Chapter 5

Aurora Hinton POV:

I remembered the day I met Abel. It was five years ago, the day my mother threw me out of the house. I was sitting on a park bench in the pouring rain, my clothes soaked through, with nowhere to go. He' d found me there, a stranger holding an umbrella over my head.

He told me later it felt like fate, like he was meant to find me in that moment.

He bought me a hot coffee and listened as I cried, not pressing for details, just offering a quiet, steady presence. He was the first person in years who had looked at me without judgment, without disappointment. He was my salvation.

He used to hate them for what they did to me. He' d hold me at night and whisper promises, telling me he would never let anyone hurt me again.

When did that change?

Was it the first time Annabell laid her head on his shoulder, feigning a dizzy spell? Was it when she started calling him late at night, crying about her loneliness? Or was it the moment he started believing her lies, the moment he chose her manufactured fragility over my quiet strength?

I thought I had an endless capacity for pain, that my heart had been broken so many times it had simply scarred over. But seeing him stand with her, against me, was a fresh wound, deeper and more agonizing than all the others combined.

I was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of hoping, tired of trying to earn a love that should have been given freely. I was dying. Let them have it all. Let them have their victory.

"You're right," I said, my voice startlingly clear in the tense room. "I did it. I lied."

The collective shock was immediate. My parents stared, their mouths agape. Abel' s grip on my arm loosened. They had expected a fight, tears, denials. They had never known me to surrender.

"You've finally learned your lesson," my father said, a smug satisfaction in his voice. "It's good to see you taking responsibility."

"We're so relieved you're doing the right thing, dear," my mother added, though her eyes were still cold.

Abel looked at me, and for a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"It's going to be okay, Rory," he said softly, reaching for my hand. "We'll get through this. After the surgery, we can start over."

But there was no "after" for me. There was no "us." He was promising a future to a woman who had already accepted her end.

Annabell, ever the opportunist, pulled out her phone. "Say it again," she demanded, her finger hovering over the record button. "So everyone can hear you."

The family gathered around, watching me like vultures circling their prey. Annabell pressed record, her face a mask of tear-streaked innocence.

"I... I was jealous of my sister's talent," she began, her voice quivering artfully. "She worked so hard on her paper, and I couldn't stand seeing her succeed. So I tried to ruin it for her. I told lies. I am so, so sorry."

They all watched me, waiting. My mother's glare was a warning. My father's frown was a command. Abel's eyes were a plea.

I smiled, a hollow, empty gesture, and looked straight into the camera. "It's true," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I lied. The research was Annabell's. I plagiarized her work."

A collective sigh of relief filled the room. The crisis was averted. Annabell's reputation was saved.

She immediately uploaded the video. The online tide turned swiftly. I was now the villain, the jealous sister. Annabell, ever the magnanimous victim, posted a follow-up, saying she forgave me, that family was more important than any thesis.

Later, after my parents and Abel had left, she came to my room. The tears were gone, replaced by that familiar, triumphant smirk.

"I always win, Aurora," she whispered, leaning close. "Everything that is yours will eventually be mine."

And for the first time, I realized this wasn't about a single paper, or even about Abel. This was her life's mission. She had hated me since the day we were born, two halves of a whole, and she wouldn't be satisfied until one half had completely consumed the other.