Chapter 3

"I didn't touch her, David," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My back was against my desk, and there was nowhere to go.

His face was a mask of cold fury. He didn't believe me. Of course, he didn't. He never had.

"Don't lie to me, Sarah!" he snarled, taking another step forward. He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. "How can you be so cruel? So vindictive?"

He shoved me backward, and I stumbled, hitting the wall hard. The impact sent a jolt of pain through my body.

"I didn't lie!" I insisted, trying to pull my arm free. "She fell on purpose!"

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Right. Just like you didn't save me from that falling bookshelf in the library last year? Emily told me the truth about that day. She was the one who pushed me out of the way. She said you just stood there and watched, frozen like a coward."

The accusation struck me with the force of a physical blow. The bookshelf. I had almost forgotten.

A vivid memory flooded my mind, as sharp and clear as if it were happening right now. The towering oak bookshelf in the quietest corner of the library. The creaking sound. David, with his back to it, completely unaware. Me, seeing the massive piece of furniture start to tilt. Emily, standing a few feet away, her eyes wide with fear, completely frozen.

I hadn't thought. I had just acted. I launched myself at David, shoving him forward with all my strength. He stumbled out of the way just as the bookshelf came crashing down with a sound like thunder. A heavy encyclopedia had slid off the top shelf and struck me on the back of the head. The world had gone black for a moment, and when I came to, Emily was hysterically crying and clinging to David, who was looking down at me on the floor with confusion.

She had stolen my act of heroism. She had twisted the story and painted me as a villain, and he had believed her. All this time, for over a decade, he had believed I was a coward who watched as he almost died. The depth of Emily's manipulation was staggering.

"David, that's not what happened," I said, the realization making me feel sick. "I was the one who pushed you. I was the one who got hit."

"Stop it!" he yelled, shaking me again. "Just stop lying! You're a liar and you're pathetic, and I can't believe I ever wanted to marry you!"

The violent shake sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my head, radiating from the spot where the book had hit me all those years ago. My vision blurred. The room started to spin. The pain was overwhelming, a black wave crashing over me. My legs gave out, and I slumped to the floor, losing consciousness.

I woke to the sound of a calm, authoritative voice.

"...unacceptable behavior, Mr. Chen. We have a zero-tolerance policy for this."

My eyes fluttered open. I was on my bed. The Dean of Students was standing near the door, looking stern. Two campus security officers stood behind him. David was gone.

"Ms. Miller," the Dean said, his expression softening as he saw I was awake. "Are you alright? We've contacted your emergency contact. Mr. Chen has been removed from the premises and is facing immediate suspension pending a full investigation."

I didn't feel relief. I didn't feel vindicated. I just felt an immense, soul-crushing weariness. I just wanted it all to be over.

The next day, David found me sitting by the campus lake. He looked terrible. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he hadn't shaved. He had clearly been humbled by the university's response.

"Listen, Sarah," he said, his voice hoarse. He wouldn't look at me directly. "I'm sorry. I... I lost my temper. Getting physical was wrong. There's no excuse."

He paused, as if expecting me to say something. I remained silent.

"But we can still fix this," he continued, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "The suspension is just temporary. We can... we can still get married. I promise, I'll be a good husband. I'll make it up to you."

The offer was so selfish, so completely tone-deaf, that a bitter laugh almost escaped my lips. He thought a forced marriage was the solution. He thought he could just erase his actions with a half-hearted promise.

I looked at his desperate face, at the boy who had become the man who wished I had never existed, and I felt nothing but pity.

"No, David," I said quietly, a final, irrevocable finality in my tone.

As the word left my mouth, a figure approached us from behind. It was Michael Thorne. He was holding a small first-aid kit and a bottle of water. He stopped a few feet away, his kind eyes looking from David's shocked face to my calm one, a silent question in his gaze. He had come to check on me.