Chapter 3

The memory of that day still felt sharp, even years later. But before the escape, before London, there was the final, brutal act of my own humiliation. The story wasn't as simple as me overhearing them and leaving. The detailed outline of my memory was far more painful.

The day I sold the guitar, Mark Johnson was there. He wasn't just getting a report from Chloe; he wanted a front-row seat. After the executive, Mr. Graves, pushed the money across the table, the door to the office opened. Mark swaggered in, a smug grin plastered on his face. Chloe was right behind him, her arm linked through his. The mask was off.

"Well, well, well," Mark said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Look what we have here. Alex Miller, the musical genius, selling his family's history for a quick buck."

My head snapped up. Seeing them together, so triumphant, so open in their contempt, sent a jolt through me. The pieces clicked into place instantly, even before I overheard their later conversation. This was a setup. The whole thing.

"Chloe?" I said, my voice barely a whisper. "What's going on?"

She just laughed, a high, cruel sound that didn't fit the face I thought I knew. "What's going on, Alex, is that you're finally getting what you deserve. You think you can just waltz in and take what belongs to Mark?"

"The scholarship?" I was stunned. "That was two years ago. I earned that."

"You stole it!" Mark spat, his face turning red. "You and your sob story about your dead musician father. The judges ate it up. You cost me my future."

"So this is what? Revenge?" I asked, my voice shaking with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "You made her pretend to be sick? You made me sell this..." I gestured wildly at the guitar now in Mr. Graves's hands.

"It was her idea, actually," Mark said, beaming at Chloe. "And it was brilliant. Watching you squirm, so desperate to be the hero. It's been the best show in town."

Chloe stepped forward, her eyes cold and hard. "You're just so naive, Alex. So easy to play. Did you really think someone like me would end up with a broke, wannabe musician living in a tiny apartment? I was with Mark before you, and I'll be with him long after you're a pathetic memory."

The words were like punches to the gut. I felt the air leave my lungs. I looked from her smug face to Mark's sneering one. The humiliation was a physical thing, hot and suffocating.

"Give me back my guitar," I said to Mr. Graves, my voice low and dangerous.

Graves just chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "The deal is done, son. You've got your money."

"I don't want the money," I snarled, taking a step forward.

Mark blocked my path. He was bigger than me, broader from years of playing sports instead of an instrument. "You're not getting it back," he said, shoving me hard in the chest. "This is your punishment."

I stumbled backward, my feet tangling. The rage, the betrayal, the sheer injustice of it all boiled over. I wasn't thinking. I was pure, raw emotion. I lunged at Mark, swinging a wild punch that he easily dodged.

He was ready for it. He was hoping for it. He grabbed me by the shirt, his knuckles white, and slammed me against the wall. My head hit the soundproofing foam with a dull thud. He shoved me again, and I fell, my shoulder cracking hard against the corner of a heavy wooden mixing desk.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my arm. I cried out, a sound of pure agony. I looked down and saw my arm bent at an unnatural angle. Broken. The pain was immense, blinding.

I lay on the floor, cradling my shattered arm, the world dissolving into a haze of pain. Through it, I could hear their laughter.

"Look at him," Mark sneered, standing over me. "The great artist, crying on the floor. Make sure you're getting this, Graves. This is the real masterpiece."

I realized Graves was filming the whole thing with his phone. The cold, black lens felt like an eye staring into my soul, recording my lowest moment.

"He's bleeding on the carpet," Chloe said, her voice laced with disgust, as if I were a piece of trash. "Let's go, Mark. I don't want to be here when he starts blubbering about his feelings."

They turned and walked out, their laughter echoing down the hall. I was left on the floor of the studio, my arm broken, my heart shattered, and the only legacy of my family in the hands of a man who saw it as a commodity. The wad of cash, their "payment," was scattered on the floor around me, stained with a few drops of my blood.

The pain was a fire in my arm, but it was nothing compared to the cold emptiness that was spreading through my chest. I tried to push myself up with my good arm, but a wave of dizziness washed over me.

In that moment of extreme pressure, a strange clarity cut through the pain. I would not let this be the end. I would not let them win. I grit my teeth, the taste of blood in my mouth. "You... you will regret this," I whispered to the empty room, the words a promise to myself. It was a vow forged in the crucible of my deepest humiliation.

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