Three Times I Died, His Calls Unanswered

I returned to Arizona after four years, happily engaged and hoping to invite my guardian, Marcus, to my wedding.

But I found a nightmare: Marcus was engaged to Chloe Davenport, my high school bully.

He instantly dismissed my wedding news as a "lie," blindly favoring Chloe as she systematically tormented me.

He allowed her to frame me, forced apologies, and let her steal my cherished artwork.

When I reported it, he quashed the police investigation, accusing me of "causing trouble" and confining me.

His cruel disregard and blind favoritism was a profound betrayal.

Overwhelmed by injustice, I resolved to cut all ties.

I repaid every cent he'd spent, leaving a note: "The debt is repaid. I'm gone."

As I flew to Florence, Marcus's delusion crumbled.

He raced across continents, frantic to stop my Tuscan wedding.

He burst in, desperate and tearful, only to find me radiant.

Calmly, I revealed the three times I nearly died, alone and abandoned, after he sent me away – each time, my calls unanswered.

My unwavering happiness with David, and the cold truth of his neglect, utterly shattered him.

The wrought iron gates of the Prickly Pear Lane villa stood before me.

Four years.

Four years since I'd last seen this sprawling Spanish-style house in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Marcus Thorne, my guardian, had put me on a plane to Florence, Italy.

His words echoed, cold and final.

"Ellie, don't come back until I say so."

I was eighteen then.

My parents, both archaeologists, died in a rockslide when I was ten.

Marcus, their younger colleague, their friend, took me in. He was twenty-eight.

Then, he found my sketchbook.

Page after page, drawings of him.

Passionate, foolish confessions of a teenage girl's love.

His face had twisted with anger, disappointment.

He called my feelings inappropriate.

I didn't understand. He wasn't blood. Just my guardian, significantly older.

He sent me away. Arizona to Florence. A world away.

Now, at twenty-two, I stood here.

I thought I was over him. Truly.

My phone buzzed. "My David ❤️".

A small smile touched my lips.

"Ellie-bean, the venue's booked for next month! Have you decided if we're doing the ceremony here in Scottsdale or back in Florence?"

David's voice, warm and steady.

"Florence," I said. It felt right.

"Great! I'll start the arrangements. And hey, make sure to tell your guardian, Marcus, will you? We'd love for him to be there."

"I will," I promised.

Florence.

The first year was a blur of loneliness.

The language, a wall. The city, beautiful but alien.

Then, the mugging. A dark alley, a knife, pure terror.

After that, pneumonia. I lay in a tiny rented room, feverish, convinced I was dying.

I called Marcus. Again and again.

Voicemails unanswered. Messages unread.

David found me.

Another American student in the arts program.

He nursed me back to health. Became my anchor.

Two years. His patient courtship, his unwavering kindness.

I said yes.

Marcus finally called a month ago.

"You can come home. For your parents' memorial."

That's why I was here. To visit their graves.

And to give him the wedding invitation.

I reached for the gate's keypad.

It swung open.

Chloe Davenport.

My high school tormentor.

Her perfectly styled blonde hair, her expensive clothes.

"Ellie? Wow, long time no see! I thought I heard your voice."

Her voice, sickly sweet, sent a shiver down my spine.

Memories flooded back. Her cruelty, her mocking laughter.

"Chloe? What are you doing here?" My voice was barely a whisper.

Marcus stepped out from behind her.

Tall, imposing. His dark hair neatly combed, his suit impeccable.

He exuded an air of cool authority, just as I remembered.

He saw my face, my reaction to Chloe.

A frown creased his brow.

"Ellie. You should call her 'Chloe.' She's my fiancée."

Fiancée?

My breath caught.

"Her? But she used to..." *bully me relentlessly. Make my life hell.*

Marcus cut me off, his voice sharp. "Used to what?"

Florence. Heartbroken and alone.

Whispers had reached me. Marcus was dating.

Lavish gifts. Desert botanical garden galas. Private jet trips to Napa. Extravagant art auction purchases.

I never imagined it would be Chloe.

I swallowed the words. "Nothing."

"Good," Marcus said. "Get your things inside. Chloe's moving in today. You two need to get along. We'll visit your parents' memorial site next week."

He put an arm around Chloe's shoulders. They walked towards the house, leaving me standing there.

I whispered to the empty air, "There won't be an 'after,' Marcus. After the memorial, I'm gone for good."

Evening. The desert air cooled.

Marcus and Chloe returned, laughing about something.

The wedding invitation felt like a lead weight in my hand.

I knocked on Marcus's home office door.

Chloe opened it.

A malicious glint in her eyes. "Well, well. Come to reminisce?"

I tried to turn away. "Sorry, wrong time."

Chloe grabbed my arm, her nails digging in.

"Listen, you little charity case. Keep your mouth shut about high school, or I'll make your life a living hell again."

Her voice was a venomous hiss.

"You think he won't find out who you really are?" I pulled my arm free.

Chloe laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "We'll see. I made your life miserable then, I can do it now."

She held a steaming teacup.

With a sudden movement, she "accidentally" spilled the scalding liquid onto her own arm.

She screamed. A piercing, theatrical sound.

Marcus rushed in.

Chloe collapsed into his arms, sobbing. "Marcus, don't blame Ellie... she didn't mean it..."

Marcus turned to me, his face a mask of fury.

"I thought four years away would have taught you something! You're still obsessed, still trying to cause trouble. I'm warning you, Ellie, it's never going to happen between us!"

He thought I did it. Out of jealousy.

The injustice burned.

"I didn't! I came to give you this wedding invi-"

Marcus was already carrying Chloe out of the room, murmuring reassurances to her.

I finished my sentence to his retreating back.

"...invitation. I'm not obsessed with you anymore, Marcus. I'm getting married."

His footsteps faded down the hall. He hadn't heard. Or he hadn't cared.

The next morning, sunlight streamed into my guest room.

I hadn't slept.

The door opened abruptly. Marcus.

His face was grim. He didn't speak.

He grabbed my hand, his grip like iron.

He pulled me out of the room, down the stairs, and out to his car.

He drove, fast and silent, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Scottsdale Memorial Hospital.

He dragged me through the sterile corridors to a private room.

Chloe lay in bed, her arm bandaged. She looked pale and fragile.

"Apologize to Chloe," Marcus commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I stood my ground. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Chloe offered a weak, sweet smile. "It's okay, Marcus. Ellie's just young, probably not used to you having someone else."

Marcus's eyes narrowed at me. "She's only a year younger than you, Chloe. And she's an adult. Apologize, Ellie!"

His conviction of my guilt was a physical blow.

Exhaustion washed over me. He'd already judged me.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, the words tasting like ash.

Marcus still looked dissatisfied.

"I need to use the restroom," I said, needing to escape his gaze.

In the cold, tiled restroom, I splashed water on my face.

*He'll always believe the worst of me now.*

It was a bitter pill.

When I came out, Marcus was waiting.

"Chloe wants some specific artisanal gelato from that place downtown. The one near the civic center. I need to stay with her. You go get it."

His tone was flat, devoid of emotion.

I nodded silently. What else could I do?

As I passed him to leave, he spoke again, his voice a low warning.

"Chloe and I are getting married. Drop whatever fantasies you still have."

I stopped, my back to him.

"Don't worry, I have. In a month, I'll be-"

"I hope you mean that," he cut in, his voice sharp. He walked back into Chloe's room.

I turned, calling after him, the words escaping before I could stop them.

"You love Chloe that much? She can be with you, but I couldn't?"

It was a desperate, foolish question. Referencing our non-blood status, the thing he'd twisted into something ugly.

He reappeared at the doorway, his face hard.

"Yes. Anyone but you, Ellie! Don't ever bring that up again."

His words were like slaps.

I nodded slowly. "Okay. I won't."

The gelato place was across town. The line snaked out the door.

I rushed back, the container cold against my hand.

Chloe took one delicate bite, then pushed the container away.

"It's melted. And the flavor is wrong. Get me that vegan cupcake from the bakery near the university. The red velvet one."

I stared at her. Then at the barely touched gelato.

I said nothing. I went.

This continued all afternoon.

A specific brand of imported water.

A magazine from a boutique newsstand.

Fresh-cut flowers, but only white peonies, and they had to be from a particular florist in Old Town.

Ellie, the errand girl. Running across Scottsdale for things Chloe barely touched, or tasted once and discarded.

Each task was a small humiliation.

Each complied-with demand, a confirmation of Marcus's unwavering support for her.

A few days later, Chloe, "recovered," her arm still lightly bandaged for show, approached me.

"Ellie, darling," she cooed, "I'm having a little get-together with some old friends from high school. At 'The Jade Scorpion' lounge. Just a reconciliation thing. You should come."

Old friends. Her clique. The ones who made my life a misery alongside her.

"I don't think so, Chloe."

"Oh, but you must," she insisted, her eyes glinting. "Marcus thinks it's a wonderful idea. He said, 'Chloe's trying, Ellie. Don't make it difficult.'"

Marcus. Of course.

He wanted me to play nice, to validate Chloe's charade of magnanimity.

I felt trapped. "Fine."

"Wonderful!" Chloe chirped, her smile not reaching her eyes.