HIS FAVORITE SIN!

Cruelty doesn't fade

Anna

I want to drop out.

It’s not a rational thought. More like a persistent itch at the back of my mind — annoying, constant. It’s been whispering for a while, but lately, it’s gotten louder. Now it’s screaming.

Everyone says I’m lucky.

That I got into one of the best institutions in South Africa. That I scored the most competitive internship spot. That I live in the best neighborhood. That I’m on track to becoming something great.

But all for what?

“Are you sure, Miss Lindsey?” Mrs. Brown’s face stayed stern, though concern softened her voice.

I stared at the floor — at her neatly polished black heels. I swallowed hard.

“Miss Lindsey, I must warn you. This isn’t a decision you can make without your caregiver’s consent. And if I may add... this will jeopardize your future. Are you aware of that?”

She bent slightly, trying to meet my gaze.

I didn’t let her.

My eyes stayed glued to her shoes. If I squinted hard enough, I might have seen my reflection — small, distorted, and disappearing into shine.

Her sigh brought me back to the present. The counselor’s office. The same one I’d sat in dozens of times. Only this time, it wasn’t about planning my future. It was about unraveling it.

“Anna, you’re in your senior year. Why would you want to leave now? You’re smart. You know the school’s policy — no transfers in matric. That decision had to be made in grade ten, maybe eleven.”

She’s right.

I should’ve left in ninth. Or tenth. Or when I realized I wasn’t going to survive this place with just good grades and a clean record.

But I stayed.

Because Hill Crest Academy promised things. Prestige. Fast-tracked admission into top medical schools. Safety.

I believed them. I was a fool.

I’m not thinking straight. Or maybe I am. Maybe this is the first time I actually am.

I am so, so tired of living a nightmare dressed as a dream.

“Anna?”

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Brown,” I said quickly. I grabbed the nearest lie like a lifeline. “My editor thinks I should live closer to the publishing house. For, um... less strain while I work.”

There. That sounded smart. Like a real adult decision. Not desperate. Not pathetic.

I watched her blink.

“That’s the reason?” she asked slowly. “Well, if that’s all, I already offered to drop you off at your workplace on weekends.”

Of course she had. She’s kind like that.

And completely clueless.

Clueless that the ‘workplace’ is actually just my tiny room. That I sit hunched over my secondhand laptop at midnight, pouring every ounce of pain into fictional characters because it’s the only thing I can still control.

Clueless that what I write — dark fiction, stories full of betrayal and obsession and girls who bite back — is just my way of breathing.

I never told anyone at school. Why would I?

They’d either laugh or, worse, ask me what kind of book I wrote.

And no way in hell was I going to answer that.

“I guess...” I mumbled.

“Anna...”

“I—”

I looked up too fast.

And locked eyes with what can only be described as a t****k makeup tutorial gone wrong.

Sabrina.

Lurking just outside the glass panel of the counselor’s office. Her contour looked like it had been applied with a butter knife. Tuesdays were always DIY days.

I nearly jumped, jerking my head away like I’d seen a jumpscare.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Brown half-rose from her chair, following my line of sight.

“Yes! I’m fine!”

Okay, no — I shouted that.

Mrs. Brown’s startled eyes blinked wide.

I cleared my throat. Tried to smile. It probably looked more like a pain spasm.

Then I stood — too abruptly — knocking my knee against the chair.

“Ahem... You’re right, Mrs. Brown. I was being impulsive. I’ll finish my senior year here.”

She blinked, confused. “Wait—what?”

I forced a chipper wink. “You won’t be losing your top performer in the region.”

That wasn’t belief talking. That was strategy.

Because I knew what I was to this school.

A prize. A number. A walking GPA in a pleated skirt.

That’s why Principal Naidoo didn’t send me to therapy. Or a safe space. Or an actual support system.

Nope. Straight to the counselor. Their favorite little achiever just needed a pat and a push.

“Miss Lindsey—Anna—wait.”

Her voice stopped me at the door.

I hesitated. My hand frozen on the knob. The air in the room shifted, and for a second, it felt like the universe didn’t want me to leave.

Maybe she didn’t either.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown?”

She faltered. Her voice, for once, unpracticed.

“About the kids giving you trouble—”

“They’re just jealous of my grades,” I said quickly, sharply. “It’s normal. High school stuff.”

A lie.

It wasn’t about grades. Not when I’d nearly ended up in the hospital. Not when I could still taste blood on my tongue. Not when the cruelty had nothing to do with marks.

I smiled one last time. Then walked out the door.

And into hell.

THUD.

My head slammed into the solid oak door as it shut behind me. Pain exploded across my skull. I tasted copper.

The door stayed closed.

So did Mrs. Brown’s eyes, probably.

“Ugh,” I groaned, blinking.

A blurry shape sharpened in front of me.

Sabrina.

Of course.

“Good morn, w***e,” she sang sweetly. “Did you go whoring like your husband-stealing aunt?”

There it was. My new title.

Whore.

“Whoa! Did you hear that?” she turned to her friends, laughing. “Morn, w***e. Like moaning w***e. Genius, right?”

I didn’t respond.

I turned to walk away.

But her fingers tangled in my hair — my freshly highlighted hair — and yanked me back.

“Where are you going, b***h? What did you tell Mrs. Brown?”

She leaned in, too close. Breath hot and bitter.

Romantic, if you ignored the assault.

“Afraid I ratted you out?” I said, voice low. “Don’t worry. I did—”

SLAM.

My back hit the wall. No windows. No cameras. No witnesses.

“You think I care?” she scoffed. “You’re a w***e. Your whole family’s whores. So what if you told Brownie I hit you?”

Closer now. A sneer inches from my face.

“She can’t touch me.”

I smiled, cold. “Really? What about the shower incident? Or the time you tried to drown me on the school trip? Or when you nearly pushed me off that cliff?”

A twitch. Just a flicker in her expression.

“You’re eighteen, Sabrina. Your mom’s a doctor, not a magician. She can’t keep you out of prison forever.”

I shoved her arms away and walked.

Because I was tired.

Tired of surviving instead of living.

Four years of this. And everyone thought high school drama ended in tenth grade.

But cruelty doesn’t fade.

It festers. It gets smarter. It grows claws.

And it all traced back to one woman.

The one who dragged our name through hell and left us bleeding on the pavement.

Mary Lindsey.

Don’t let the name fool you — she wasn’t exactly a biblical saint.

She stole someone’s husband. Shattered a famous family. And left me — me — to deal with the aftermath.

Why’d she have to choose Danielle’s family? My best friend?

And not just any family. Danielle’s mom was a supermodel. A global icon.

Now, for the crime of being related to a stripper-aunt with boundary issues, I was the school’s favorite target.

Even Danielle, who still claimed to be my friend, couldn’t protect me from the venom our "friends" spat behind her back. My ex-friends — Sabrina, all of them — the cheerleaders and the hockey players. I used to be one of them. We were all friends until that incident.

Now?

Let’s just put it this way: I went from team captain to social disease in a week. A warning label. The girl you didn’t want to sit next to in the cafeteria, unless you were itching to be the next target.

They didn’t even need a reason anymore. Just my face. My last name. That was enough.

I adjusted my hood, covering the swelling.

My scalp still burned. My cheek throbbed.

Quitting and becoming a full-time author?

It was starting to sound like the sanest idea I’d ever had.