Chapter 2 No.2

The next morning, Cayla began to erase herself.

She started with the photograph.

It was a small, framed picture of Justen, tucked away in her nightstand drawer. His smile was warm, his eyes full of a light that had long since been extinguished. For five years, this picture had been her anchor. The reason she endured.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. She looked at his face, memorizing every line, every detail. Then, she slid the photo out of its frame.

Tearing it would have been an act of passion, of anger. What she felt was the cold, quiet calm of a decision made.

She took out a lighter.

The flame caught the corner of the photograph. It curled, turning brown, then black. Justen's smiling face distorted, then vanished into ash.

She let the ashes fall into a small, empty jewelry box. A box Justen had given her. She closed the lid, the soft click echoing in the silent room. A burial.

Next, she moved to the closet. It was filled with clothes Grafton had approved. Simple, dark, professional attire. The uniform of Cayla Bass, the efficient assistant.

She took them all out, folding them neatly and placing them in cardboard boxes. She would donate them. They belonged to a person who no longer existed.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Cherrelle.

A photo.

It was a close-up of a stunning diamond ring on Cherrelle's finger. Her hand was intertwined with Grafton's.

The caption read: He has the best taste, doesn't he? Can't wait for our future. <3

Cayla stared at the screen, her face a blank mask. The part of her that could be hurt by this was already dead.

She deleted the message without replying.

Later that day, Grafton summoned her. He was in his home gym, sweat glistening on his brow as he punched a heavy bag.

He didn't stop when she entered.

"Cherrelle doesn't like the caterer you chose for the party," he said between breaths. "She says their menu is boring."

"I see," Cayla said.

"She wants the food from Le Ciel. Arrange it."

Le Ciel was the most exclusive restaurant in the city. It was also the place Justen had taken her for their first anniversary.

Grafton knew this. He had been there. A sullen teenager forced to chaperone his older brother.

The memory was a ghost in the room. Justen laughing, raising a glass to her. To us.

Now, Grafton wanted to serve that memory on a platter at his engagement party.

It was a final, deliberate act of erasure. A declaration that even her past was not her own. It belonged to him, to be repurposed or discarded as he saw fit.

He stopped punching and turned to her, wiping his face with a towel. He picked up a bottle of water, twisted it open, and drank deeply.

Then he held it out to her.

"Here," he said, his voice flat. "You look pale. Drink it."

It was the same brand of water he always drank. The same brand he'd once thrown at her head in a fit of rage, leaving a bruise she'd had to cover with makeup for a week.

She took the bottle. Her fingers closed around the cool plastic.

She met his gaze, her own eyes empty.

She unscrewed the cap and drank.

The water was cold, tasteless. It slid down her throat, a hollow baptism. With this act, she accepted it all. The pain, the cruelty, the complete and utter disregard for her existence.

It was the final confirmation she needed.

There was nothing left to save. Nothing left to hold on to.