Whispers of Revenge

Hunger

დ Rosalie დ

By the time we got back home, my nerves were scraped raw. The doctor’s words kept circling through my mind, and every time I looked at my mother, all I could think about was the fact that she was dying. And still, even with death standing at her shoulder, she was keeping secrets. It made me feel hollow. Angry. Restless. I helped her inside, got her settled on the couch, and brought her some water and the new pain medication. She looked exhausted. More than that. Drained. Like, even sitting upright cost her too much.

“Try to sleep,” I told her. She nodded and didn’t argue. That alone unsettled me. I waited until she closed her eyes, then I went back to my father’s office. The room had become my place in the house without me meaning it to. My bedroom held far too many memories, and they weren’t very comforting. In fact, the rest of the house didn’t bring me much joy either. The office was the only space in the house that didn’t hold many memories. Probably because this room had always been off limits. But now, it was useful. Quiet. I sat down and opened my laptop. For a moment, I just stared at the screen. My mind was still wrapped around the interaction with Declan at the pharmacy. There was just so much going on.

My mother’s impending death.

The mysterious account number, as well as the transfer slips.

Weston. Matthew. Declan. Jordan.

Everything was starting to knot together in my head. I didn’t want to think about the doctor anymore. I didn’t want to think about my mother’s hollow face or the way the clinic had smelled or the fact that pain management had become the only thing left to offer her.

So, I did the one thing that made sense.

I continued to dig as I opened Willow on my browser. started digging. The fake sweetness of the app annoyed me, but I looked past that. I hated the cheerful layout and the way people posted their lives like it was some sort of trophy. The whole thing felt fake. I typed in Jordan’s name, and a moment later, his profile filled the screen.

Jordan Ashford.

Just seeing his face on the screen made my stomach turn. My body reacted before my mind did. My chest tightened, and my hands went cold. His profile picture was exactly what I would have expected. Jordan, in a dark suit, smiling with polished confidence beside a blonde woman in an elegant cream dress.

Daphne. His high school sweetheart. Now his wife.

I recognized her. I leaned back in the chair and forced myself to breathe through the sudden nausea. Jordan’s page was the cleanest kind of disgusting. Every post looked curated. Every photo looked staged. His whole life had the tone of a campaign brochure. He wanted to be seen. That much was obvious. I clicked on a recent post.

Jordan Ashford: A strong town is built on tradition, loyalty, and leadership that puts people first. Proud of the work we are doing in Raven Hollow.

The photo was of Jordan standing beside his father outside the town hall, both in dark coats, both smiling like the future already belonged to them. My jaw tightened. He was following Julian’s path exactly. Not just politically, but in the way he held himself. Controlled. Groomed. Public. Built to be trusted by people who mistook image for character. I kept scrolling. There were fundraiser photos. Charity dinner photos. Church photos. Photos at local events where he stood with his hand at Daphne’s waist and a smile on his face. They had no children. No baby announcements. No nursery photos. Just the two of them moving through Raven Hollow like they were already some version of small-town royalty. Another post caught my eye.

Daphne Ashford: A beautiful evening supporting our town and the people who make it strong.

The photo was of Daphne in a pale blue dress, Jordan beside her in black, both standing under soft string lights at what looked like a community fundraiser. The comments were exactly what I expected.

Perfect couple.

Future first family.

Beautiful as always.

I felt sick. Not because they looked happy. Because Jordan looked untouched. Untouched by what he had done. Untouched by the years. Untouched by memory. He had moved from boyhood cruelty into adult respectability without ever seeming to stumble. No scandal. No visible cracks. Just a clean rise toward power. My fingers hovered over the trackpad. Then I looked at his face again before I turned away. The room felt too warm, and I pressed the heel of my hand against my stomach and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was revulsion. Hatred. The body-level kind. The kind that made me want to scrub my skin raw after remembering him too clearly. I clicked out of his profile.

“Enough of that asshole,” I muttered as I typed in Declan’s name. His profile took longer to find, and when I finally did, it irritated me immediately for an entirely different reason. Compared to the others, it barely looked like a profile at all. No parade of smiling photographs. No stream of opinions. No polished updates about community service or drinks with friends. Nothing loud. Nothing easy. His profile picture was simple. Too simple. Just him standing outside in a dark jacket with a gray sky behind him, his expression unreadable. No caption. No comments visible. His cover photo was some aerial shot of land and equipment, probably tied to the family business.

Carrington Contractors.

That was it. How could I have forgotten? I clicked into the page and frowned. Sparse posts. Minimal details. A few tagged photos from other people. A company announcement about a new contract. A congratulatory post from someone in construction. One article shared from a regional business page about Carrington Contractors expanding into commercial development. Another short company post naming Declan as the new head of operations after taking over more of his father’s responsibilities.

So, he had taken over.

That tracked. He had always belonged to power, even when he looked like he hated it. He was still single. That part took more digging. No wife. No engagement. No girlfriend. But there also weren’t any family photos. Nothing soft. No proof of intimacy tucked into the corners of his life. If there was someone, he kept her off the internet. Or there was no one. The lack of information irritated me more than it should have. Weston had posted too much. Matthew had posted enough to build a map. Jordan had practically wrapped his life in a ribbon and offered it up to the public.

But Declan?

Nothing.

He was there and not there at all. I was more than annoyed at him. I was annoyed at myself. His page told me almost nothing real. He had made himself harder to read. Harder to trace. Harder to know. And for some reason, that got under my skin more than Jordan’s smug perfection or Weston’s carelessness ever had. I leaned back in the chair and looked at the ceiling. Jordan made me sick. Declan made me curious. And that was dangerous. I opened up my saved document and continued to add to my already detailed notes.

Jordan Ashford. Married to Daphne. No children. Political image. Following Julian’s footsteps. Public life carefully managed. Likely future mayoral candidate.

Declan Carrington. Head of Carrington Contractors. Profile private in all the ways that matter. Minimal social presence. No visible partner. Information controlled.

I stopped typing and read the last line again.

Information controlled.

Yes. That was exactly it. Weston and Matthew were careless. Jordan was polished. But Declan was something else entirely. He gave people almost nothing, which meant whatever he was keeping back mattered. I wanted to know who he was now. Not the boy from before. Not the shadow standing in the pharmacy asking questions in that low, steady voice. The man. The one he had become when no one was looking.

And I would find out.

One way or another.

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