~~~LEAVING TO RESTART.~~~

~~~Sloane’s POV~~~

I do not remember how I got out of the house.

One moment Selena’s last slap is still burning across my face, and people are laughing while the music rises again like nothing happened.

The next moment, I am outside, stumbling down the driveway in bare feet, my robe clutched around my body like it is the only thing holding me together.

Cold night air hits my skin, but I barely feel it.

My chest hurts. Every breath feels like I am inhaling glass. Tears blur everything in front of me. The lights of the mansion behind me look warm and golden, full of music and celebration.

My wedding house.

My house.

No. Not mine anymore.

Their laughter still echoes in my ears. Jophiel kissing Selena. My father said I was never his daughter. My stepmother looked at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe.

I walk until the music disappears behind me, and the city swallows the sound of my crying.

By the time I reach the first bar I see, my entire body is shaking.

I push through the door.

The smell of alcohol and smoke hit me immediately. Loud music plays through cheap speakers and strangers crowd the room.

Nobody here knows me. Nobody here cares about the girl whose wedding photos are probably still trending on every social page in the city tonight.

Perfect.

I slide onto a bar stool.

“More shots,” I say to the bartender, my voice hoarse and raw. “More. Just keep them coming.”

I have already taken several, and none of them are doing anything. My chest still feels like it is caving in. My head is too clear. Too awake. I need to lose my mind completely because if I stay conscious for one more second with these memories, I might actually collapse.

The bartender does not move.

Instead, he crosses his arms and looks at me like I am some drunk girl wasting his time.

“You need to pay for the shots first, ma’am.”

Ma’am.

Like I am some broke stranger.

He is supposed to recognize me. The Winston heiress. The woman whose wedding took over half the city tonight.

But I came here wearing a mask and a robe over lingerie, looking like a disaster.

Good.

I do not want anyone to know who I am.

I pull out my card and slam it on the counter.

“Take all your money and give me the damn drinks,” I snap.

He picks it up and runs it through the machine. The small device hums for a moment.

Then he frowns.

“Insufficient funds,” he says slowly. “And your tab is already three thousand dollars.”

I stare at him.

Then I laugh.

“You must be kidding,” I say. “Do you even know how much money is in that account? That card could buy this entire bar.”

He swallows nervously and tries again.

The machine beeps.

He looks at me with a strange mixture of fear and discomfort.

“Still insufficient funds.”

For a moment, I just stared at him.

Then it hits me. They did not just take my house. They did not just take the companies. They took my accounts, too. Every single one.

A sound rips out of my throat before I can stop it. Something between a laugh and a scream. People around the bar turn to look at me, but I do not care.

The alcohol finally starts hitting my system now. My head spins, and my body feels hot and shaky.

Before tonight, none of the drinks did anything.

Now, they hit me all at once.

God.

I am burning alive.

“Take this. Give her more.”

The voice comes from beside me.

Low. Slightly slurred. Dangerous.

I turn my head slowly.

The man standing there is the most beautiful stranger I have ever seen. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark eyes that look like they are capable of ruining someone’s life and enjoying every second of it.

He tosses a thick stack of cash onto the counter.

“Keep her glass full,” he tells the bartender.

My mind is spinning too fast to process anything.

And a single reckless thought crashes through my head.

Maybe if someone else touches me tonight, the memory of Jophiel touching me will disappear.

Maybe if someone else ruins me first, I will stop feeling like I am breaking.

So I grab the stranger’s shirt and pull him toward me.

“Kiss me,” I whisper.

He looks surprised for half a second.

Then his mouth crashes into mine.

The world disappears after that.

I barely remember leaving the bar. I barely remember the hotel room. Clothes falling to the floor. His hands gripped my waist while anger and grief and alcohol exploded through my veins.

I do not want comfort.

I want destruction.

And he gives it to me.

When I wake up the next morning, sunlight is cutting through the hotel curtains, and my head feels like it might split open.

For a few seconds, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember where I am.

Then, the memories rush back all at once.

The wedding. My stomach twists violently, and I almost puked at the events of last night. Water is running somewhere in the room. I freeze. The stranger was in the bathroom. My chest caved in.

Panic floods my chest so quickly that I nearly choke on it. I scramble out of bed, grabbing the nearest clothes from the floor and pulling them on without looking.

I do not want to see his face.

I do not want to remember the man I used to forget everything.

My hands shake as I grab my bag and rush out of the room before the bathroom door opens.

By the time I reach the street, my breathing is still uneven.

There is only one thought in my mind now.

I need to leave.

Not just the house.

Not just the city.

The country.

I take a taxi straight back to the mansion.

The music is gone now. The decorations are still hanging outside like a cruel reminder of last night. My chest tightens as I walk inside.

I only need one thing.

My documents.

Passport. Certificates. The small lockbox in my room still belongs to me.

I make it halfway up the stairs before I hear her voice.

“Well look who crawled back.”

I freeze.

My stepmother stands at the bottom of the staircase with her arms folded, watching me like I am something disgusting she found on the floor.

“So the little runaway returns,” she says with a smirk.

I turn slowly to face her.

“I just came to get my documents,” I say.

She laughs.

“Oh sweetheart. After everything last night, you still think you are entitled to anything in this house?”

Anger explodes inside me.

“I lived here,” I snap. “You treated me like I was your daughter. You said you loved me like your own.”

Her expression hardens instantly.

“That was called acting,” she says flatly. “You think I ever meant that?”

The words hit like a slap.

“You hugged me. You celebrated my birthdays. You cried when I got my first company.”

“And every second of it made me want to roll my eyes,” she cuts in coldly. “You were always so desperate for love. It was embarrassing.”

My hands curl into fists.

“I treated you like my mother.”

“And I treated you like an investment,” she says. “A stupid, gullible little girl with too much money and not enough brains.”

The insult burns through my chest.

“You’re a useless idiot, Sloane,” she continues. “You let a man rob you blind for five years and didn’t notice a thing. Honestly, watching you last night was the funniest part of this entire plan.”

For a moment, I can not breathe.

Then something inside me goes cold.

I walk upstairs without saying another word, grab the small lockbox hidden in my closet, and shove my passport and documents into my bag.

When I walk back downstairs, she is still standing there, waiting.

“You running away now?” she mocks.

I stop at the door.

Then I looked at her one last time.

“No,” I say quietly.

“I’m leaving.”

And this time, I do not look back.