Chapter 4: Writing Her Own Story

Verity barely remembered the drive from her parents’ house. The moment she got home, the tears she had held back finally broke free. She sat still in her car in the driveway, sobbing so hard her chest hurt.

Her phone rang. It was Monica.

“Vee? Where are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

The sound of her best friend’s voice made Verity cry even harder. “Mon… I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.” And just like that, she broke down again.

Thirty minutes later, Monica was pulling her into a tight hug inside a quiet café in Beverly Hills. Monica Rivera was the complete opposite of Verity—bold, fiery, with short curly hair and a hacker’s sharp mind—but she had been Verity’s safe place since college.

“Tell me everything,” Monica said softly, rubbing her back.

Verity poured it all out between broken sobs. The exhibition. The secret club. The photo. Walking in on Kingsley and Judith in their own bed. The confrontation. Her parents choosing Judith again. The divorce papers. The way her father had looked at her like she was the problem.

“I loved him, Mon,” Verity whispered, voice cracking. “I really loved him. Even when he was cold, even when he barely touched me… I still hoped. I thought if I tried harder, he would eventually love me back. But he was giving everything to her. My own sister.”

Monica’s face hardened with anger, but her voice stayed gentle. “You deserved better than that. You deserved so much better. They don’t get to break you, Vee. Not them.”

Verity cried until her eyes were swollen and her throat raw. She cried for the girl who had believed her sister’s lies. She cried for the wife who had waited alone in New York night after night. She cried for the daughter whose own parents had chosen business and Judith over her.

By the time she boarded the evening flight back to New York, she felt hollowed out.

***

The Central Park West penthouse was dark and silent when she arrived. Verity kicked off her shoes and walked straight to the small studio corner she had created near the windows. The city lights glittered below, beautiful and indifferent.

She stood in front of a blank canvas, paintbrush in hand, trying to force herself to work. Nothing came. Her hand trembled too much.

Memories flooded her.

The first time she had met Kingsley at a family dinner years ago—how charming he had seemed, how her heart had fluttered when he smiled at her. She remembered believing Judith when her sister said everything between her and Kingsley was over. “It was just physical, Verity. You can marry him. It’ll be good for all of us.”

She remembered the rare nights Kingsley had come to her bed, always quick, always distant, always leaving her feeling empty. Now she understood why. He had already spent himself with Judith.

And then the image she couldn’t erase: Kingsley thrusting into her sister, holding Judith with a hunger he had never shown her.

Verity screamed.

It tore out of her, raw and broken. She grabbed fistfuls of her long, silky dark brown hair and pulled hard, as if the pain could make everything else disappear.

“I hate you, Kingsley!” she shouted into the empty penthouse. “I hate you for making me believe I mattered. I hate you for using me!”

Her voice cracked. “I hate all of you! Judith… Mom… Dad… How could you do this to me?”

She dropped the paintbrush. It clattered loudly on the floor. Her legs gave out, and she sank to her knees, then curled forward until her forehead touched the cool hardwood. Sobs wracked her body—deep, ugly sobs that shook her shoulders and made it hard to breathe.

How could she have been so stupid?

She had ignored every red flag. Every late night. Every cold touch. Every time Judith had smiled at Kingsley a little too warmly. She had chosen to believe the lies because the truth was too painful.

“I let them hurt me,” she whispered between sniffles. “I let them turn me into this… this pathetic person waiting for scraps.”

The tears kept coming. She stayed on the floor for what felt like hours, curled into herself, letting the pain wash over her completely. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel every bit of it without holding back.

Eventually, the sobs slowed. Her breathing evened out. The penthouse grew quiet again, except for the distant sound of the city below.

Verity slowly pushed herself up. Her face was wet, her eyes puffy, but something inside her had shifted.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. Then she stood up fully, staring out at the glittering Manhattan skyline.

“They don’t deserve my tears,” she said aloud, voice hoarse but steady. “None of them do.”

She walked closer to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass.

“If they think I’ll come crawling back like Dad said, they can keep waiting. I won’t. I’m done being their pawn. I’m done being the second choice.”

Verity turned around and looked at her unfinished paintings, at the life she had tried so hard to build around a man who never truly wanted her.

“I am no longer a child who can be manipulated,” she whispered. “From now on, I will write my own story. I choose what I want. And I take what I deserve.”

A quiet, fierce determination settled deep in her chest. The pain was still there — sharp and heavy — but it no longer controlled her.

She was free.

And despite everything, that freedom didn’t feel terrifying. Instead, it felt powerful. And now, she will not cry over something that wasn't hers to begin with.