I don’t even remember how I got out of that house.

 

All I had was one single, sharp conclusion echoing through my head—

 

I must not be their daughter.

 

And I had to find out the truth.

 

It was the only explanation I could cling to—because otherwise, how could I live with the idea that my own parents were capable of being this cruel?

 

The moment I got back to my apartment, I collapsed into bed. I didn’t move until my phone started ringing.

 

It was Ivanna.

 

I didn’t wait for her to ask anything—I just blurted out everything my parents had done.

 

And, yes… I also told her about the one-night stand.

 

I left out the proposal.

 

Ivanna let out a scream so high-pitched it could probably shatter glass and murder all the plants in my apartment.

 

“You had a one-night stand?! And you didn’t FaceTime me live from the scene?!”

 

I switched the phone to speaker and tossed it onto the couch, slumping back into the cushions with my eyes closed.

 

Her voice kept going like fireworks:

 

“Who is he? What mythological realm did this man descend from? Are you telling me you actually, finally, let Rhys go? Don’t tell me—he looks like Michelangelo carved him, or…”

 

She paused. I could picture her sitting up on her sofa, wrapped in a blanket, making that infamous, exaggerated gesture.

 

“A wand of unnatural proportions?”

 

“You are—so. Incredibly. Annoying,” I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face.

 

“You’re dodging the topic,” she snapped back instantly.

 

Yes.

 

Yes, I was.

 

I never hid things from Ivanna. Not even the ugliest parts of my story.

 

Not even… last night.

 

I slept with a man whose last name I couldn’t remember.

 

Just to peel Rhys’s residue off my skin—for a minute, an hour, a night—whatever it took to feel free again.

 

Was it liberating?

 

No.

 

It was revenge, escape, a cocktail of both with a guilt chaser.

 

But Ivanna wasn’t here to judge me.

 

She was here to douse the flames—even if it was only through the tiny speaker in my living room.

 

“At least tell me this,” she said suddenly, her voice lowering, softer. “Was he hot? Like, close-your-eyes-and-you-can-still-see-his-brow-bone hot?”

 

“…Hot,” I muttered into the pillow.

 

“And when he touched you… did it feel like he knew you were something rare? Like you were a limited edition made just for him?”

 

I clenched my jaw. Didn’t answer.

 

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

 

“You actually slept with someone who was worth it.”

 

I kept my eyes closed, and for some reason, that one sentence felt like a suture pulled gently over the tear in my chest.

 

My parents’ voices still echoed in my head—sharp, suffocating, like burnt toast you couldn’t scrape off.

 

The way they’d discarded me—so clinical, so composed. Like tossing out a baby bottle that had outlived its use.

 

“Mira,” her voice shifted again, quieter, steadier. “You can do anything. Screw up, break down, love the wrong person—it’s all fine. But you can’t carry all of this alone anymore.”

 

I said nothing.

 

Just pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my face into them.

 

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Wherever you go. Whatever you do. I’m here.”

 

I didn’t cry.

 

I swear I didn’t.

 

I just clenched my jaw, shut my eyes tighter, and swallowed the words thank you like a pill I couldn’t quite get down.

 

I glanced at the time.

 

I had to go to work.

 

Now that my parents had made it clear I was disposable, my job was the one thing I couldn’t afford to screw up.

 

Of course, they believed I worked as a barista.

 

They’d forbidden me from having a corporate job.

 

In their minds, once married, I should be home full-time—a perfect little housewife.

 

So I never told them what I really did.

 

Dragging my exhausted body out the door, I headed to Ground & Pound—my workplace.

 

The name? Chosen because the owner figured it had no real brand potential. Was it a sexy coffee shop? An underground MMA gym? Who knew? Who cared?