Chapter 2

My eyes stayed locked on Liam Stone. He stood there, silent and imposing, a statue of indifference.

"You're my bodyguard?" I asked, my voice cutting through the tense air.

He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, Ms. Miller."

Ms. Miller. So formal. So cold. It didn't sound like the way you'd speak to a woman who was supposedly consumed by love for you.

"My father says I 'valued' you," I said, putting a sharp emphasis on the word. I looked directly into his dark eyes, searching for any flicker of emotion. "Is that right? Or was it more than that? Did I love you?"

The question hung in the air, raw and direct.

My father shifted uncomfortably. "Chloe, this isn't the time..."

But I ignored him. I was looking at Liam.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His expression remained hard, unyielding. "You were my employer, Ms. Miller. My only job was to ensure your safety."

It was a non-answer, a dismissal. He was pushing me away, creating a professional barrier where, apparently, a personal one had once been. The coldness radiating from him was so intense it was almost a physical force.

Suddenly, Brittany let out a small sob. "Oh, Liam," she whispered, her voice trembling. She took a step forward and "tripped" over the leg of the chair, lurching forward. The thermos of soup she had just picked up went flying, its hot contents splashing all over Liam's expensive suit jacket and the floor.

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" she cried, her face a mask of distress. She immediately started dabbing at his jacket with a napkin, her hands lingering on his chest. "I'm so clumsy. Your suit, it's ruined."

Liam's reaction was immediate. His cold facade melted away, replaced by a look of gentle concern. He put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

"It's just a suit, Brittany," he said, his voice soft in a way it hadn't been with me. "Are you okay? You didn't get burned?"

"I'm fine," she sniffled, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I just feel so terrible. First Chloe is mean to me, and now I've made a mess of everything."

It was a masterful performance. In one move, she had made herself the victim, pulled Liam's attention entirely to her, and reinforced the idea that I was the difficult, angry one.

I watched them, a sick feeling growing in my stomach. The way he looked at her... it was not the way a bodyguard looks at his boss's stepsister. There was a deep, protective affection there. The affection I was supposed to have received.

Liam gently took the napkin from her hand. "It's alright. Let's get you out of here and get this cleaned up."

He didn't even glance back at me. He put a hand on the small of Brittany's back and guided her out of the room, his head bent down as he murmured comforting words to her.

My father watched them go, a look of tired resignation on his face. He turned back to me. "You see? You're always pushing people away, Chloe."

I just laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.

"Me?" I said, disbelief coloring my voice. "Did you not just see that? He's in love with her."

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "Liam is a professional."

But I knew what I saw. And for the first time since waking up, I felt a flicker of something other than confusion. It was clarity. A cold, hard clarity.

After my father left, huffing about my "attitude," I was alone again in the quiet room.

I laid back against the pillows, staring at the white ceiling.

So, for three years, I was pathetically in love with my own bodyguard, a man who was secretly in love with my sweet, manipulative stepsister. What a joke. What a pathetic, miserable fool I must have been.

I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if I were watching a movie about someone else's life. I didn't feel the sting of a broken heart. I felt the sting of humiliation.

My hand fumbled for my phone on the nightstand. I picked it up. The screen lit up, and my breath caught in my throat.

The lock screen was a picture of him. Liam. He was in a black t-shirt, looking away from the camera, a rare, small smile on his lips. It was a candid, intimate photo. A photo taken by someone who loved him.

I stared at the image of the man who had just looked at me with such disdain, who had walked out without a second glance to comfort my crying stepsister.

A wave of disgust washed over me.

Without a second of hesitation, I unlocked the phone, went into the settings, and deleted the image. I replaced it with the default, generic background of blue and white swirls.

Then, I went to my contacts. His name was there, right at the top of my favorites. "Liam."

I pressed down on the contact. The option appeared. "Delete."

I pressed it.

A confirmation box popped up. "Are you sure you want to delete this contact?"

I pressed "Delete" again, firmly. The contact vanished.

It felt good. It felt like I was erasing a stain. This memory loss wasn't a tragedy. It was a clean slate. A chance to start over, free from the pathetic woman I used to be.