My First Love, My Last Revenge

My stepbrother, Booker Harvey, saved me from a life of abuse. He was my protector, my teacher, and my first love. For two years, our small apartment was a sun-drenched dream.

Then he went on a business trip. I called him, pregnant with our child, only for another woman to answer his phone.

He hung up on me. Later, his stepmother put him on speakerphone so I could hear him laugh off our entire relationship.

"Tell her it was just for fun," he said. "She shouldn't take it so seriously."

Just for fun. The words shattered me. I got rid of our son, took the hush money, and vanished.

The girl who loved him died that day. In her place, I became "Nine," a ruthless operative forged in betrayal.

Now, five years later, an explosion has left me with "amnesia." When the police ask who will be my guardian, I point to the man who broke my world.

"Him," I say with a shy smile. "He's the most handsome."

Chapter 1

Jane Bradley POV:

My father told me I was born with a heart of stone, but stones don' t break. Mine did. It shattered into a million pieces the day my mother chose my crying sister over her silent daughter.

The fighting always started after I was in bed. Or, at least, after they thought I was. The sound of my father's heavy footsteps on the wooden floor was the first warning. Then came the clink of a glass, the slosh of whiskey, and finally, my mother' s voice, tight as a wire.

"Johnston, not again."

"A man's entitled to a drink in his own home, Jannie."

I would press my ear to the thin wall, my small body rigid under the covers. Their words were a venomous tide, rising and falling, sometimes murmurs, sometimes shouts that rattled the cheap prints on my bedroom wall.

I learned early on that sound was a weapon. Crying was a shield. Silence was a crime.

I tried crying once. When I was five, my father slapped my mother, the sound a sharp crack in the already tense air. I let out a wail, a genuine cry of terror that scraped my throat raw.

My father turned on me, his face a thundercloud. "What are you crying for? This has nothing to do with you. Go to your room."

My mother, her cheek already turning red, didn't look at me. She just said, "Stop that noise, Jane. You're giving me a headache."

So I learned to be quiet. I learned to be invisible. I would sit on the stairs, a small ghost in pajamas, and watch them tear each other apart. My silence was my sanctuary, but they saw it as apathy.

"Look at her," my mother would hiss, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She doesn't even care. Cold, just like you."

Then Kallie was born.

Kallie came into the world screaming, and she rarely stopped. But her screams were different from mine. Her cries brought my parents running. Her tears were kissed away. Her sobs were met with cooing and rocking and promises of a better world.

She was a perfect, pink, noisy little creature, and they adored her for it. She was everything I wasn't.

One night, the shouting reached a new peak. The sound of shattering glass made me jump. I found Kallie in her crib, her face red, her mouth a perfect 'O' of distress. I watched her, mesmerized. She had a power I could never possess. With a single, sustained shriek, she could stop the war downstairs.

And she did.

The door flew open. My mother rushed in, scooping Kallie into her arms. "Oh, my sweet baby, did the scary noises frighten you? It's okay, Mommy's here."

My father appeared in the doorway behind her. "See, Jannie? We're upsetting the baby."

They looked at each other over Kallie's hiccupping form, a fragile truce declared. Neither of them saw me, standing in the corner, a silent statue of a girl.

The divorce was inevitable. It came when I was seven. The final argument wasn't even a shout. It was a cold, quiet conversation in the kitchen while I pretended to do my homework at the table.

"I'm taking Kallie," my mother said, her voice flat.

"Like hell you are," my father shot back. "She's my daughter."

"She needs her mother."

"She needs a stable home, not one where her mother can't hold down a job."

They fought over Kallie like two dogs over a bone. They listed her virtues, her needs, her future. My name was never mentioned. It was as if I didn't exist. As if I would simply evaporate when the house was sold.

Finally, a choked sob broke from my throat. It was a small, pathetic sound.

Both their heads snapped toward me.

"For God's sake, Jane," my mother snapped. "What is it now?"

I wanted to say, What about me? Where will I go? But the words were stuck, a hard lump in my throat. I just pointed a shaking finger from her to him, then to myself.

"She's being dramatic," my father grumbled, turning away.

Beside me, Kallie, who had toddled into the kitchen, started to cry in sympathy, a loud, theatrical wail.

"Oh, my poor baby," my mother cooed, instantly scooping her up. "Look what you've done, Johnston. You've upset her." She glared at me. "And you, stop that sniveling. You're a big girl."

In the end, the court didn't care about love or neglect. It cared about age. Kallie, at two, was deemed to need her mother. I, at seven, was old enough to be handed over to my father. An afterthought. A package deal he didn't want.

The day my mother left is burned into my memory. She packed her car with her things and all of Kallie's things. The pink blankets, the stuffed animals, the tiny dresses. She strapped Kallie into the car seat, kissing her forehead.

I stood on the porch, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. She was leaving. She was taking the only source of light in that house and she wasn't even going to say goodbye to me.

As the car door slammed shut, I found my voice.

"Mommy!" I screamed, the word tearing from me. I ran down the steps. "Mommy, wait!"

The car started. I could see Kallie's face in the back window, a pale, curious oval. My mother's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror for a single, fleeting second. There was no sadness in them. Just impatience. Annoyance.

She didn't stop. She didn't even slow down.

I kept running, my small legs pumping, my lungs burning. "Mommy!"

The car turned the corner and was gone. The sound of its engine faded, leaving only the sound of my own ragged sobs in the empty street.

My father came out of the house, a duffel bag in his hand. He didn't look at my tear-streaked face.

"Get in the car, Jane," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I'm taking you to your grandparents'."

He drove me two hours out of the city, into the countryside where the air smelled of manure and damp earth. My father's parents, whom I'd met only a handful of times, lived in a small, weathered farmhouse.

My grandmother looked me up and down, her lips pursed in a thin, disapproving line. "So, Jannie finally left him. Good riddance." She looked at my grandfather. "At least he kept the Bradley blood." Her gaze flickered back to me, cold and assessing. "She looks like her mother, though. Scrawny."

My father didn't even get out of the car. He handed my duffel bag to my grandfather. "I'll send money when I can. I have to get my life back on track." He looked at me through the open window, his expression unreadable. "Be a good girl, Jane. Don't cause them any trouble."

Then he drove away, leaving me on a gravel driveway with two strangers who already resented me for existing.

I learned quickly. My grandparents were pleased the marriage was over. They'd never liked my mother. They saw me as her lingering shadow, a burden they were forced to bear. To survive, I had to be useful. I had to earn my keep.

"I can help," I told my grandmother one morning, my voice small. "I can do chores."

She looked surprised, then a slow, calculating smile spread across her face. "Is that so?"

She led me to the laundry room, a damp, cold space in the basement. A mountain of my grandfather's and father's old, mud-caked work clothes sat in a pile.

"You can start with these," she said, her tone indicating this was not a one-time task. "Don't think you're getting a free ride here, girl. A roof over your head and food in your belly costs."

So, at seven years old, I began my servitude. For two years, I scrubbed floors, washed clothes until my hands were raw, and served two bitter old people who saw me not as their granddaughter, but as the price of their son's failed marriage.

Jane Bradley POV:

Life at the farmhouse settled into a grim routine, punctuated only by my grandparents' constant, low-level bickering. It was a familiar sound, a dull echo of my own childhood, and I learned to tune it out, just as I had with my parents. I was a ghost in their house, silent and useful.

Then, when I was nine, my grandfather didn't wake up one morning. A heart attack in his sleep, the doctor said. It was peaceful.

My grandmother was not. She wailed and raged, a storm of grief that terrified me. She blamed the world, she blamed the doctors, she blamed him for leaving her. She never spoke to me, but I felt her accusatory gaze on me, as if my presence were a final, unbearable insult.

Three weeks later, she followed him. The doctor called it a broken heart. I found her in her rocking chair, a half-finished quilt in her lap, her eyes staring at a wall that only she could see.

I was an orphan twice over.

A social worker, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, drove me back to the city. My father had been located. He had a new life. A new partner.

I sat in a sterile office, my hands folded in my lap, while my father and a woman I'd never seen before spoke in hushed, urgent tones with the social worker. The woman's name was Cathleen Grant. She had a daughter of her own.

I couldn't hear their words, but I could read Cathleen's face. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression was a mixture of pity and steel. She did not want me.

The social worker called me over. Cathleen knelt in front of me, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Jane, honey... this is a difficult situation."

My father stood behind her, avoiding my gaze. He looked older, more tired. He hadn't come to either of the funerals.

I knew what was happening. This was the moment I would be cast out again. Sent to a home with strangers. The thought was a physical pain, a cold fist clenching in my gut.

"I'll be good," I whispered, the words rushing out. "I can cook. I can clean. I promise I won't be any trouble. Please."

I looked past her, at my father. "Dad?"

He finally met my eyes, and I saw nothing there. No love, no remorse. Just weary resignation.

I turned my desperate gaze back to Cathleen. My survival instinct, honed by years of neglect, took over. "I'll call you Mom," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "Please let me stay."

I saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Calculation. She glanced at my father, then back at me. A little girl, small for her age, who was already trained to be a servant. A built-in babysitter for her own daughter.

She made her decision. "Alright," she said, her voice softening, the smile becoming a little more genuine. "Of course, you can stay with us."

The wedding was a small affair at a courthouse. I stood beside Cathleen's daughter, Amiyah, who was my age. I was now part of a new family.

The difference in our lives was stark and immediate. Amiyah had a room filled with dolls and pretty dresses. I was given a thin mattress on the floor of her room. Amiyah got new shoes for school. I inherited her old ones. At dinner, Amiyah was served first, her plate piled high. I ate what was left.

I shared a room with Amiyah. The first night, she looked at me from across the room, a mix of curiosity and suspicion in her eyes. "My mom says your real mom and dad didn't want you."

I flinched but didn't deny it. "I can help you with your homework," I offered, changing the subject. "And I can tell you stories at night if you're scared of the dark."

"My name's Amiyah Schneider," she said, seeming to consider my offer.

"I know," I said. "I'll be here if you need anything."

"Okay," she said, rolling over and turning her back to me.

I did everything I could to make myself indispensable. I was the first one up, making breakfast. I was the last one to bed, after the dishes were done. I walked Amiyah to and from school. I helped her with her projects. I was her shadow, her servant, her protector.

One afternoon, a group of older boys started teasing Amiyah, calling her names. I, small and wiry, stepped between them. "Leave her alone," I said, my voice shaking but firm.

One of the boys shoved me. "Or what, little girl?"

I shoved him back. The fight was short and brutal. I ended up with a bloody nose and a torn shirt, but the boys ran off.

When we got home, Cathleen saw my face and her own contorted with rage. She didn't ask what happened. She just grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in.

"What did you do?" she shrieked, shaking me. "I knew you were trouble! I knew it!" She shoved me hard, and I stumbled, hitting the wall.

My father walked in then, drawn by the noise. "What's going on?"

"She got into a fight!" Cathleen accused, pointing at me. "Dragging Amiyah into it!"

"I was protecting her!" I cried, the injustice stinging more than my nose. "They were bullying her!"

My father's face hardened. "Don't you dare talk back to your mother," he said, and his hand flew out, catching me across the cheek. The force of it sent me sprawling to the floor. It was the first time he had ever hit me that hard.

"Dad, no!" Amiyah finally cried out, her own tears forgotten. "She's telling the truth! They were being mean to me, and Jane told them to stop."

My father froze, his hand still raised. Cathleen's face was a mask of fury.

"Even so," my father said, his voice lowering, but still full of anger. "You shouldn't have taken her out of the school gates without telling us. You know the rules, Jane."

Cathleen said nothing. She just scooped a sobbing Amiyah into her arms and carried her to her room, casting one last, hateful glare over her shoulder at me. I was left on the floor, my cheek throbbing, my heart a cold, heavy lump in my chest.

Later that night, Amiyah crept over to my mattress. "Does it hurt?" she whispered.

I touched my cheek. It was swollen and tender. "I'm used to it," I said, and the words were true.

In that moment, a profound and terrible understanding settled over me. It didn't matter what I did. It didn't matter if I was good or bad, right or wrong. An unloved child is always at fault.

When it came time for high school, money was tight. Cathleen and my father sat at the kitchen table, poring over bills.

"We can only afford to send one of them to a decent school," Cathleen said, not even trying to hide her preference. "Amiyah needs a good education."

My father nodded. "You're right. Amiyah should go."

They didn't even look at me. I was standing by the sink, washing dishes, a silent witness to my own erasure. I was to stay home, to continue my role as the unpaid maid and nanny. My education was a luxury they couldn't afford, or rather, wouldn't afford for me.

Amiyah, to her credit, seemed to feel a sliver of guilt. She would come home from school and spread her books on the living room floor.

"Look, Jane," she'd say, "this is what we learned in algebra today."

She would teach me what she had learned, tracing equations with her finger, sounding out difficult words from her literature textbook. I was a hungry sponge, soaking it all in. It wasn't a real school, but it was something. It was a lifeline.

And for those brief moments, sitting on the floor with Amiyah, the world of numbers and words opening up to me, I felt a flicker of something almost like happiness. It was a fragile peace, and I treasured it, because I knew it wouldn't last.

Jane Bradley POV:

The year I turned twelve, my world shattered again.

I came home from an errand to find the apartment in disarray. Drawers were pulled out, closets were open. Cathleen was on the phone, her voice a high-pitched screech of disbelief and rage.

My father was gone.

He hadn't just left. He had taken every penny Cathleen had. Savings, emergency funds, even the money she had inherited from her parents. He had cleaned her out and vanished, leaving her with nothing but debts and two daughters-one of whom was his.

When Cathleen finally hung up the phone, she turned to me. Her eyes were wild. "He's gone," she whispered, then the whisper became a scream. "Your bastard father is GONE!"

She flew at me, her hands like claws. "This is your fault! You and your worthless bloodline!"

She beat me. Not a slap or a push, but a frenzied, desperate assault. She rained blows on my head, my back, my arms. I curled into a ball on the floor, trying to protect myself, but the kicks and punches kept coming. It was only when Amiyah ran in, screaming for her to stop, that the attack ceased.

I was a mess of bruises and cuts. Strangely, after her rage subsided, a cold practicality took over Cathleen. She took me to the emergency room, her face grim.

While we waited, she spoke to me, her voice flat and cold. "I can't look at you, Jane. Every time I do, I see his face. I see what he did to me. I can't keep you."

The familiar, icy dread filled my veins. "No," I begged, my voice hoarse. "Please, Cathleen. Don't send me away."

"Where am I supposed to send you? Back to the father who abandoned you? To the mother who threw you away?"

"Please," I sobbed, grabbing her hand. Her hand was cold and limp in mine. "You're all I have. You and Amiyah. You're my family." It was a lie, but it was a lie I needed to believe, a lie I needed her to believe.

"I can take care of Amiyah," I pleaded, my words tumbling over each other. "I don't eat much. I can work. I can get a job. Please don't throw me away."

She looked at my battered face, and again, I saw that flicker of calculation. She was a single mother now, with no money. She needed to work. Who would watch Amiyah? Who would clean the apartment? Who would cook the meals?

"Fine," she said, pulling her hand away. "You can stay. For now."

We moved from our three-bedroom apartment into a cramped, two-bedroom unit in a bad part of town. Cathleen and Amiyah each got a bedroom. I got the couch in the living room.

My life became a relentless cycle of servitude. I was up before dawn to make breakfast. I ate their leftovers standing over the sink. I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. I waited up for them to come home, a hot meal on the table. I was no longer a stepdaughter; I was a live-in slave.

The small connection I had with Amiyah began to fray. We were fourteen now, and the chasm between our lives was too wide to bridge. She had friends, school dances, a life. I had chores.

She no longer shared her school lessons with me. The algebra books and novels were replaced with fashion magazines and chatter about boys. The bond forged over shared knowledge dissolved into the hierarchy of our new reality.

One evening, as I was serving dinner, she looked up from her plate. "Jane, get me a glass of water." It wasn't a request. It was a command.

Without a word, I put down the serving spoon, went to the cupboard, and got her the water. It was easier not to fight.

Cathleen started dating again. She was a pretty woman, and she was desperate. I would see men come and go, but one started staying. He was older, well-dressed, and drove a nice car. His name was Mr. Harvey.

I saw the look in Cathleen's eyes when she spoke of him. It was a look of hope, of escape. And when her eyes fell on me, they held a different look. I was baggage. A reminder of a past she wanted to erase.

One night, I overheard her on the phone with him. "Yes, just one daughter. Amiyah. She's a wonderful girl."

The lie hit me like a physical blow. I was being written out of the story again.

I confronted her after she hung up. "Please," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Please don't leave me behind."

She looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Jane, be realistic. He has a new life for us."

Suddenly, Amiyah was standing in the doorway. "Mom," she said, her voice petulant. "If Jane doesn't come, who's going to do my laundry? Who's going to make my lunch?"

It wasn't a plea for me. It was a complaint about her own future inconvenience. But it was enough.

I looked at Amiyah, at the girl I had protected and served for years. And for the first time, I felt something other than a desire to please her. I felt a flicker of gratitude, however tainted its source.

The day we moved was a study in contrasts. Amiyah wore a brand-new dress. I wore a shirt I had sewn myself from the remnants of one of Cathleen's old ones. I trailed behind them like a shadow as we walked up to the imposing front door of the Harvey mansion.

The house was enormous, a palace of marble floors and soaring ceilings. A boy was slouched on a plush sofa in the living room, scrolling on his phone. He looked up as we entered.

"So this is them," he said, his eyes scanning us. He looked at Amiyah, then at me. "Why is she dressed like a servant?" he asked, pointing a lazy finger in my direction. He was younger than me, but his voice was filled with the casual arrogance of wealth.

"Kane, that's no way to speak to our guests," Mr. Harvey said, stepping forward. He smiled warmly at Cathleen. He seemed to have already been briefed on my situation, as he showed no surprise at my presence.

"This is my daughter, Amiyah," Cathleen said, pushing her forward.

"Hello, Mr. Harvey," Amiyah said, her voice sweet as honey.

"Please, call me Dad," he said, beaming. He produced a small, beautifully wrapped box. "A little welcome gift."

Amiyah opened it to reveal a delicate-looking necklace.

Kane snorted. "What about the other one? Doesn't she get a present?"

Mr. Harvey looked flustered. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Jane. I wasn't... I didn't know..."

"It's okay," I said quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor. "I don't need anything."

Amiyah was shown to a room that looked like it belonged to a princess, all pink and white with a canopy bed. I was led to a small, plain room at the back of the house, next to the kitchen. It was a maid's room.

But it had a bed. And a door. After years on a couch in a living room, it felt like a kingdom. I was grateful.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I passed Mr. Harvey's study, I heard voices. His and his son, Kane's.

"You only need to be nice to Amiyah," Mr. Harvey was saying. "The other one, Jane... just stay away from her. Her father was a thief who abandoned her. Her mother threw her away. A girl like that... there's something wrong with her."

"I know, Dad," Kane said. "Don't worry. I get it."

My hand froze on the doorknob. My blood ran cold.

I turned to go back to my room and ran straight into a solid wall of a person. I stumbled back with a small gasp.

It was Kane. He must have come out of the study.

"Jesus," he hissed, clutching his chest. "You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing, creeping around in the dark?"

"I... I was thirsty," I stammered, pretending I hadn't heard a thing. I kept my head down, my hair falling over my face.

He stared at me for a long moment. I looked so pathetic, so frightened, that his suspicion seemed to melt into disdain. "Whatever," he muttered, brushing past me and heading up the grand staircase.

I bowed my head slightly as Mr. Harvey came out of the study, then scurried back to my little room, the words I'd overheard ringing in my ears. There's something wrong with her.

The next day, the dynamic of the house was set. Amiyah was being tutored by Kane in the lavish living room, laughing and flirting.

I was in the corner, polishing the silver, a silent, invisible servant in a house that was not my home.