Chapter 9

LAUREN/ZARA

The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me in darkness.

For a long moment I just stood there, back pressed against the wood, fingers still curled tight from holding myself together.

Beatrice.

I hadn't expected to ever hear that voice again. I didn't expect she and Liam to continue their relationship after my 'death.' But who was I kidding, it's Liam and Beatrice for God's sake. They care about no one but themselves. 

And yet, the second her voice cut through the air downstairs, everything inside me froze. It was like time had collapsed ,years crumbling in on themselves until I was that teenager again, standing in those hallways with her shadow stretching long over me.

I tugged off my gloves with sharp, jerking movements, tossed them onto the dresser, and finally reached up to unhook the mask. The leather came free, and with it, the brittle armor I'd forced onto my face.

My reflection in the mirror stared back at me — pale, tight-lipped, eyes too bright. Not Lauren. Not the cold, unreadable protector I'd built.

Zara.

The girl Beatrice had destroyed.

My breath shook as the memories uncoiled, unrelenting.

The bathroom stall, where I sat with my knees pulled to my chest while laughter echoed outside.

The taunting notes Beatrice slipped into my locker — "How does it feel being the centre of attention now."

The whispers that followed me down every hallway, sticky and cruel.

The photos. The lies. The way Liam turned his head, blind, when I needed him most.

And her smile,always her smile,like poison painted pretty.

I gripped the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. I had thought I'd buried Zara years ago, left her in that coffin of humiliation and pain. I had thought Lauren was stronger, untouchable.

But tonight, when Beatrice walked into that room, the ground cracked beneath me.

Because the truth was, I hadn't buried Zara at all. She was still here. Bruised. Bleeding. Screaming in the back of my skull.

My knees buckled, and I let myself sink onto the edge of the bed, mask dangling from my hands.

I hated that my body remembered her laughter. Hated that my chest still tightened like a girl being cornered in a hallway.

But most of all, I hated that Beatrice could still make me feel small.

I pressed my forehead to my palms, forcing the air in and out of my lungs.

No. I wasn't Zara anymore. I couldn't be.

I was Lauren now.

And Lauren didn't break.

But tonight… God help me, tonight I almost did.

The room was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made the past louder.

Every breath rasped in my chest, shaky, uneven. My hands were trembling where they clutched the mask, the leather biting into my palms.

I hated this. Hated the way my body betrayed me. Hated the way Beatrice's voice ,just the sound of it ,could still split me open after all these years.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, but that only brought the memories sharper. The stares. The laughter. The feeling of being crushed beneath a weight I couldn't shake. The night I decided I was better off disappearing.

And now?

Now she stood in this house, smiling, welcomed by Liam's father. She was untouchable. Wanted. Powerful.

I dragged in a breath, bitter and sharp, and forced my spine straighter.

If after everything they did to me, she could walk into this life happy, her future gilded, then what the hell was I doing here ,still bleeding over scars no one else could see?

Why was I still letting it hurt?

Why was I still giving her that power?

I stared down at the mask in my lap, my reflection distorted in the sheen.

Pathetic, I told myself. You're pathetic.

If Beatrice could live without consequence, if Liam could look at her and pretend the past was dust, then why should I keep drowning in it?

Enough.

I shoved the mask onto the nightstand and lay back, staring at the ceiling until the shadows blurred with the sting in my eyes.

But no matter how hard I scolded myself, no matter how hard I told myself to stop, the ache wouldn't leave.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath all the steel and discipline, Zara still wept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bang jolted me from sleep.

For a split second, I couldn't place where I was — the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of exhaustion still clinging to my limbs. Then my training surged forward.

I moved on instinct. The gun was in my hand before I even touched the ground. My head hurt but there was no time to think about that. 

The hall was dark as I slipped out of the room, each step measured, silent, my pulse sharp and steady in my ears.

And then I saw him.

Liam.

Leaning half against the wall, half against himself, his head tilted back as if the ceiling might steady him. His tie hung loose, shirt unbuttoned, his whole frame collapsing under the weight of too much liquor.

For a heartbeat, I froze. Gun still raised, breath caught. This wasn't an intruder. This wasn't danger.

This was him.

His eyes blinked open at the sound of my footsteps, hazy and unfocused — and then they widened.

Mine widened too but it was too late. I had come downstairs without my mask. 

He saw me.

Not the masked stranger who had dragged him home. Not the shield I'd hidden behind.

Me.

Zara.

The girl he broke. I wanted to run back to my room, pretend it all never happened. Pretend he didn't see me but my feet stayed rooted to the ground. 

Our eyes locked. 

And he swayed forward, almost stumbling, his voice rough and slurred, but unmistakably desperate.

"Zara…"

"Zara…"

His voice slurred, heavy with alcohol, but it still cut through me like glass.

"You're drunk," I muttered, lowering the gun and sliding it behind me. "Go back to your room before someone else sees you like this."

He staggered toward me, eyes locked on my face, confusion and something more tangled inside them. "It is you. I knew it. I'm not crazy."

"You are," I snapped, stepping closer to steady him when he swayed. The smell of whiskey clung to him like a second skin. "And loud. Keep your voice down."

His hand brushed my arm, unsteady, pleading. "You left me… and I—I never stopped….."

"Stop." My tone was ice, but my grip tightened on his elbow, guiding him away. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know it's you," he whispered, softer now, like a secret confession to the dark. "Zara…"

I bit the inside of my cheek, ignoring the burn in my chest as I pulled him along the corridor. His weight leaned into me, heavier with each step.

By the time we reached his room, I was breathless from dragging him. I pushed the door open, intent on tossing him onto the bed and leaving before he could say another word.

And then I froze.

On the wall, framed in silver and lit faintly by the lamp's glow, hung a photograph.

Me.

Not the woman I was now, but the girl I had been. My teenage self — smiling, alive, unbroken — captured forever in a world that no longer existed.

My throat went dry, but his arm slumped heavier over my shoulders, forcing me to move. I laid him on the edge of the bed, tugging the blanket up just to be rid of him.

But before I could pull away, his fingers curled weakly around my wrist. His eyes, hazy and half-closed, found mine.

"Don't leave me again," he whispered. And then he leaned up, clumsy and slow, and pressed his lips to mine.

Tears immediately stung my eyes. 

His lips brushed mine, clumsy, uncoordinated, and reeking faintly of whiskey.

I should've shoved him away immediately. I should've reminded myself of the years I spent buried in their cruelty, the nights I'd cried myself to sleep because of him and Beatrice, the way my name had been dragged through the halls until it wasn't a name anymore but a joke.

But for one split, treacherous second, I didn't.

I lingered.

Because buried under the alcohol and desperation, there was something achingly familiar — the boy who once looked at me like I was the only thing in his world. The boy who ruined me but still haunted me.

And my body remembered what my mind had sworn to forget.

The warmth of him. The ache of wanting what I should never want.

My breath hitched against his mouth — then I snapped back.

I shoved him hard, breaking the contact, wiping my lips as though I could scrub the mistake away. "You're drunk," I hissed, my voice sharp enough to cut stone. "And you don't know what you're doing."

His head fell back onto the pillow, eyelids heavy, but the faintest smile curved at his lips as if he'd won something anyway. "You're real," he mumbled, before slipping into unconsciousness.

I stood there for a moment, my chest rising and falling too fast, the echo of that kiss still burning against me. Then I tore my eyes from the photo of my younger self on his wall, swallowed the lump in my throat, and left the room without another word.

I slammed my door shut behind me, pressing my back to it as if the wood alone could hold back everything clawing at me.

My hand still tingled. My lips still burned. And that damn photo—God, that photo—was seared into my mind.

Why would he keep it? After everything… after I'd disappeared, after they buried the girl they thought they'd broken, why would he have a piece of me frozen on his wall like a shrine?

I pressed my palms to my face, my breath ragged.

I should've pulled away the second he leaned in. I should've been disgusted, furious, anything but what I was. But for one fleeting heartbeat, I let it happen. I let him kiss me, and I kissed him back.

And it wasn't fair.

Because Liam Hunter had destroyed me once. He had stood beside Beatrice while she laughed me into nothing. He had taken my heart and handed it back in shards. He was supposed to be the last person who could ever make me feel again.

And yet… the echo of him was there, stirring something I'd buried so deep I thought it was dead.

I hated myself for it.

I dropped onto the bed, curling forward, running a hand through my hair as if I could rake out the memories clinging like thorns. His drunken whisper repeated in my head: Don't leave me again.

My laugh was hollow, bitter. "As if you ever wanted me to stay," I muttered to the empty room.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the storm inside me to quiet. I had rebuilt myself brick by brick, mask by mask, until I was untouchable. And here I was unraveling over one kiss and a photograph.

Pathetic.

I forced a breath, sat straighter, and scolded myself the way I always did: If after all they did to you, they're still happy and about to be married, why should you still bleed for it? Why should you still dwell in pain?

I buried my face in my hands, but no answer came.