Chapter 2

Cordelia's POV

The reply came almost at once: a single word. Got it.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and stepped back inside, only to find my parents rushing for the door.

They froze when they saw me. "Something came up at the company," my father said, guilt written all over his face. "We have to deal with it."

I gave a tired nod.

Spencer didn't bother lying. He let out a short, ugly laugh and grabbed my arm hard enough to hurt.

"You're still lying to her? Nothing's wrong at the company. Camille tried to kill herself. She's in the hospital. That's where we're going." His eyes raked over me. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? Look what you've done to her. She's barely a person anymore. Happy now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't you dare." His hand closed around my throat, slamming me back against the wall. "I had every last one of those videos scrubbed from the internet. So how is it that the second you step out of this house, they're everywhere again? You hired people. You paid bots to push them. I had it traced—the burner that bankrolled those accounts links right back to you. Still playing dumb?" His voice cracked. "You took the guy she loved. You took her place. You took her parents. You've already destroyed her life—why can't you just let her breathe?"

My face was turning purple. The edges of the room started to blur.

My mother finally snapped. She grabbed his arm. "Spencer—that's enough. Let's just go see Camille."

He let go of my throat. But he didn't let go of me. He dragged me down the hall by the wrist and shoved me into the basement.

He stood in the doorway and watched me scramble to my feet in the dark—and for one second, something like satisfaction crossed his face. The ugly relief of a debt being paid.

"You made her feel like this," he said. "Now you get to feel it too."

The door slammed shut.

I threw myself against it. "No—Spencer, let me out! Please, I'm scared, please—"

Nothing. Just silence on the other side.

The dark pressed in, thick and suffocating. In a heartbeat, I wasn't in a basement anymore. I was back in every room Camille had ever trapped me in. Her crowd closing the circle. The blinding flashes of their phones. The cruel, echoing laughter. I folded into the darkest corner and screamed until my voice shredded. I scratched at my own arms, feeling absolutely nothing, until the darkness dragged me under.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. And everyone around me was looking at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

"That's her? So young and already that disgusting…"

"No shame at all."

My ears rang. I fumbled for my phone with shaking hands.

The videos were everywhere. Every clip of every time Camille had me humiliated on camera—flooding every feed. And the comments were worse than the footage. These were the videos Julian swore he'd destroyed. He'd promised me no one would ever see them again.

And at the top of it all was a post from Spencer himself. He'd shared the clips with a statement:

"Cordelia Pryce, consumed by jealousy over the life Camille lived—a life she believes should have been hers—has been fabricating and spreading malicious, doctored footage. We will not let blood shield her. We will be pursuing legal action."

The cold started in my fingertips and spread until I couldn't feel my hands.

The door swung open. Spencer stood in the frame, smiling without a trace of warmth. "Done playing dead?" He didn't even glance at the IV in the back of my hand before he ripped off the tape and yanked me up by the arm, dragging me down the hallway to Camille's room.

I shoved the door open—and there was Julian, sitting on the edge of her bed, peeling an apple for her like it was the most natural thing in the world. When he saw me, he froze mid-motion. Something scrambled behind his eyes.

Camille shrank back against her pillows like I was the threat and reached, red-eyed, for his hand.

He pushed her off, frowning, and crossed the room fast to put himself between us, sweeping me behind him with one arm.

"Enough," he said coldly to Spencer. "Whatever Cora owed Camille, she's paid it. What more do you want?"

Spencer's face was ice. "It's not enough. Don't start with me. She could pay with her life and it still wouldn't be enough."

He saw how pale I'd gone and let out a short, harsh breath. "It's already decided anyway. Mom and Dad are clearing Camille's name. So to clean up your mess, you're going to stand up in front of everyone at the gala tonight and confess. You'll admit what you did, drop to your knees, and apologize to her. And honestly? The fact that she just wants an apology and not your head on a platter is her being generous."

My mother watched me, a flicker of conflict crossing her face. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Cora… it's just a public apology tonight. You won't have to kneel, I'll make sure of that. Just say the words. You owe her that much." Her eyes glistened. "And once it's over, your father and I will send you abroad. Somewhere you can start over."

I listened in silence.

Every one of them kept saying I'd pushed Camille over the edge. But her cheeks were flushed and healthy. There wasn't a single mark on her.

I laughed, very quietly. Then I reached down and pulled up the hem of my hospital gown.

Burns—massive, angry, and only half-healed. Sickly green and yellow bruises, overlapping across my skin.

The room went dead silent.

"Even now," I said, "you still think I'm the one who owes her?"