regret," she continued, her voice full of emotion. "He blamed himself. Thought he wasn't good enough for her. That's why she 'left' him, you see."

"When we came back, the first thing he wanted to do was find her. To make amends. To give her a second chance." Harlow choked back a fake sob. "We just want to fix what was broken."

A few people from the crew murmured words of approval. "So selfless," someone whispered. "What a beautiful story."

My head pounded. Their voices. Their faces. It was too much. I just wanted them to stop.

I stood up. I needed to get away. Back to my room. Back to silence.

Jax's hand shot out. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was like iron.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled. His eyes were cold. "You're the star of the show now, Joleen. You don't get to leave."

"You weren't this quiet before," he mocked. "Seven years ago, you had plenty to say. Plenty of fight."

He shoved me back into the chair. Hard. The old wood groaned.

"Start filming!" he snapped at Mark.

Mark nodded eagerly. Cameras swiveled. Lenses focused on me.

"Can we get a tour of the premises?" Mark asked. "Show the viewers her living conditions? Really highlight her struggle?"

Jax waved a dismissive hand. "Go ahead. Film whatever you want. She has nothing to hide. Nothing left, anyway."

The crew swarmed my small house. They filmed my threadbare couch. My faded curtains. My chipped teacups.

They filmed my clothes, hanging on a line to dry. Pale and worn.

They filmed the half-eaten can of soup on my table.

They filmed my bed. The quilt patched in a dozen places.

Then, the neighbors started crowding in. Drawn by the commotion. Drawn by the cameras.

Mrs. Henderson, from next door, pushed her way to the front. She pointed a finger at me.

"Look at her now!" she screeched, her voice shrill. "Used to be such a pretty thing. Thought she was too good for this town. Too good for Jax."

"Ran off with some rich old man, they said. Two-timing little hussy. Thought she hit the jackpot."

"Serves her right, I say! The way she dumped Jax, practically at the altar. Left him heartbroken. Now look at her. What goes around, comes around."

"That rich man probably used her up and tossed her out," another neighbor chimed in. "Now she's got nothing. Brain's gone. Stares into space all day. If her parents hadn't left her this house, she'd be begging on the streets."