The voices outside her window had become a cruel kind of background music—endless questions, laughter, shutters snapping, a thousand speculations clawing at the last threads of her dignity.
Skylar sat curled on the couch, her knees drawn to her chest, staring blankly at the wall. Her tears had run dry, but the heaviness in her chest hadn’t lifted. The betrayal still burned, but now a darker thought gnawed at her, whispering louder each hour: They don’t deserve to win. Not like this.
Henry and Rose’s faces danced behind her closed eyes, smiling as if nothing had happened. The audacity of it made her want to scream.
They think I’ll stay here and rot. They think I’ll cry myself into silence. They think I’ll vanish, humiliated and broken.
Her fists clenched. “No,” she whispered into the em
