Chapter 2

Julian stopped comforting Annie and looked at me. "Samantha, things were complicated back then. I had my reasons. If you need anything, anything at all, I'm here to help."

I answered without a trace of emotion. "No, thanks. We have nothing to do with each other anymore. As far as I'm concerned, you're just a customer, and I'm your delivery driver."

I shoved the delivery bag into Nina's arms and walked away.

After all, how many times had I begged Julian for help while I was locked away in prison, being tortured day after day?

I'd begged him to save me, to come see me, to at least give me a chance to explain myself.

But had he ever shown up? Not once.

I'd dragged myself out of that hell and managed to rebuild my life on my own. Why would I still expect anything from the very man who'd put me through hell?

I rode my electric scooter a few blocks away and left it charging in the parking lot of an old apartment complex.

After taking off my helmet, I pulled my mask back into place and headed home on foot, keeping my head down.

But just as I rounded the corner outside the parking lot, I bumped into two people.

The paper shopping bag one of them was carrying slipped from their hand, sending hats and scarves tumbling onto the pavement.

I quickly lowered my head to apologize. "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Oh, don't worry, dear," an older woman said with a gentle laugh. "We weren't paying attention either. We're the ones who should be apologizing."

An elderly man chimed in, his voice just as warm. "That's right. You're not hurt, are you? It's getting dark, so watch your step, okay?"

I froze, then I quickly looked up.

Standing right in front of me were my parents, whom I hadn't seen in five years.

But they didn't recognize me.

Mom bent down to gather the fallen hats and scarves. As she handed them back to me, her gaze lingered briefly on the scar near my eye.

She hesitated for a moment, then offered me another gentle smile. "It's cold out. You'd better get home."

I took the things from her in a daze, barely aware of what I was doing. My throat tightened so badly that I couldn't get a single word out.

They turned and slowly walked away, supporting each other as they went.

Five years had taken their toll. The wrinkles around their eyes had deepened, and their hair was noticeably grayer than I remembered.

Yet for the first time in my life, I'd heard my parents speak to me with such warmth. There had even been a hint of tenderness in their voices.

I couldn't remember how I made it home.

For the first time, I found myself truly alone, and the loneliness weighed heavily on me.

I peeled off my thin delivery uniform, still cold from the night air, and stepped into the cramped bathroom. The mirror was small, but it was big enough to show the scars covering my body.

The car accident had left my face covered in scars. But the small, round scars scattered across my arms and thighs told a different story. They looked like tiny brands burned into my skin.

Each one had been made by a cigarette.

I'd always loved drawing, ever since I was little. Whenever I picked up a paintbrush, I could lose myself in the colors and forget all my troubles.

But Mom was a renowned dancer, and her greatest dream was for me to follow in her footsteps and perform gracefully under the spotlight.

Unfortunately, I had no talent for dancing.

I was stiff, clumsy, and had absolutely no sense of rhythm. Every time she forced me to stretch my legs and practice my routines, the pain was almost unbearable.

My lack of talent became her greatest disappointment.

And that was when the punishments began.

Sometimes, the lit cigarette between her fingers would somehow end up against my skin.

She made it look like an accident, but I knew better. "Maybe that'll teach you! If you can't even stand a little pain, how do you ever succeed in life?"

Then one day, I secretly entered a citywide art competition and won first place.

My teacher personally brought the award certificate to our house. With neighbors and Mom's colleagues congratulating us, Mom had little choice but to put on a smile.

She clearly wasn't happy about it, but for the first time, she gave me something that almost resembled a smile.

After that, she enrolled me in private lessons with a professional art instructor. But there was one condition. I had to win first place in every competition I entered.

"If this is the path you've chosen, you'd better make something of it. Don't you dare embarrass me!"

Those were Mom's exact words.

Then, sometime later, Nina became a regular visitor to our house.