Chapter 3

I turned slowly, my heart pounding in my chest despite my resolve. Caleb stood in the doorway, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight. And standing just behind him, peeking out from under his arm like a frightened deer, was Frances Kirby.

Her eyes, wide and deceptively innocent, were fixed on me.

I immediately looked away, my gaze shifting to a neutral spot on the wall. "I'm going on a vacation," I said, my voice deliberately light. "A little shopping trip to Paris. You know how I get."

Caleb's eyes narrowed. He knew my patterns. He knew my tells. But this new, detached version of me was an unknown variable. He still believed my life revolved around him, that any strange behavior was a ploy for his attention.

"Fine," he said, his voice clipped. He walked into the apartment, Frances trailing behind him like a shadow. He guided her to the small sofa, effectively pushing me to the periphery of the room. I was, as always, the outsider in their cosy little world.

"Oh, Nana," Frances chirped, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. "Caleb was so worried about you, he insisted we come right over. He barely slept all night."

Caleb's expression softened as he looked at her. "Don't be dramatic, Fran." But his eyes were full of a tenderness he never showed me. He was completely captivated, a willing puppet for the story's heroine.

They fit together perfectly. The handsome, brooding hero and the sweet, vulnerable girl he was sworn to protect. I watched them, an invisible wall between us.

A bitter smile touched my lips. It was strange. Seeing them together like this used to feel like a physical blow. Now, it just felt... distant. A scene from a movie I was no longer a part of. I had already let go.

His grandmother, however, noticed my isolation. "Jaliyah, why don't you and Caleb go wash some fruit for us?" she said, trying to bridge the gap. "There are some nice strawberries in the kitchen."

Caleb and I both agreed, the habit of obedience to his grandmother ingrained in us. We walked out of the living room and into the small, narrow kitchen.

The moment we were out of sight, his demeanor changed. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

My breath hitched. In three years, he had rarely initiated physical contact unless it was for a public appearance.

"What do you want, Jaliyah?" he hissed, his face close to mine. His eyes were cold steel. "Don't you dare try to hurt Frances. She's been through enough."

Hurt her? The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. She was the one who had systematically tormented me, framing me for slights and misdeeds, always playing the victim to win his sympathy.

The old me would have defended myself. I would have argued, cried, pleaded with him to see the truth. I would have pointed out that he spent the night with her, not me, his supposed girlfriend.

But I wasn't the old me anymore.

I just looked at him, my expression calm. "Okay," I said.

My simple agreement seemed to throw him off. He stared at me, searching my face for the usual anger or tears. He found nothing.

I pulled my arm from his grasp and walked past him to the sink. I turned on the tap and began washing the strawberries, my movements calm and measured.

Behind me, I could feel his confusion. A strange silence filled the small kitchen, broken only by the sound of running water. He was starting to realize something was different. Something had changed. And he didn't like it.

This change in me, this detachment, had begun after my accident. He just hadn't been paying enough attention to notice until now.