IVY GALANIS' POV
I hear the loud, crashing sound that makes my limbs still from all motion before I smell the smoke.
Oh, shit.
My fingers are still tangled in the bedsheet I am folding when another crash erupts, sharper this time. The sheet slips from my hands and I rush out of my room.
"You useless, good-for-nothing girl!"
Aunt Tessa's voice tears through the apartment like shrapnel.
I freeze right there in the hallway, my heart thumping in my ears. Another crash sounds, sending shards of a broken plate skidding across the floor in front of me. Then — silence.
Cautiously, I creep into the kitchen area. It looks like a hurricane had a mental breakdown in here; cabinet doors are flung open, and a trail of smashed dinnerware litters the floor. The pot on the stove has rice spilling over like a white volcano, its glass lid is nowhere to be found, and the room is filled with steam and a lingering scent of something burnt beyond repair.
Aunt Tessa stands in the middle of it all, her chest heaving, hair looking like a failed salon experiment, fury radiating from her like heat. She picks up a cup and hurls it at the wall without even aiming.
"I — I am sorry," I blurt out, stepping over a patch of broken ceramic. "I was just —"
She whips around so fast I flinch.
"You were just what?" she snaps, eyes fever-bright and darting, similar to a wild animal's. "Wasting my food? Are you so daft that you can't prepare one simple meal without almost burning this place down?"
Stay calm, Ivy. Breathe.
"You said to let it simmer while I fold the laundry," I say quietly. "That is what I did."
"Don't talk back to me!" she shrieks, her face blotching red. "You evil, pathetic child! Living under my roof like a parasitic charity case. God help me so that I do not kill you myself. If only your whore of a mother had agreed to abort you, I would not be dealing with this!"
My pulse plummets at the mention of my mother. Her words slice through me; the taste of bile fills my mouth. I can feel the tears start to form, but I hold myself. I cannot cry. Definitely not in front of this monster. It will only give her more power over me.
"I — I am sorry," I mutter, not because I mean it, but because it is safer. Arguing is pointless. "I really did not mea—"
The slap lands before my sentence even finishes.
It is loud. Sharp. A burst of heat blooms across my cheek, and my head snaps to the side. Tears drop instantly, humiliatingly, but I keep my eyes on the floor.
"You never mean anything," she spits, venom and every form of hate dripping from her voice. "You just ruin everything."
My throat closes as she shoves past me.
"Clean this mess up. Every speck. If I see one shard left, you will regret it."
I hear the door to her room slam shut. And I am alone again. The apartment finally goes quiet, but my body does not feel like mine anymore. I find myself falling to the floor, knees folding under me as I stare blankly ahead, silent tears blurring the mess around me. A piece of glass nicks my thigh, but the sting barely reaches my brain through the fog.
You lied to me, Mum. It does not get better. She still hates me. Even more now that you are gone.
This hurt is too much for me to handle. I really can't do this anymore. My entire body is one long ache begging for a single moment of peace.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my shorts.
I blink, exhale shakily, and pull it out with hands that still won't stay steady.
MayMay: Come over. Now.
That is it. No greeting. No warmth. No familiar emojis. Not even a full sentence. Just an order, but ironically, that is more attention than I have gotten from her in days.
Lately, her replies have been distant and abrupt.
"Busy." "At work." "Later."
Words so dry and hollow they may as well have been automated responses. But whenever I passed her boutique or scrolled past her posts, she looked perfectly fine — glowing even. Happy. Put together as if I were the only one getting this dusted-out side of her, like she did not have the time or energy for me.
Still, I decide to go. I always go.
But not before picking myself off the floor.
The kitchen has to be cleaned before I leave — rebellion is a luxury I can't afford in this house. Not when my safety depends on how silent and obedient I can make myself. I start with the smallest things: covering the pot with another lid, picking up ceramic shards one by one, sweeping the splinters of a life that keeps cutting me, whether I touch it or not.
When I finish, I walk back to my room, throw on a free-size tee and grab my purse.
But then, I make the mistake of looking in the mirror.
My eyes are swollen, glassy and tired. My hair is limp. My face is streaked with the ghost of tears, and Aunt Tessa's hand print is stamped across my cheek like some cruel brand. I tug my hair forward to hide it, but it still burns.
I breathe in and out once. Twice. Again.
Then I leave.
The evening is cool and forgiving. San Francisco's breeze smells like salt and fading sunlight, brushing over my skin with more tenderness than I have felt in months. I walk faster, not because I am eager to see Maya, but because I need distance from that apartment badly. I need air that is not filled with broken glass and threats. I need a reminder that my life is bigger than that apartment and her voice.
The walk feels longer today, even though I am practically speed-walking. My thoughts keep looping, circling back to the slap, the insults, the choking sense of disappointment — both hers and mine.
Maya's house comes into view. A stark contrast to mine. Her father makes sure that everything stays pristine, polished, curated — no peeling paint, no echo of bitterness soaked into the walls. Nothing like mine, where the front gate alone feels like it is about to come off its rusty hinges and crush you whenever you walk past it.
She opens the door before I can even knock properly. She looks freshly showered and mildly annoyed.
"You are late," she says flatly.
"I didn't know there was a time," I answer.
She rolls her eyes, then steps aside for me to enter. Her living room smells like jasmine and fabric softener, like someone who sleeps peacefully at night. The room looks too clean, the kind of clean that comes from compulsive tidying or avoiding your own thoughts.
"I was beginning to think you were ghosting me," she says as she drops onto the couch.
"You haven't exactly been available either," I murmur, placing my purse gently on her glass table.
She scoffs. "Yeah, well — I have been busy. New job, remember?"
"I remember."
For a moment, she is quiet. Then, suddenly she stands and starts pacing like she has been holding something in.
"Why haven't you contacted him yet?" she asks sharply.
My stomach clenches. The lie forms faster than the truth ever could.
"Who?"
She stops pacing. "Don't play stupid, Ivy. Julian Grant. You think I didn't see the card? You said you hadn't called him yet, but you have been acting weird all week."
"I haven't called him," I say too quickly, too calmly. "You are the one who has been acting weird by being so distant."
She narrows her eyes. "Well, maybe I am just confused why someone like him would even look at you twice. You don't seem like his type anyway. Guys like him don't do . . . projects."
"Maya—"
"Don't 'Maya' me," she snaps, her voice rising. "I mean, what would he even see in you? No offense, but you are not the kind of girl who makes heads turn."
The sting is immediate, slicing under my skin.
"I did not ask for his attention," I say as calmly as I can.
"But you liked it, didn't you?" she says, laughing under her breath. "You liked feeling special. Admit it."
"Maya, please stop," I whisper, already feeling the sting behind my eyes.
But she doesn't. Of course, she doesn't.
She scoffs, folding her arms like I am the one being dramatic. "There you go again. Acting like the victim. You always do this, Ivy. You act soft and fragile and innocent and then expect everyone to coddle you."
The words hit harder than any slap, because they don't come from drunken rage or madness — they come from someone who is supposed to love me.
"I never asked you to coddle me, Maya," I manage, voice trembling despite my attempts to keep it steady.
"Please," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "You don't even see how you drain people. You cling. You latch. And now? You have somehow attracted the attention of a man who shouldn't even look in your direction."
Her tone is sharp enough to draw blood. I stare at her — really stare at her — and for the first time, I can see the truth beneath that bubbly surface she loves to parade.
The insecurity. The resentment. The fear that I might have something she wants.
"Maya. . ." My voice breaks, and her eyes flicker — not with guilt, but irritation. "Why would you even say that? I thought we were best friends."
"We are," she snaps. "But I am not delusional."
I swallow hard. "I never said I wanted Julian. I don't even know him that well."
"Liar." Her laugh is sharp, bitter. "You liked that he noticed you. I saw your face that night. God damn it, just admit it."
"Maya."
She looks at me like she is trying to read every insecurity written on my bones and underline the ones that benefit her.
"You liked it," she says again, softer this time, but crueler. "And I hate it."
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Something inside me deflates. Or dies. Maybe both.
"I should go," I say, getting on my feet and picking up my purse, because if I stay a second longer, I will shatter more than I already have.
She does not try to stop me. She just watches me with that strange, unsettling look — a mix of jealousy and something darker. Something possessive.
A look that makes my skin crawl.
Like she is waiting for me to backtrack, to beg, to shrink because that seems to be the role she has always been most comfortable placing me in.
I return to my apartment building in silence.
When I step inside, the bitter smell of wine is the first thing that greets me.
Aunt Tessa is slumped on the couch, limbs thrown carelessly like someone dropped her there. A half-empty wine bottle leans against her thigh. A small container of pills rests loosely in her hand, rattling with every twitch.
Her eyes lift, glassy and unfocused, but somehow they still manage to terrify me.
"I saw the way you looked at me this morning," she slurs, pointing a shaky finger. "Poison. Pure poison in your eyes, just like your useless mother."
"Aunt Tessa—"
"You want me dead?" she snarls, suddenly alert in that unpredictable, feral way. "You think I don't see it? You girls are all the same. Manipulative. Ungrateful. She left me, and now you are trying to finish what she started."
I stay still. Very still. I have learned that movement can be mistaken for provocation.
She grabs the wine bottle and gestures with it. The red liquid sloshes dangerously close to spilling.
"You think you're better than me? Just because you stole him from me?"
What the hell is she even saying?
When she rises to her feet, the bottle slipping from her hand, I instinctively take a step back.
She throws the glass. It misses my face by inches and shatters against the wall behind me.
I don't flinch. I am beyond flinching at this point. It feels like someone blew out all the candles in me at once.
I just quietly walk to my room. Lock the door. Press my forehead against the wood and exhale shakily.
When I finally make it to the bed, I collapse onto it, curling around myself as though I can hug all the hurt back into something manageable.
The silence is deafening.
And in that silence, an ugly truth rises: I cannot stay here anymore and still remain myself. If I stay, I won't make it.
My chest aches. My throat burns. My eyes sting.
I reach beneath my bed with trembling hands and pull out the folder I have been avoiding all week: Julian's contract.
My salvation in paper form. It could completely destroy me.
But at least it is something. Something that is not this never-ending cycle of pain, humiliation and pretending. I run my fingertips over the smooth cover. I don't even open it. I already know what it says.
And for the first time in years, I let myself want something better.
Not love. Not romance.
Just safety. Just peace.
I pick up the pen.
And sign.
Line after line. Letter after letter.
Until my name ties the knot around an entirely different future.
When I finish, the tears come fast and hot — not from fear, not from regret. But from the exhaustion of finally choosing myself.