Chapter 4

Amirah Holland POV:

Chrissy' s words hit me with the force of physical blows, leaving me breathless and reeling. My mind struggled to process the unexpected venom, the raw hostility masked by her earlier sweet facade. This wasn't the kind, concerned fiancée; this was a predator, staking her claim. She stood before me, her arms crossed, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Did you really think a few silly tantrums would change anything?" she jeered, her voice dripping with contempt. "He tolerates you. He loves me."

A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach, twisting painfully. I clenched my fists, fingernails digging into my palms. The humiliation, the injustice, threatened to overwhelm me, but a new, unfamiliar spark of defiance ignited deep within. "You don't know anything about us, Chrissy," I retorted, my voice trembling slightly but holding firm.

Her smirk widened, a chilling, condescending look in her eyes. She leaned in, her voice now a low, chilling whisper. "Oh, but I do, sweetie. I know everything. Kendrick talks to me about everything. About how much of a burden you've become, how he needed to push you away so you would finally 'grow up.'" She pulled out her phone, her movements deliberate, almost theatrical. "He shows me everything."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape its cage. A cold dread washed over me as she scrolled through her messages, a triumphant glint in her eyes. I didn't want to see, but I couldn't tear my gaze away. The screen glowed with a conversation, a stream of texts between Kendrick and Chrissy, dating back months. I saw my name, my reckless stunts, my desperate pleas for attention. My world fractured further.

Then, I saw it. A message from Kendrick, sent just days after my tearful, drunken call, the night he told me to 'grow up.' Kendrick to Chrissy: "She finally gets it. This charade with us, Chrissy, it' s working. She' s finally ready to leave for good."

My vision blurred, the words swimming before my eyes. Charade? My legs buckled, and I stumbled backward, clutching my chest as if to hold my breaking heart together. The world spun, painting Chrissy's smug face in grotesque, swirling colors. It wasn't just indifference; it was a calculated, cruel deception. Every moment of his tenderness with Chrissy, every shared laugh, had been a weapon aimed directly at my heart.

Another message, cold and brutal, ripped through the last vestiges of my hope. Kendrick to Chrissy: "You are my future, Chrissy. Amirah is a child who needs to find her own way. You are more important than any lingering obligation."

The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. More important. Those words sliced through me, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound. He had sacrificed me, not for love, but for a callous strategy to get rid of me. He had used her, used us, to drive me away. The pain was physical, sharp, and suffocating. A crushing weight settled on my chest, stealing my breath. My head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat of agony.

Chrissy, seeing my distress, softened her voice, her eyes filled with mock pity. "See, sweetie? He cares about you, in his own way. Like a responsibility. But you're hindering his happiness. You need to let him go. Go find your own life, far away from here." She offered me a patronizing pat on the arm. "It's for the best, really."

My throat was too tight to speak. I could only nod, a silent, hollow agreement. What else was there to do? My world had collapsed.

I found Kendrick later, mingling effortlessly among the crowd. His smile was easy, his conversation engaging. He looked up as I approached, a flicker of something in his eyes-perhaps surprise at my composure. "Amirah? Are you feeling better? You look a bit pale."

His question, a simple query about my well-being, felt like a cruel mockery. Did he truly not know the devastating blow Chrissy had just delivered? Or was this another layer of his elaborate deception? My mind raced, trying to decipher his intentions. Was he trying to appear concerned, to keep up appearances? Or was he genuinely oblivious to the raw, bleeding wound he had inflicted?

I opened my mouth to speak, to ask him about the messages, about the 'charade,' but the words caught in my throat. What was the point? His carefully constructed world, built on lies and manipulation, would not be easily shattered. I forced a weak smile. "I'm fine, Kendrick. Just a little tired."

The next morning, the grand painting, 'The Unrequited Muse,' hung prominently in Kendrick's living room, a stark, undeniable testament to Chrissy's triumph. It was a slap in the face, a public humiliation, and a constant reminder of my supposed immaturity. He had purchased it. Not because he liked it, but because she did.

Chrissy beamed, her eyes sparkling. "Kendrick loved it so much, he bought it right after the gala! Isn't that just darling?" she cooed, her gaze sweeping over me with a calculated innocence. "I felt a little bad, you know, with the theme being so... intense. But he insisted."

Kendrick, sipping his coffee, merely nodded. "Chrissy's artistic vision is important. I support her completely." His words were a dagger, twisting in the fresh wound. He supported her vision, her happiness, her life. Mine was simply an inconvenience to be managed.

A strange calm settled over me. A cold, hard resolve. I met Chrissy's gaze, a small, genuine smile curving my lips. "It's quite the statement, Chrissy," I said, my voice steady, almost conversational. "Very... bold. Congratulations on the sale, Ms. Castro."

Chrissy's smile faltered, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Kendrick, however, nodded, a rare hint of approval in his expression. "See, Amirah? You're finally learning to appreciate art."

He reached out, his hand brushing mine, a familiar gesture that once brought warmth. I flinched, pulling my hand away almost imperceptibly, as if burned. The physical contact felt alien, unwelcome. "If you'll excuse me," I said, my voice still light, "I have some studying to do." I walked away, my back rigid, leaving them in their perfect, painted world.

Chrissy watched me go, a puzzled frown on her face. "She's... quiet today," she remarked, a hint of unease in her tone.

Kendrick shrugged, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "She's growing up. Just like I told her to."

Upstairs, in the sterile guest room, the quiet smile I'd worn shattered into a million pieces. I sank to the floor, hot, burning tears finally escaping, soaking the plush carpet. My chest heaved with silent sobs, each one a testament to the profound betrayal I had just endured. The 'charade.' The callousness. The utter disregard for my feelings. He truly was capable of anything.

Just as my tears began to subside, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Professor Vance: "Amirah, I've received word back from MIT. Your application looks very promising. They'd like to schedule an interview next week. There's a new research opportunity opening up, a collaboration with Dr. Adolfo Joyce."

My heart gave a sudden leap, a spark of something new igniting within the ashes of my despair. Dr. Adolfo Joyce. The name was whispered with reverence in academic circles. A brilliant, enigmatic PhD student, renowned for his groundbreaking work in theoretical physics. I remembered seeing his picture online, a striking, intense face framed by dark, unruly hair. He was intimidating, but brilliant.

My phone buzzed again, this time with a picture attached. It was Dr. Joyce, looking serious and intense, his dark eyes piercing. I couldn't help but feel a flicker of intrigue. To work with him... it was an impossible dream.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Kendrick stood there, a tall glass of amber liquid in his hand. My phone, still displaying Dr. Joyce's picture, slid under my pillow in a swift, instinctive movement. My heart thumped against my ribs, a nervous drum.

"I brought you some tea," he said, his voice unusually soft. "Chrissy's special brew. It helps with stress." He offered the glass, his expression unreadable.

My stomach churned at the thought of Chrissy's 'special brew.' It was probably laced with passive aggression. I forced a small smile. "Thank you, Kendrick. That's... thoughtful." I took the glass, the liquid warm against my fingers, but I had no intention of drinking it.

"You've been very quiet today," he observed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you really okay?"

I avoided his gaze, clutching the glass. "Just focusing on my studies. Big projects due soon." I tried to sound casual, dismissive, but the words felt hollow even to my own ears.

He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on the pillow where my phone was hidden. "What were you looking at?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the thin veneer of my calm. The question hung in the air, cold and demanding.