Chapter 2

A month later, a charity worker found me in a refugee camp. I was thirty pounds lighter, my arm was broken, and I had a collection of scars that told a story I couldn't yet put into words.

The Miller family jet flew me back to Austin. The silence on that plane was heavier than any sound I had ever heard.

The moment we landed, they shoved me into a press conference. Dylan stood at the podium, looking concerned and heroic.

"We are so relieved to have Liam back," he announced to the sea of cameras. "It was a terrifying ordeal. He wandered off against our explicit advice, into a known volatile area. We're just thankful he's safe."

They propped me up next to him. The flashbulbs were like explosions, sending me right back to the riot. I flinched, and Dylan put a "supportive" hand on my shoulder.

"To show our support for others affected by such reckless behavior," Dylan continued smoothly, "Miller Records will be making a one-million-dollar donation to a charity that aids displaced persons."

They were using my trauma as a PR stunt. Cleaning up the bad press I caused.

Scarlett was there, standing to the side. She wouldn't look at me. Her face was pure, controlled fury.

Back at the Miller estate, the place I had called home for two decades, she finally exploded.

"How could you?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp. "You look like a homeless person. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed this family. All that melodrama for the cameras."

I was starving. I hadn't had a real meal in weeks. I stumbled into the kitchen, my body shaking. "I'm just... I'm hungry, Scarlett."

She watched me with pure disgust. She grabbed a bag of stale pretzels from the pantry and threw it at me. It hit my chest and burst open, scattering the dry, twisted shapes across the polished marble floor.

"There," she sneered. "Eat. Happy now?"

My mind was blank. The hunger was a physical beast inside me, clawing at my stomach. I dropped to my knees. My hands, still trembling, started scooping the pretzels off the floor and shoving them into my mouth. I didn't care about the dirt. I didn't care about her contempt. I just needed to eat.

I looked up at her, my cheeks full.

The look on her face wasn't pity. It was a new level of revulsion. She looked at me like I was something she had scraped off her shoe.

That was the moment I knew. The Liam who loved her died somewhere in that muddy field in Eastern Europe. This thing on the floor, eating like an animal, was someone else. Someone who was just trying to survive.