The next few weeks passed in a foggy, indistinct blur.
Days bled into each other, and Vanessa moved through them like a shadow--present, but not really there.
At school, her usual air of dominance had faded. The pointed comments, the sauntering walk that once demanded attention--all of it had dulled into something quieter, heavier. She walked the halls like a ghost inhabiting a body that didn't quite feel like hers anymore. Each step felt disconnected from the next. Like she was watching herself from the outside.
It was jarring.
She had always been sharp, calculated, unflinching. Power wasn't just a preference for her--it was her skin. And now? Now that skin had cracked, and what seeped out underneath wasn't something she fully recognized.
It was like someone had reached in and yanked out the foundation she'd built her entire identity on, and now all that was left was the floating--
Drifting between who she had been and... who she might become.
For the first time in her life, Vanessa wasn't in control.
And people didn't look at her with that mix of awe and fear anymore.
They didn't flinch at her passing.
They didn't part ways in the hallway like she was some untouchable storm.
And the strangest thing?
That absence--
That silence--
Didn't cut as deep as she thought it would.
She had expected it to hurt.
To claw at her with desperation.
To make her want to bite and claw her way back to the top, no matter the cost.
But instead... there was a quiet.
A stillness she hadn't realized she was craving until it wrapped around her like a weighted blanket.
Maybe because for once, she wasn't performing.
She wasn't keeping up the act.
She wasn't fighting to be feared.
She was just... being.
One unexpected consequence of the chaos?
A job.
She'd taken it out of necessity, at first. Desperation, really. Ethan's demands weren't going to disappear on their own.
But the ice cream parlor had turned out to be more than just a paycheck.
It was easy. Repetitive. Uncomplicated.
And in a life where everything else felt like it could combust at any second, that simplicity was a balm.
It didn't matter if it was sticky or messy or that her feet ached after every shift.
There was a rhythm to it.
Scoop. Smile. Ring up. Repeat.
And in that rhythm, she found something like peace.
Having Hannah there helped, too.
Even if they didn't always talk much during shifts, the presence of someone who knew her but didn't press for answers was comforting.
And the money? That was the real shocker.
At the end of the month, she had $300 tucked away.
Not money she conned or manipulated or borrowed.
Her money.
It wasn't a fortune, but it was hers.
Earned by her hands.
And that meant more than she could put into words.
She caught herself browsing online stores--realizing she could actually buy something.
Clothes she chose. Maybe a new phone.
Even the thought of saving for something long-term sparked a strange flutter in her chest.
It was freedom. In the smallest, most beautiful form.
And for the first time, Vanessa felt something startling.
Not pride.
Not satisfaction.
But... happiness.
Sunday evening brought its own sort of rhythm.
Exhaustion clung to her skin, sticky and thick after another long shift.
But it was the good kind--the kind that came with knowing she'd done something, earned something.
She stepped into the house with that rare lightness still clinging to her shoulders.
Tossed her bag onto the couch and stretched, already planning the shower she so desperately needed--
"Vanessa."
The word cut through her haze like a blade.
Sharp. Deliberate.
She froze.
Her head turned slowly, pulse beginning to stutter.
Her father was seated in his usual place--armchair, book in hand--but the posture was different.
Alert. Watching.
His gaze locked onto her like a tether snapping tight.
"Yes?" she said, careful to keep her tone casual.
Her voice didn't shake. Not outwardly. But inside?
The calm cracked.
His eyes narrowed.
"You've been out a lot lately."
He closed his book, setting it aside.
"And you've been different. Quieter. More... thoughtful."
The words stung more than she expected.
She tried to smirk, to brush it off, but her muscles wouldn't cooperate.
Tension gathered in her spine like a coiled spring.
Danger.
Before she could summon a response, his nose twitched.
He frowned.
"...Why do you smell like chocolate?"
Shit.
Her stomach dropped.
The uniform had come off hours ago, but the scent always lingered. Syrups clung to her skin, her hair--
A sickly-sweet telltale she hadn't considered.
Her brain scrambled for an answer, anything to deflect.
She laughed, too quickly.
Waved her hand like it was nothing.
"Oh, that. Yeah, uh... lost a bet."
His brow arched.
"A bet?"
"Yeah. Stupid school thing. I lost, and they, uh... dunked me in syrup."
It sounded absurd even to her ears.
But it was all she had.
He stared.
Flat, unreadable.
Then, the dreaded look.
That look that peeled past the surface.
That told her he wasn't buying a single word of it.
"Dunked you in syrup," he repeated.
She nodded too eagerly. "Yup. Whole bucket. Total mess."
Silence stretched.
Her heart thudded in her chest, loud and uneven.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
"Hmph. Kids these days."
Relief flooded her so fast her knees almost gave out.
"I'm gonna go shower," she said, already halfway up the stairs.
But he wasn't done.
"We're not done talking about your behavior change."
She didn't respond.
Didn't dare.
Just kept walking, one step after another, all the way to her room--
Where she shut the door and let her breath go in a long, trembling sigh.
That had been too close.
The water poured over her skin in soothing streams, hot enough to sting slightly--just the way she liked it. It masked the tension wound tight in her body, steaming up the small bathroom until the mirrors were fogged and the world outside blurred away. Still, Vanessa stood motionless under the spray, eyes fixed blankly on the tiled wall in front of her.
She wasn't really seeing it.
Her mind was miles away.
Why was she hiding this from her parents? The question circled in her thoughts like a restless predator, always just behind her, waiting for the quiet moments to strike.
It wasn't like she'd done something wrong. Not really.
Okay... maybe taking a loan with a servitude clause wasn't exactly a proud moment--
That memory alone made her stomach tighten--but still... the rest? The rest was something to be proud of.
She had a job. A real job. Something stable, something clean. Something that didn't rely on manipulation or social dominance or playing games with people's perceptions.
But the thought of telling her parents?
It made her chest clench.
Maybe because it wasn't just a job.
It was the context around it.
It was how she got there.
And who was involved.
Ethan.
His name alone set off a chain reaction of feelings she didn't quite know how to sort.
She used to barely see him. A quiet background character. Smart. Shy. Harmless.
Someone she could poke fun at, tease, dismiss without a second thought.
And now?
Now she couldn't stop hearing his voice.
Couldn't unfeel the way it hit when he told her--
"You let the fame get to your head... and now look at you. Agreed to be a slave for a day just to appease your friends."
That sentence had carved into her stinging every time she remembered it.
Still fresh. Still sore.
He wasn't wrong.
And that--more than anything--was the part she hated most.
Vanessa shut off the water and grabbed a towel, her movements stiff. She dried off quickly, wrapping the cotton fabric around her with mechanical precision, her reflection in the fogged mirror barely registering.
She stepped out and tugged on an oversized hoodie, the kind that swallowed her frame and made her feel small in a comforting way. Soft sweatpants followed. No makeup, no armor. Just... her.
Something in her had shifted, subtly but undeniably.
And for once, she didn't want to hide behind her usual smirk or claws.
She wanted honesty. Maybe not the whole truth, but a truth. One that would let her breathe.
Vanessa padded downstairs, the floor cool beneath her feet. The house was quiet, dim. She found her father in the kitchen, back turned, pouring coffee like it was part of some sacred evening ritual.
He looked up as she entered, his gaze sharp as ever but not unkind.
He took a sip, slow and deliberate.
"Done avoiding me?" he asked, voice dry.
She rolled her eyes, leaning against the counter like it didn't matter--but her heart was racing.
"I wasn't avoiding you."
He gave her that look. The one that said, don't lie to me.
"Okay, maybe a little," she sighed, arms folding across her chest. "But I actually wanted to talk."
That caught his attention. His brows lifted slightly, and he put the mug down, turning his full attention to her.
"Alright. Let's hear it."
Vanessa hesitated, then took a breath--deep and grounding.
"I got a job," she said.
His brows rose again, but he didn't interrupt.
"At the ice cream parlor," she added.
He blinked. "That explains the smell."
She snorted. "Yeah, well. I've been there for about a month and a half. It's nothing fancy, but it pays okay. I've made around 300 bucks so far."
Her voice faltered a little, and she looked away.
"I thought... I dunno. It'd be nice to have my own money for once. To not depend on you and mom. Or anyone."
There was a pause.
Longer than she expected.
When she looked back up, his expression was unreadable. Calm, but focused.
"And why didn't you just tell us?" he asked finally.
She felt that one in her chest.
"I guess I didn't think you'd be okay with it?"
He frowned, crossing his arms.
"Vanessa, you're seventeen. If you wanted to work, you could've just asked. Your mother and I wouldn't have said no."
Shame prickled at the edges of her skin.
"I didn't want you to ask why," she admitted quietly.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the counter. "And why did you?"
There it was.
The line in the sand.
The point where she had to decide how much to give.
She swallowed the tightness in her throat.
"I owed someone money," she said, steady and slow. "I... made a bad deal. And I needed to pay them back."
His eyes sharpened instantly, his jaw clenching.
"Vanessa. You didn't--"
"Not like that," she cut in fast, lifting a hand. "No drugs, no gambling, nothing illegal. Just... a deal. I owed someone. And I paid them back. That part's over."
Her father studied her like he was trying to see inside her skull.
Eventually, he asked, "And this someone...?"
She hesitated.
There was no easy way to say it.
"...Ethan."
The reaction was subtle.
His brows furrowed. "Ethan... Smith?"
She nodded. "...Yeah."
There was a beat--then a quiet, disbelieving chuckle.
"I can't believe you, of all people, ended up owing him money."
Vanessa groaned, dragging a hand through her damp hair. "Yeah, well... it's been a weird couple of weeks."
He smirked slightly, but the concern lingered in his eyes.
"So... are you mad?" she asked, bracing herself.
He sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Not mad. Just... worried. I don't want you making a habit of getting yourself into these kinds of situations. You're smart, Vanessa. Use that."
She gave a dry laugh. "Trust me, lesson learned."
Silence stretched again. But this time, it felt different.
Then, to her genuine shock--he smiled.
Soft. Honest.
"I'm proud of you, you know."
She blinked. "What?"
"For taking responsibility. For working. For paying back what you owed. That's... that's maturity. I see that."
The words landed like warmth blooming in her chest.
She hadn't realized how much she needed to hear that until right then.
"...Thanks," she murmured, shoving her hands into her hoodie pocket like she didn't know what else to do.
Her father chuckled. "Just don't let me catch you actually getting dunked in syrup next time."
Vanessa laughed.
"No promises,"
Monday arrived quietly but with an undeniable weight. The kind that curled into Vanessa's chest before she even opened her eyes, pressing down like a reminder--of change, of discomfort, of something she couldn't yet name.
She moved on autopilot that morning: shower, clothes, ponytail, lip gloss she didn't even care about applying anymore. It was all mechanical now. The parts of her that used to obsess over her image, her presence, her control--they were quieter lately. Still there, but dulled... maybe humbled.
And yet, at dispersal her feet led her to the same place they had been taking her for the past week.
To the school lot.
To his bike.
She told herself it was convenience. Just a ride. Just habit.
But deep down, the truth had started scratching at the corners of her denial:
She wanted to be here.
Not just for the ride. Not just for the quiet thrill of feeling the wind pull at her hoodie as the world blurred past.
She wanted him. Or maybe just the way he made her feel--seen, challenged, knocked off the pedestal she'd stood on for so long it had grown lonely.
Ethan appeared the same way he always did--quiet, low hood, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Like he wasn't surprised she was waiting. Like it was expected now.
He didn't say a word. He never did.
Not until she climbed on behind him, slipping onto the back of the seat like she belonged there. Like this was their ritual.
There was a sigh. That familiar exhale of slight annoyance or maybe reluctant amusement, before he kicked up the stand and rolled them out onto the street.
The wind was cold, even under her hood. But she barely noticed. Her eyes were locked on Ethan's back again--the way he held himself, easy but firm. Confident without being showy. He didn't posture like the guys she used to date. He didn't need to.
He just was.
The ride was short, but it always felt longer when she was caught in her head like this. By the time they reached the park, she wasn't even sure what she planned to say.
Ethan parked and leaned forward on the handlebars, that casual posture making her stomach twist in ways she didn't fully understand. He glanced at her sideways, voice flat but curious.
"Alright. What's up?"
She crossed her arms, heart suddenly hammering with a weird kind of nervousness. "The last condition of the loan."
He raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"
"The whole 'slave for a day' thing," she said, tilting her head, trying to sound bored but her voice betrayed her. "Why was that even part of the deal?"
Ethan smirked, a small chuckle escaping like she'd amused him. "Honestly?"
She nodded, bracing herself.
"Because if it was just a normal loan," he said, crossing his arms, "you wouldn't have paid it back."
Her lips curled into a scowl. "That's not true."
He didn't even flinch. Just looked at her.
And damn it--he knew.
Her scowl faltered, her confidence crumbling with it.
"...Okay, maybe a little true," she mumbled. "But I would've paid you back eventually."
Ethan shook his head slowly, like it wasn't even up for debate. "No, you wouldn't have."
She bristled, the heat flaring up in her again, defensive and raw. "You don't know that."
His eyes never wavered. "Vanessa, let's be real. You've spent years taking from people. Because you could. Because no one ever made you stop. If someone made you work for something? You'd look for a shortcut. An excuse. A way out."
The words cut deep--because they weren't cruel.
They were true.
And that made it worse.
She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again.
But nothing came out.
He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't trying to humiliate her. He was just... stating facts.
And somehow, that made it sting more than any insult ever could.
With a sigh, she rubbed the back of her neck, swallowing her pride like broken glass.
"Okay, fine. Maybe you had a point."
Ethan grinned, slow and smug. "See? Progress."
She rolled her eyes, but her mouth tugged into a reluctant smirk. "Still... you enjoyed making me clean your bike, didn't you?"
He shrugged, unbothered. "A little."
"Sadist," she muttered.
He laughed, pushing off the bike. "Nah. Just someone who believes in balance."
She tilted her head. "Balance?"
He gestured vaguely with one hand, like explaining something obvious. "If you want power, you need control. If you want respect, you need discipline. If you want money, you need responsibility. You can't just take everything. Sometimes, you have to earn it."
Vanessa didn't respond.
Not right away.
Because those words?
They sank in.
Like stones into water, each one sending ripples through the parts of her that had never been touched by reflection before.
Power. Control. Respect. Discipline.
She'd always thought she had the first two.
Now, she was realizing--maybe she had neither.
And what Ethan said...
It didn't just make sense.
It changed things.
He swung his leg back over the bike and looked at her with a smirk. "You coming, or are you staying here to meditate on your life choices?"
Vanessa blinked, shaken from her thoughts. "Shut up."
But she climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist--
a little closer than she had the last time.
A little more sure.
A little less defensive.
As he started the engine and pulled them back into motion, she let herself lean in. Not just physically--mentally. Emotionally.
Because for the first time in a long time...
Vanessa wasn't running.
She wasn't deflecting.
She was thinking.
As Ethan's bike rolled to a smooth, practiced stop in front of her house, Vanessa slid off the back with a movement that was becoming second nature. Her feet hit the pavement, but her mind was still reeling--wrapped up in echoes of Ethan's words, the way they'd pressed against her ribs and stayed there, gnawing at old beliefs she hadn't even realized she still carried.
Discipline. Control. Balance.
She was still thinking about the way he said it. Calm. Unshaken. Like it wasn't even about her--but it was. It so clearly was.
She turned back to him just in time to catch his usual, brief nod. No goodbye. No quips. Just that unreadable look of his and the low hum of the bike revving to life again.
Then he was gone.
The street suddenly felt too quiet. Too still.
Vanessa exhaled, slower than she meant to. Her hand hovered for a second beside her chest--something subconscious--before she dropped it and turned toward the house.
And froze.
Her father was already standing on the porch, arms crossed, wearing that damn look. Eyebrows lifted. Casual, but sharp. He was onto something, and she could already tell he was going to enjoy dragging it out of her.
Her stomach dipped. Not a sharp plummet. More like a slow, sinking sensation of ugh, here we go.
"...What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes, already on the defensive.
He tilted his head slightly. "So... are you two dating?"
Her brain short-circuited.
"W--What?!" she choked out, too quickly, too loud. Her face went up in flames before the words even finished leaving her mouth. "No! Of course not!"
But her voice cracked a little near the end.
Her father didn't even blink. Just smirked. The dad smirk. That smug, infuriating I've-got-you-now expression that made her want to disappear into the earth.
"Really? Because that looked suspiciously like a boyfriend dropping off his girlfriend after a date."
Vanessa groaned so hard it came from her soul. She covered her face with both hands, half from embarrassment, half to shield herself from his damn grin. "Oh my god, Dad, no!"
He chuckled. The kind of laugh that was way too pleased with itself.
"Then what was that, huh?"
She dropped her hands with an exaggerated huff and crossed her arms tight over her chest. "That was me getting a ride home," she snapped, forcing her voice into that old haughty tone she used to wield like a weapon. "Nothing else."
Her dad leaned against the doorframe, nodding like he was totally buying it--which meant he wasn't buying it at all. "Mhm. Right."
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Why would you even think that?"
He shrugged casually, like he was listing the weather. "Well, let's see... You've been acting different these past few weeks. Quieter. More thoughtful. Actually pleasant, which is slightly terrifying, by the way. Then you randomly start coming home smelling like vanilla and chocolate--"
"I told you," she snapped, cutting him off, "that was a work thing."
He didn't even slow down. "Uh-huh. Then today, I just happen to see you getting dropped off by some guy I've never seen before--on a motorcycle, no less--and you're clearly comfortable enough to ride with him. No helmet. No hesitation. Just--hop on, hold tight, and ride into the sunset."
Vanessa groaned again, dragging her hand down her face like that might wipe away the entire conversation. "Dad, he's just a guy from school."
Her father arched a brow. "Who drops you off."
"That's not--it's not like that!" she insisted, but even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak. Thin. Defensive. "He's just... he's just...Eth...."
Her mouth stopped. And suddenly, she had nothing else.
No label. No tidy explanation.
He wasn't just a guy from school anymore.
He wasn't her enemy. Not really.
Not someone she looked down on. Not someone she laughed at behind his back.
He wasn't even quite a friend, not in the traditional sense.
And yet--he'd seen her more clearly in the last few weeks than most people had in years.
Her dad tilted his head again, smirking at her hesitation like it confirmed everything. "Uh-huh. Ethan I see. He looks different."
Vanessa blinked. "What?"
"You're blushing," he added, entirely too smug.
She felt her face flame up again--hot, humiliating. "I hate you."
Her father laughed outright, stepping back into the doorway. "Love you too, kiddo."
She stomped past him with a muttered curse and rolled eyes, trying not to trip over her own mortification. He just chuckled and followed her inside like this was his idea of a fun Monday evening.
But upstairs, when the door closed behind her and the noise of the house faded, Vanessa sat down on her bed and stared at her hands for a long moment.
That stupid question from earlier kept looping in her head like a song she couldn't shake.
Why had she hesitated?
That evening, as the dinner table clattered with silverware and low conversation, Vanessa sat with her chin propped on her hand, pushing a piece of broccoli around her plate. Her appetite was missing, but it wasn't the food. It was him. Still. Ethan's voice, his words, his quiet control--they lingered like a thread wrapped too tightly around her thoughts, refusing to unravel.
She barely registered the conversation around her until her father, mid-chew, said casually, "It's funny hearing about Ethan after all these years. He'd be an adult by now."
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.
What?
Her mother, smiling faintly, added, "Yeah, poor kid. After what happened to his parents, I was always worried about him."
The fork slipped from Vanessa's fingers and clattered against the plate, loud and jarring in the cozy quiet of the dining room.
Her breath caught.
"Wait." The word came out hoarse. "What?"
The room fell into a stunned silence. Her mother's eyes widened as her father's face paled slightly. Too late--they realized what they'd done. What they'd assumed she already knew.
Her heartbeat picked up speed, every thump echoing in her chest like it was trying to tear through her ribs.
"What do you mean, what happened to his parents?" she asked, her voice sharper now, colored with something raw and rising. Fear. Shame. Guilt that hadn't even fully formed but was already clawing at the edges of her thoughts.
Her father set his fork down slowly, like he was defusing a bomb. "Vanessa... we were friends with Ethan's parents."
She stared at him. "What?"
"No, you weren't. I would've known. I would've remembered."
Her mother met her eyes, her expression soft but laced with something heavier. Regret, maybe. "We were, sweetheart. You were really little. You used to play with him all the time when you were toddlers. We visited them often... until the accident."
Accident. The word hit like a slap.
Her stomach twisted, nausea creeping in around the edges.
"You never told me." Her voice was low now. Accusatory. Quiet in a way that felt far more dangerous than yelling.
Her father rubbed the back of his neck, guilt painting his features in deep lines. "After they passed, you two drifted. And you were still so young. We thought... maybe it was better not to bring it up. He had enough to deal with, and it wasn't like you were close anymore."
Vanessa clenched her jaw, her hands curling into fists in her lap.
Wasn't close anymore? She had bullied him. Laughed at him. Used him as a target to keep herself perched on top of her little high school social pyramid.
And she hadn't even known. Not once--not even when he looked at her with those infuriatingly calm eyes, not when he smirked like he could see through her, not even when she was on her knees cleaning his stupid motorcycle--not once had she realized what he'd gone through. Who he even was.
Her mother looked up, concern finally flickering through her. "Wait... You really didn't know? But you've been spending time with him, haven't you?"
The walls of the dining room suddenly felt too tight, like they were inching closer, crushing in from all sides. Vanessa's skin prickled, heat rising up her neck, the kind that wasn't just embarrassment--shame.
Without another word, she shoved her chair back, the legs screeching against the hardwood. "I need to go."
"Vanessa--" her father began.
But she was already moving, already gone--through the hallway, up the stairs, door slammed shut behind her.
Inside, she stood still in the middle of her room, breathing hard.
Everything she thought she knew about Ethan had cracked open. The image she'd built of him in her head--that quiet, stubborn, infuriatingly calm boy who she'd started to... not hate--that Ethan--was now layered with something far more painful, far more human.
She'd mocked him. Humiliated him.
All while he was shouldering a loss she'd never even thought to ask about.
Her mind swirled with fragments of memory that suddenly took on new meaning--his independence, the way he never talked about his home life, the fact that he was always alone, always just fine on his own. Because he had to be.
And she hadn't known.
Or maybe she had known. And just hadn't wanted to look closely enough.
Two days later, Vanessa's mother was standing in the produce aisle of the local market when her eyes caught a familiar silhouette.
It took a second for her to recognize him--older now, taller, sharper around the edges--but there was no mistaking the boy with the black hoodie and the guarded posture.
"Ethan?" she said, her voice uncertain but warm.
He turned. There was a flicker of surprise, quickly hidden. Then a polite nod. "Mrs. Reyes."
That hit her harder than it should've. There was a time--years ago--when he'd called her Aunt Lucy. When he'd giggled in the backyard with Vanessa under the sun.
She smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "You've grown so much," she murmured. "How have you been, dear?"
He shrugged with a kind of practiced ease. "I'm managing."
Her eyes dropped to the basket in his hand--simple essentials: bread, eggs, some vegetables, a small pack of meat, and instant noodles. Not indulgent. Just... surviving.
Something in her chest tightened.
"Are you living alone?" she asked, voice dropping to something softer.
He hesitated--just for a beat--then nodded. "Yeah. Got emancipated when I was sixteen."
She drew in a sharp breath. Sixteen. Alone at sixteen. Her heart ached.
"But... didn't you move in with your uncle?"
"I did for a while." Ethan's voice was calm. "He helped me with the legal side of things. But we both knew I didn't want to live under someone else's roof. He lets me stay in my parents' house."
Parents' house.
The words dropped like a weight into her stomach.
She opened her mouth, struggling to say something, anything. "Ethan... if you ever need anything--"
"I'm okay, Mrs. Reyes," he cut in, gently but firmly. "Really."
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to think he'd be alright. But as he gave her another polite nod and turned toward the checkout line, a hollowness settled in her chest.
He moved like someone older than his years. Not in stature, but in weight. In silence. In the way he carried himself--too self-contained. Too practiced at being alone.
She watched him walk away and couldn't shake the sinking feeling that they had all let him fall through the cracks.
That she had.
And worst of all--so had Vanessa.
There were so many questions left unspoken. So many truths buried in years of silence.
And now... now they were unraveling.
That evening, the house felt unusually still. The kind of quiet that wrapped itself around the edges of things--not peaceful, but weighted. Thick. Vanessa had just come down the stairs, her footsteps light but hesitant. She wasn't hungry, but she'd come down out of habit, more out of routine than want.
The dining room lights were soft and warm, the clink of silverware against ceramic barely noticeable over her mother's sudden sigh.
"There's something I need to tell you," her mother said softly, eyes flicking toward her husband, then down to the untouched soup in her bowl.
Vanessa slowed at the threshold, something in that voice stopping her mid-step. It was rare to hear her mother sound uncertain. Rarer still to hear that particular tone--a blend of guilt and sorrow that twisted like a thread being pulled too tight.
"I ran into Ethan today," her mother continued. "At the supermarket."
Vanessa's eyes widened slightly, her breath catching mid-inhale. Ethan?
Her father glanced up from his meal, eyebrows raised. "Oh? How's the kid doing?"
Her mother shook her head, the motion heavy, burdened. "He's... alone. Completely alone. He got emancipated when he was sixteen. He's been living in his parents' house ever since. Just him."
The words hit Vanessa like a blow to the chest. Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe. Sixteen?
Her father leaned back, rubbing his temples as something seemed to fall into place behind his eyes. "I figured something like that might've happened. He never came around after the funeral happened."
Vanessa's stomach turned. She remembered the silence more than anything--how Ethan just seemed to disappear for a while during middle school, how he came back colder, quieter, like a shadow of himself. She had never asked why.
She never cared enough to ask why.
Her mother's voice cracked slightly. "I can't believe we didn't check in on him. All this time... he's been taking care of himself? On his own? I should've done something. I should've reached out."
There was a silence that followed. It wasn't empty. It was loud, thick with unsaid things, mistakes left to rot.
Her father muttered under his breath, almost like he was ashamed to say it out loud. "That boy has been through hell."
Vanessa couldn't move. She couldn't breathe properly. Her heart was thudding in her ears now, steady and heavy like a judge's gavel. Alone at sixteen. She tried to picture it--living in that quiet, still house, the one he always came from and returned to without mention. Every meal, every bill, every fucking detail of survival--handled by a teenager who had no one.
And she had been tormenting him.
Laughing at him. Mocking him in front of others, pushing his buttons, testing his limits. All the while he never lashed out. Never broke. Never gave her the satisfaction of seeing him fold.
He had held himself together while she tore at him.
And he'd let her.
No--he'd let her because he had already seen worse. Survived worse. The pain she delivered was nothing compared to the silence of an empty house. Compared to burying his parents. Compared to walking through grief with no one to catch him.
Vanessa's fingers gripped the doorframe tighter.
Had she ever really seen him? Had she ever looked beyond her own ego long enough to wonder who Ethan really was?
She turned and walked away without a word. Her mother didn't notice. Her father kept his gaze on his soup.
She didn't care. She just needed to get out of that room.
That night, Vanessa lay stiffly in bed, her room cloaked in shadows, the only sound the ticking of the clock on her dresser. It was deafening. Each second dragged.
Her eyes burned from holding back tears, though she couldn't say why she wanted to cry. It wasn't sympathy. It was something uglier. Something that clawed at her from the inside.
Guilt.
She stared at the ceiling, the fan turning slowly overhead.
Ethan had no parents.
No aunts, no siblings, no warm dinners waiting when he came home.
Just walls. Just silence. Just responsibility that should never have been his.
And she... she had picked him. Out of everyone, she had chosen him to push around.
It wasn't even about hate. It had been boredom. Arrogance. The need to stay on top, to keep her throne polished and untouchable--and Ethan had been the perfect foil. Too quiet to protest, too clever to be boring, and too calm to ever scream back.
Now she understood why.
He hadn't fought her because he was used to fighting alone.
He didn't play her games because he was surviving something so much deeper.
And still... he never asked for pity. Never told anyone. He just carried it, like it was stitched into his bones.
She turned onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow, her body rigid with the weight of everything unsaid.
Why hadn't he told her?
Why hadn't he said something?
But even as she asked it, she knew the answer.
He didn't owe her anything.
Not his past. Not his pain. Not even the right to know him.
But she wanted to. For the first time--not to control him, not to mess with him--but to understand. To see him for who he really was beneath the silence and the sharp edges.
Vanessa exhaled, long and slow.
She had to talk to him.
Not just to apologize--but because the version of Ethan in her head had been a lie.
And now that the truth had broken through, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
She needed to know him.
And she wasn't sure why... but that scared her most of all.