The car pulled into traffic.
I gave the driver my address and turned to the window.
The interior reeked of roses and musk—Anna Fox's signature perfume. My half-sister. The current Mrs. Gilbert.
The passenger seat was decorated with cute cushions. A custom sign on the dashboard read: Reserved for Annie.
I watched the city lights blur into neon streaks.
"Serena Whitmore." Paul's voice dripped venom. "Seeing you live like this brings me immense joy."
I met his reflection in the rearview mirror. Six years, and his hatred hadn't dimmed.
I looked down at my hands—rough, red, swollen from detergent and cold water.
Paul wasn't finished.
"You used dirty tricks to force that marriage. You nearly killed Annie's child and tried to destroy my company." Paul's voice was devoid of warmth, sharp as a blade. "You schemed so hard, and look at you now. You deserve this."
Pain flared in my wrist and the old fracture in my leg—ghost aches from a lifetime ago. A dry, hollow laugh escaped my lips.
I had loved Paul Gilbert for over twenty years. And this was his final verdict: I deserved it.
He fell silent, eyes fixed on the road. I closed mine, letting the darkness pull me back to a time before the nightmare began.