POV: Fiona
The small plastic bag sat on the very corner of my writing desk. It looked entirely out of place.
I didn't throw it away. I did not try to tape the tiny shreds of my mother's photograph back together. I just left the bag sitting right next to my laptop screen.
Every single time my chest tightened, every time the pain of Camilla’s cruelty threatened to crack my armor, I looked at that bag.
Camilla thought destroying my most prized possession would make me snap. She expected me to scream, to storm out of my room, to descend to her pathetic level. Maxwell thought isolating me in this massive house and cutting off my financial lifelines would make me surrender to his control.
They were both entirely wrong.
The pain did not break me. It did the exact opposite. It acted like
