The Fiancé's Cruel Deception

I was kidnapped with my fiancé, Charlton Morris. In that dark, damp room, he was my hero, shielding me from our captors and whispering promises of safety.

After our rescue, he proposed in front of the world's cameras. But the fairytale was a lie. The kidnapping was a sham he orchestrated with my own father, a cruel plot to ruin my reputation.

I was just a pawn, a public pariah to make his family accept his true love, Giuliana. They humiliated me with a degrading video, had me committed to a mental asylum where I was nearly assaulted, and then discovered I was pregnant.

They forced me to abort the child I was secretly carrying-his child. They thought they had broken me, that I would disappear quietly with my shame after they had taken my dignity, my reputation, and my baby.

But on the day of their wedding, I sent them a gift: the preserved remains of the child they made me kill. Then, I burned my old life to the ground and bought a one-way ticket to London. They thought the story was over. They had no idea my revenge was just beginning.

1

They called me defiant, a sharp-tongued socialite, but beneath the wild behavior, I was just Kiara Mitchell, a girl who used her reputation as a shield. Now, staring at the blurred faces of my captors, that shield felt useless. My body ached, every muscle screaming in protest as another blow landed.

The burlap sack over my head smelled of dust and despair. I tried to focus, to identify something, anything, in the darkness. My wrists, raw from the ropes, burned with every struggle.

A voice, low and gravelly, barked an order. I stumbled, dragged forward by unseen hands. My bare feet scraped against rough concrete, sending shards of pain up my legs.

The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of stagnant water and something metallic. A cold dread settled in my stomach. Where were they taking me?

A sudden shove, and I fell forward, hitting the ground hard. My head rang. The sack was ripped from my head, blinding me with a sudden, harsh light.

My eyes slowly adjusted, revealing a dimly lit, damp room. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming murky puddles on the concrete floor. Chained to a pipe in the corner, a figure stirred.

My breath hitched. Charlton Morris. The supposedly righteous heir, looking as disheveled and terrified as I felt. His perfect suit was torn, his face bruised.

He looked at me, his eyes wide with a fear that mirrored my own. We were trapped, two unlikely companions in this nightmare.

A man, his face obscured by a ski mask, approached us. He held a rusty pipe. My heart hammered against my ribs.

He raised the pipe. I flinched, bracing for the impact. But it wasn't for me.

The pipe came down on Charlton' s arm with a sickening th thud. He cried out, a guttural sound of pure agony. His body convulsed, but he didn't break.

The masked man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He spoke, his voice distorted, "That's for your family, Morris. They'll pay."

Charlton glared at him, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. He gritted his teeth, a silent defiance in his eyes.

They left us then, alone in the cold, the silence punctuated only by the drip of water and Charlton' s ragged breaths. My earlier terror mixed with a strange, unsettling admiration. He was hurt, but he hadn' t begged.

Hours passed. Or maybe days. Time blurred in the dark. They came back, occasionally, to beat Charlton, to remind him of his family's debt. Each time, I watched, helpless, my stomach churning with bile.

Once, they dragged me forward, pinning me to the floor. My heart froze. This was it.

But Charlton, despite his injuries, surged forward, rattling his chains. "Leave her alone!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. "She has nothing to do with this!"

The masked man chuckled, "Ah, the protector. Very touching." He struck Charlton again, harder this time.

Charlton slumped against the wall, his head lolling. But his eyes, even through the pain, found mine. They held a silent message: I'm sorry. I'm trying.

It was a strange comfort, a flicker of humanity in the brutal darkness. He was a stranger, but he was defending me.

Then came the humiliation. They strapped me to a chair, my arms and legs pinned down. Charlton watched, his eyes pleading with them, but they just laughed.

They forced a camera on me, its bright light searing my eyes. My designer clothes, what was left of them, were ripped. My hair, usually perfectly styled, was a tangled mess.

They made me beg. Not for my life, but for... other things. Things that twisted my stomach. Things that made me want to vanish.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and humiliating. I tried to fight, but their grip was iron. My voice broke on every word.

Charlton screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, struggling against his chains. "Don't you dare! Don't touch her!"

But they ignored him. They enjoyed his rage, his helplessness. They enjoyed my despair.

After what felt like an eternity, they switched off the camera. They left me there, sobbing, my dignity shattered. Charlton was silent, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking.

I thought I couldn't feel worse. I was wrong.

They brought me back after a few hours, dragging my limp body back to where Charlton was chained. They had a needle, thick and ominous.

I struggled, but my body was weak, my spirit broken. A sharp prick in my arm, and a wave of drowsiness washed over me.

My vision blurred. Charlton' s face, etched with concern, swam before my eyes. He was saying something, his voice distant.

Then, a cold hand on my skin. Another. I felt a presence, heavy and unwelcome. A whisper, husky and unfamiliar.

My mind fought against the fog, against the violation. But my body was no longer my own. It betrayed me.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, fragments of memory like jagged glass. The metallic taste of fear, the heavy press of a body, the crushing weight of shame.

When I finally woke, Charlton was staring blankly at the wall, his face a mask of disgust. He wouldn't look at me. The silence in the room was heavier than before, filled with unspoken horrors.

A fresh wave of nausea washed over me. My body felt... wrong. Deeply, irrevocably wrong.

I started to cry again, silent tears that burned my cheeks. Charlton, his voice barely a whisper, finally spoke. "Kiara... I..." He trailed off, unable to meet my gaze.

I didn't want his pity. I didn't want his words. I just wanted to disappear.

Days turned into weeks. Or so it seemed. We ate scraps, drank stale water. We talked, at first about nothing, then about everything. He told me about his family, about the pressures, the expectations. I told him about my mother, about my father' s cold ambition, about the emptiness beneath my rebellious facade.

We huddled together for warmth in the cold, damp room. His broken arm, now crudely bandaged, was surprisingly strong when it wrapped around me. His presence, once terrifying, became a strange comfort.

He told me stories, silly anecdotes from his childhood, trying to make me laugh. And sometimes, I did. A weak, pathetic laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

We were survivors, bound by shared trauma, by an unspoken trust that formed in the darkest corners of that room. He was my protector, and I, his reluctant confidante.

One morning, the door creaked open, letting in a blinding shaft of sunlight. Masked men entered, but this time, they weren't carrying weapons.

They were carrying bags. Clean clothes. Water bottles.

They untied us, roughly. My legs buckled, weak from disuse. Charlton caught me, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"It's over," one of them grunted. "Your family paid, Morris."

We were pushed into a waiting van, our eyes shielded from the sunlight. The relief was overwhelming, almost dizzying. It was finally over. We were free.

But freedom brought a new kind of terror.

The van stopped, the doors swung open, and we were thrust into a blaze of camera flashes. Reporters, shouting questions, swarmed us. Their faces were a blur of aggression and morbid curiosity.

"Ms. Mitchell, did Mr. Morris protect you?"

"Mr. Morris, what were their demands?"

"Kiara, are you okay?"

My eyes darted around, overwhelmed. I felt Charlton' s hand on my back, guiding me, shielding me from the onslaught.

Then, a screen above us flickered to life. My blood ran cold. It was the video. The humiliating, degrading video. Publicly displayed.

A collective gasp from the crowd, followed by whispers, murmurs, and outright jeers. My face burned. My stomach dropped.

"Look at her!" someone screamed. "Disgusting!"

"The Mitchell heiress, finally revealed for what she truly is!"

Charlton squeezed my hand, his grip tight. He pulled me closer, his body a barrier between me and the judging eyes.

My vision blurred with tears again. The world was spinning. I could hear my father's disappointed voice, my mother's ghost whispering "I told you so."

The whispers grew louder, each word a venomous dart piercing my already fragile heart. "Whore." "Shameless." "She deserved it."

I wanted to run, to hide, to cease to exist. Every pair of eyes felt like a condemnation. Every flash of a camera, a public execution.

Suddenly, Charlton stepped forward, pulling me with him. He faced the cameras, his bruised face set in a determined line.

"This woman," he declared, his voice strong and clear, cutting through the din, "is a victim. She was subjected to unspeakable horrors, and I will not stand by while you publicly shame her."

My head snapped up. He was defending me. Not just privately, but publicly, in front of the entire world.

"I take full responsibility for her safety," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the reporters. "I failed to protect her adequately during our captivity. And for that, I will spend the rest of my life making amends."

The crowd quieted, shocked by his words. He was taking the blame, sacrificing his polished image for me.

A reporter, bolder than the rest, scoffed, "Making amends, Mr. Morris? What does that even mean?"

Charlton looked at me, his eyes filled with a raw intensity I hadn't seen before. He took my hand, raising it to his lips.

Then, he dropped to one knee. Right there, in front of everyone.

My breath caught in my throat. My mind reeled. What was he doing?

"Kiara Mitchell," he said, his voice resonating with an unexpected sincerity, "will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

The flashbulbs erupted. The crowd gasped. My world tilted on its axis. My heart, so recently shattered, felt a strange, dizzying flutter. He was offering me a lifeline, a way out of the public humiliation.

But it was also a trap. He was offering me everything, and I had nothing left to give but my broken self.

My father, Jermaine Lee, appeared through the throng of reporters, his face a mixture of shock and calculating triumph. He gave me a subtle nod, a silent command. Say yes.

My eyes met Charlton's. His gaze was unwavering, almost desperate. He needed me to say yes. For what, I didn't know.

My mind screamed no. My heart, however, whispered a desperate plea for escape, for protection, for a chance to reclaim some semblance of dignity.

"Yes," I heard myself say, the word barely a whisper, lost in the roar of the crowd.

A cheer erupted. Charlton slipped a ring onto my finger, a dazzling diamond that felt impossibly heavy. He stood, pulling me into a tight embrace, shielding me from the world, from the consequences of my own brokenness.

It was a fairytale ending. Or so it seemed. But deep down, a cold knot of dread settled in my stomach. This wasn't a love story. This was a deal. And I had just signed my soul away.

My father was already on the phone, his voice too loud, too cheerful. "Yes, the Morris corporation and Lee Industries... a merger of families, an alliance for the ages!"

Charlton' s grip tightened on my waist. His lips were at my ear, a whisper that chilled me to the bone. "You're mine now, Kiara. Don't forget that."

The words were a promise, and a threat. My stomach churned. I had just traded one prison for another.

The engagement was a whirlwind of fake smiles and forced pleasantries. Charlton played the devoted fiancé perfectly, his public displays of affection sickeningly convincing. I played the grateful bride-to-be, my gratitude a thin veil over a growing sense of dread.

Our relationship was a bizarre performance, a morbid charade for public consumption. After the initial media frenzy, the Morris family, an old-money dynasty led by a formidable matriarch, made their disapproval clear.

"This... Kiara Mitchell," the matriarch, Eleanor Morris, had sneered at a family dinner, her eyes raking over me with undisguised contempt, "is hardly the suitable match for a Morris heir. Her reputation precedes her, and not in a way that benefits our legacy."

Charlton had defended me, publicly, of course. "Mother, Kiara is a strong woman. She has been through a terrible ordeal. She deserves our respect."

But his words felt hollow to me. A calculated performance, designed to push his family further into a corner.

The Morris family launched a full-scale campaign against our union. They cut off Charlton's access to the family trust, threatened his position in the corporation. They banned me from family events, spread rumors about my "unsuitability."

Charlton, in turn, used their objections to fuel his narrative. He became the defiant lover, willing to sacrifice everything for the woman he "loved." He staged public arguments with his family, deliberately leaking their harsh words to the press.

I was his weapon, his pawn. Each scandal, each public humiliation, was designed to provoke his family, to make them so desperate to get rid of me that they would accept the "lesser evil."

Giuliana Wilson. The name was a constant whisper in the Morris family's hushed conversations. Charlton's college sweetheart, the "new money" girl they despised even more than me.

I tried to talk to him, to understand his game. "Charlton, what is this really about?" I asked him one night, after a particularly nasty public squabble with his aunt. "Why are you doing all this?"

He looked at me, his eyes cold and unreadable. "You know why, Kiara. We're in this together. We survived something horrible. We deserve happiness."

His words were a carefully constructed lie. I could feel it, like a chill down my spine.

One evening, after another exhausting family confrontation, Charlton had left me alone in our sprawling penthouse, claiming he needed to "handle things." I was tired, wired, and utterly miserable.

I wandered aimlessly, my feet leading me to his study. The door was ajar. A low murmur of voices drifted out. Charlton' s voice. And another, a woman' s.

Curiosity, a dangerous emotion, tugged at me. I crept closer, pressing my ear to the door.

"...you're doing great, Charlton. They're almost broken." It was a smooth, melodic voice. Giuliana Wilson.

My heart hammered. I held my breath, straining to hear.

Charlton chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "They will be. They'll beg me to marry you, my love."

My world stopped. The air left my lungs.

Giuliana's voice, now laced with a cruel satisfaction, "And Kiara? The little socialite? She's serving her purpose, I suppose. A convenient distraction, a useful pariah."

A wave of nausea washed over me. My hands clenched, nails digging into my palms. Pariah. Tool. Pawn.

Charlton's voice, devoid of any warmth, "She's nothing. A means to an end. Once they accept our marriage, she'll be out of the picture. Disposed of."

Disposed of. The words echoed in my head, cold and clinical. I staggered back from the door, my body suddenly weak. For a moment, a blind, white-hot rage threatened to consume me. I wanted to kick down the door, to scream, to claw their smug faces, to smash this perfect penthouse into a million pieces.

But another voice, colder and sharper than my fury, cut through the haze. Don't give them the satisfaction.

My tears would be a victory for them. My screams, music to their ears. My destruction would only prove their point-that I was unstable, unhinged, and ultimately, disposable.

No.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the inferno in my chest down, banking it into a cold, hard ember of resolve. I would not be disposed of. I would be the one who disposed of them.

My mind, once clouded with shock and pain, was now terrifyingly clear. I wiped the single, traitorous tear from my cheek. I smoothed my dress, erased the horror from my face, and replaced it with a mask of weary confusion.

The game had begun. And I would play it better than they ever could.

A piece of furniture scraped inside the room. I took a few steps back down the hallway, making my footsteps audible, as if I had just arrived.

The door opened suddenly. I feigned a startled gasp, stumbling backward.

Charlton stood there, his eyes widening as he saw me. His face, usually so composed, was momentarily stripped bare, revealing a flicker of panic.

"Kiara?" he asked, his voice losing its fabricated warmth, becoming sharp, wary.

I looked at him, my eyes wide and intentionally blank. I glanced past him at Giuliana, who emerged in her silk robe, a triumphant smirk already forming on her lips. I offered her a weak, tired smile.

"Charlton," I said, my voice deliberately soft and fragile. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I just... I couldn't sleep. I was looking for you."

His expression shifted from panic to confusion. Giuliana's smirk faltered. They had expected hysterics. A confrontation. A storm. I was giving them a gentle, broken breeze.

"It was all a lie, wasn't it?" I whispered, letting my voice crack, forcing tears to well in my eyes. I wasn't asking about their grand conspiracy. I was letting them think I was referring to his love for me, a simple, pathetic heartbreak.

He didn't answer. He just stared at me, his eyes like chips of ice, trying to read me.

Giuliana stepped forward, her smile widening again, dripping with condescending pity. "Of course, it was, darling. Did you really think someone like Charlton would ever truly be interested in someone like you?" She laughed, a brittle, mocking sound.

I flinched, as if her words were a physical blow. I let the tears fall, a perfect performance of a shattered heart. I looked at Charlton, my expression one of utter devastation.

"I see," I whispered, my voice choked with manufactured sobs. "I was just... a fool."

I didn't scream. I didn't rage. I simply turned, my shoulders slumped in defeat, and walked away, a picture of a woman utterly and completely broken.

As I walked back to my room, I heard Giuliana's triumphant whisper, "See? Pathetic. She'll cause no more trouble."

I closed my bedroom door behind me, the sound a soft click. The mask of heartbreak fell away, replaced by a face of cold, calculating fury.

Oh, my dear, sweet Giuliana, I thought, a venomous smile touching my lips. The trouble hasn't even begun.

The next few days were a blur of self-destructive abandon. I drowned myself in champagne, danced on tables, and flirted with strangers, all in a desperate attempt to numb the gnawing pain of betrayal. Every laugh was hollow, every smile a lie.

One evening, I found myself at a fashionable uptown club. The bass throbbed, the lights flashed, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperation. I was on my third glass of something strong when I saw her.

Giuliana Wilson. Radiant in a shimmering silver dress, surrounded by a fawning entourage. She looked utterly beautiful, utterly triumphant. And utterly evil.

My blood ran cold. My stomach churned. It was her welcome home party. The Morris family, now bending to Charlton' s will, had officially accepted her.

As if sensing my gaze, Giuliana turned, her eyes locking onto mine. A smirk played on her lips. She whispered something to her friends, and they all turned, their faces contorted in mocking smiles.

"Look at the street urchin," one of them sneered, loud enough for me to hear. "Still clinging to the fringes, I see."

Another snickered, "Didn't she get the memo? Charlton' s done with her. Now he has a real woman."

My hand, holding a champagne flute, tightened. The old Kiara would have thrown it. The old Kiara would have screamed. But the new Kiara... the new Kiara smiled.

Giuliana, her voice amplified by the sudden hush in her circle, spoke, "Oh, Kiara, darling. Still slumming it? I thought by now you'd have found another poor sap to latch onto." Her eyes gleamed with malice. "But then again, who would want you after... everything?"

Her words were meant to be a dagger. I felt the sting, but I refused to let it draw blood. Instead, I let my face crumple, my eyes filling with a look of profound, wounded sadness. I took a hesitant step forward, as if drawn to her against my will.

"Giuliana," I said, my voice trembling just enough to be convincing. "Please. Can't we just... be civil?"

I stumbled, "accidentally" sloshing the champagne from my glass onto the front of her shimmering silver dress. A dark, wet stain bloomed across the expensive fabric.

A collective gasp went through her circle.

Giuliana shrieked, her carefully constructed composure shattering. "You clumsy bitch! Look what you've done! This is couture!"

I shrank back, my eyes wide with feigned horror and fear. "I'm so sorry! It was an accident! I... I just wanted to talk to you." I began to sob, not loud, but heart-wrenching, silent tears streaming down my face. "I know you've won. I know Charlton loves you. I just... I have nothing left. Please don't be cruel."

The narrative shifted in an instant. She was no longer the triumphant victor; she was a vicious shrew bullying a heartbroken, traumatized woman. The whispers around us changed from mockery of me to disapproval of her.

Just as planned, Charlton appeared, drawn by the commotion. He saw Giuliana, red-faced and screaming about her dress, and me, crying and trembling in a corner.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, but his anger was directed at the spectacle, not solely at me.

Giuliana, trembling with rage, clung to Charlton's arm. "She did it on purpose, Charlton! She ruined my dress! She's insane!"

I looked up at him, my eyes a perfect picture of victimhood. "I'm sorry, Charlton," I whispered. "I just wanted to congratulate her. I seem to ruin everything."

He looked from her fury to my tears, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. This wasn't the clean break he wanted. My public breakdown was messy, and it made Giuliana look bad.

"Let's go, Kiara," he said, grabbing my arm, his grip tight. He pulled me away from the scene. "You're making a spectacle."

As he dragged me towards a quieter corner, his lips brushed my ear. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you know everything." His breath was hot against my skin. "But you're still just a pawn, Kiara. And if you don't play along, your father will pay the price."

My blood ran cold, but I kept the mask of fear perfectly in place. This was the threat I had been waiting for.

"Everything," he whispered, a cruel smirk touching his lips. "He's heavily invested in my family's new tech venture. A venture that could easily... disappear, if I don't get what I want. And what I want, for now, is you to play the role of my heartbroken, jilted fiancée until my family formally announces my engagement to Giuliana."

He pulled back, his eyes chillingly devoid of emotion. "Once that's done, you're free. You can go wherever you want. But if you cause any more trouble, I promise, your father will lose everything."

I let out a shuddering sob, nodding meekly. "I understand," I choked out. "I'll do whatever you say."

He looked satisfied. He thought he had me, perfectly controlled, perfectly broken. He had no idea he had just handed me the rules to his game, and a timeline for my revenge.

A sudden, piercing fire alarm shrieked, cutting through the tense silence. Red lights flashed, and people started to panic, rushing towards the exits.

Charlton's head snapped up. His eyes, previously so cold, now had a frantic edge. He pushed me aside, his gaze fixed on Giuliana.

"Giuliana!" he yelled, pushing through the surging crowd.

He didn't even glance back at me. He was gone, swallowed by the chaos, rushing to protect his precious Giuliana.

"Charlton!" I cried out, my voice swallowed by the blare of the alarm and the screams of the crowd. He was gone. Again.

Smoke began to curl from the ceiling, acrid and suffocating. The air grew thick, making it hard to breathe. People shoved past me, their faces contorted with fear.

I stumbled, coughing, my lungs burning. The flashing lights disoriented me. My head hit something hard, and a dull ache spread through my skull. Darkness enveloped me.

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a sterile white room, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils. My head throbbed. A nurse bustled around, her face kind but distant.

"You're in the hospital, dear," she said, her voice soft. "Smoke inhalation. Luckily, nothing serious."

My eyes fluttered open. Charlton. Giuliana. The fire.

"Can I leave?" I asked, my voice raspy.

The nurse shook her head. "Not yet. You need to rest."

"I need to go," I insisted, pushing myself up despite the throbbing pain. "I have to."

I signed myself out against medical advice, the nurse's protests falling on deaf ears. My body ached, but a new resolve fueled me. I had to know.

I hailed a taxi, giving my home address. The ride was a blur. When I arrived, the house, usually so quiet, was buzzing with activity. Cars lined the driveway. Lights blazed from every window.

I slipped in through a side entrance, drawn by the sound of voices from the living room. My father's voice. And Giuliana's.

"...it was terrifying, Mr. Lee," Giuliana' s voice, theatrically tearful, floated through the air. "Charlton saved me, just barely. Kiara... she was quite agitated."

My blood ran cold. I pressed myself against the wall, listening.

"My poor Giuliana," my father' s voice, oozing with concern, a tone he rarely used with me. "That Kiara, always causing trouble. She'll be the death of me."

Another voice, smooth and unfamiliar, yet undeniably possessing a family resemblance to Giuliana, chimed in. "Don't worry, Jermaine. Giuliana is safe now. And soon, our families will be united. My daughter and yours."

My mind reeled. Yours?

I peeked around the corner. My father, standing next to a glamorous woman I vaguely recognized from society pages, was stroking Giuliana's hair. He looked at her with an affection I had never seen directed at me.

"Yes," my father said, his voice brimming with satisfaction. "Giuliana will make a wonderful daughter. A credit to the Mitchell-Wilson family."

Mitchell-Wilson? My mother's maiden name. My name.

My vision swam. It couldn't be.

The glamorous woman, Giuliana' s mother, smiled sweetly. "And Charlton, of course. Such a charming young man. He' ll make a most devoted husband to Giuliana. A perfect match, truly."

The pieces clicked into place, forming a horrifying mosaic of betrayal. Giuliana wasn't just Charlton's "true love." She was my father's future stepdaughter. My future stepsister.

The universe truly had a twisted sense of humor.

A choked gasp escaped my lips. My father, his head snapping up, saw me. His face, initially flushed with a smug contentment, drained of color.

"Kiara," he said, his voice dropping to a low, warning tone. "What are you doing here?"

Giuliana turned, her eyes widening, then narrowing with a malicious glee. "Oh, look who it is. The town pariah, back for more drama."

My father's words, his doting tone towards Giuliana, her mother's smug pronouncements – it all collided in a deafening roar in my head.

"You," I choked out, pointing a trembling finger at my father, "You knew! You were part of this!"

He scoffed, his face hardening. "Kiara, don't be ridiculous. You're overtired. You're always so dramatic."

My eyes darted to Giuliana, then to her mother. The three of them, a smug, united front against me.

Rage, cold and absolute, consumed me. I grabbed the nearest object – a heavy crystal vase – and hurled it at the wall.

It shattered with a deafening crash, scattering shards across the polished floor.

"Dramatic?" I screamed, my voice raw with anguish and fury. "You just replaced me! You chose her! You chose them!"

My father' s face darkened, his jaw clenching. He took a step towards me, his eyes burning with anger.

"You ungrateful brat," he snarled. "Always causing trouble! Always ruining everything!"

But his words were just fuel to my fire. My world had imploded. And I was going to make sure they felt every single tremor.