Chapter 1

It was the tenth day of our silent war, the fight that started because of a female intern, when I heard his voice on a late-night call-in podcast.

"I have a girlfriend. We've been together eight years. Back in high school, her right hand was broken for saving me. She can never paint again."

"I always told myself I'd take care of her forever. But I'm so tired now."

"She's volatile. Hypersensitive. The new intern is different. She's an artist too."

"When I look at her hands — perfect, unblemished — I feel alive again. I can't keep facing those scarred hands. Every time I do, all I feel is guilt."

The host sighed and offered her advice. "Guilt isn't love. Letting go is a kindness to you both."

"If she's become a burden in your life, tell her directly. Offer her a settlement — enough to cover her medical bills and living expenses — and part ways cleanly."

The next second, a Venmo notification lit up my phone.

Ethan Blake had sent five million dollars.

"Rena. This is enough for your treatments and a fresh start somewhere new. Let's stop torturing each other. Please just let me go."

I accepted the transfer.

Typed back a single word: Okay.

I set my phone down and looked at my right hand.

A jagged scar ran from my wrist to my fingers. In the cold, it ached like a needle driving straight to the bone.

This hand had been useless for eight years. It had kept Ethan chained for eight years.

Now he'd bought his freedom for five million dollars.

---

The next morning, I went to Ethan's office to return his apartment key.

I pushed open the door to his office. He wasn't there.

Stella Sutton was.

The intern he'd described on that podcast.

She was sitting in Ethan's chair, head bowed over a stack of documents.

She looked up at the sound of the door and smiled at me. "Rena, are you looking for Ethan? He's in a meeting."

I didn't answer. I set the key on the most visible corner of his desk.

I turned to leave. Stella called after me. "Rena, Ethan was in a bad mood last night — his stomach was acting up again. Could you maybe—"

"I'm not his mother," I cut her off.

The smile froze on her face. Then it softened again.

She picked up a cup of coffee from the desk and stepped toward me. "Sorry, I overstepped. Don't be upset — have some coffee. I ground the beans myself."

She walked toward me. Her foot caught on something.

She lurched forward.

The scalding coffee poured directly onto my right hand.

The pain was immediate and total.

I hissed through my teeth, instinctively pulling my hand back.

Stella screamed first as though she were the one who'd been burned.

A few drops had landed on her wrist. A small red patch bloomed on her skin.

The office door burst open.

Ethan rushed in.

He didn't look at me once. He went straight to Stella, grabbing her wrist with both hands.

"Where does it hurt? How bad is it?"

Stella's eyes reddened. She shook her head. "I'm fine, Ethan. I wasn't careful — I spilled it on Rena."

Only then did Ethan look at me.

His gaze dropped to my right hand — blistered, scalded red. His brow creased.

There was no concern in his eyes. Only impatience. Only blame.

"Rena. What is wrong with you lately?"

His voice went cold. "Stella is just an intern. If you have a problem with me, take it up with me. Why are you going after her?"

My heart felt scalded too.

I watched him shelter Stella so carefully. She peered out from behind him, and for just a moment, a gleam of satisfaction crossed her face.

I couldn't find a single word to say.

I picked up the key I'd just set down and put it back in my pocket.

Ethan's voice dropped lower, colder. "What now? Using the key as leverage?"

"No," I said. My voice came out raw. "I just figured that key is useless to you now."

"After all, you already changed the locks."

I turned and walked out.

Behind me, Ethan's voice followed, tight with barely contained anger.

"Serena Holt. Are you done?"

I didn't look back. I walked out of that building one step at a time, out of the place that had never let me breathe.

The sunlight outside was brutal. My right hand burned.

Eight years ago, this hand had caught a steel pipe meant for his skull. He'd wept and promised he would never let me get hurt again.

Eight years later, this hand was scalded by a cup of coffee. And he was asking why I was being so unreasonable.

---

I came back to my little flower shop. The familiar green smell of leaves and soil washed over me the moment I stepped inside.

This place was how I survived. It was the only place that was mine.

I pulled an ice pack from the refrigerator and pressed it against my hand.

The sharp pain eased, just a little.

The burning inside my chest only grew.