Chapter 4 [Wren's POV]

Mom wasn't the type to miss details.

So the round tin cookie box in my drawer ended up stuffed with hair ribbons in every color imaginable, though none of them were particularly attractive. "God, these bows are tacky as hell," she'd mutter, fingers working through my hair with practiced efficiency, "but what can you do? All the kids around here wear them. If you're the only one who doesn't, they won't let you play. So you have to wear them."

I nodded, understanding only half of what she meant.

Her rough hands spread ointment over the bruise blooming across my pale forehead with clinical precision. A few days earlier, I'd landed in the ER with a mild concussion—a lump swelling at the back of my skull, a darkening patch above my brow. Fortunately, aside from the bump and the bruise, nothing else was wrong.

"This won't fade for over a week," she said, clicking her tongue in a way that suggested annoyance rather than concern. "Lucky it wasn't worse, I suppose, but still—anyone who sees you will think you came from some household that beats their kids."

"It hurts," I whispered, trying to pull away from those merciless fingers, but Mom simply grabbed my chin and yanked my face back into position.

"Deal with it. It'll heal faster if you let me finish. Just had to happen right before school starts, didn't it?" She paused, and something shifted in her tone. "Though I guess it's not all bad..."

I knew exactly what "good" she was referring to.

Because of my injury, Mrs. Ashford had felt guilty enough to invite us back up. Mom had been complaining nonstop these past few days, but her eyes gleamed with something else entirely. In her calculation, the bump on my head had been worth it.

I said nothing. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, at the bruise spreading across my forehead like rot on overripe fruit—patches of blue and purple that made me look damaged, broken.

I wished it had been worse. Bad enough that I couldn't leave the house, bad enough that I wouldn't have to go to the Ashfords' at all.

But it wasn't. Injuries always healed faster than I hoped they would.

That day at the swing set in the courtyard, Cole had grabbed the swing first. I hadn't backed down, so he shoved me off. I hit the paving stones and ended up in the hospital.

After the incident, Cole's mother Lauren had apologized to my mom, and on the first day of school, she'd invited us over again to make up for the playdate that had ended in the ER.

I attended Kingsley School, a century-old prestigious private institution just down the block. Cole went there too. The tuition was astronomical—I'd gotten in on a reduced-fee slot reserved for building staff children, one or two spots the school offered each year. Mom never missed an opportunity to mention this to anyone who would listen.

First day of school. The moment kindergarten and elementary let out, the scene outside the gates descended into chaos. Parents picking up their children clogged the street, chatting in clusters while cars honked impatiently, unable to move.

The first-day pickup took even longer than usual. To prevent kidnappings, anyone collecting a child had to be pre-registered with the school, and homeroom teachers checked each name on the list before personally handing over each student.

I stood in line, in no hurry whatsoever.

The longer it took to reach the front, the better, because the end of the line meant having to face Cole.

One by one, the girls ahead of me were collected and led away. My heart beat faster with each departure, the line shrinking like sand through an hourglass I couldn't stop.

I counted floor tiles—one, two, three—using the rhythm to keep other thoughts at bay. It didn't work. No matter how high I counted, the golden-haired boy waiting at the corner of Fifth Avenue remained lodged in my mind like a splinter I couldn't extract.

When the other children were picked up, they ran laughing into their parents' arms, some waving drawings they'd made, chattering about their day.

Not me. The moment I spotted Mom in the crowd, dressed head-to-toe in designer labels, my heart sank like a stone.

I knew exactly what those labels were for. They were meant to impress the Ashfords.

The moment she reached me, Mom grabbed my wrist and began pulling me toward Fifth Avenue, her voice bright with excitement that had nothing to do with me.

"Vivian, hurry up! Cole's waiting!"

She sounded as if she were the one going on the playdate.

My face went pale. I fought the urge to cry, to throw a tantrum, to refuse. Tears pooled in my eyes and my lips trembled, but I bit down hard to keep them from escaping.

I was terrified that if I made a scene, all those people crowding the school gates would turn and stare. I couldn't decide which was worse—facing Cole or being watched by a crowd of strangers.

All those eyes, landing on me at once. Just the thought made my skin crawl as if covered in ants.

I'd rather face Cole's blue eyes alone than endure the scrutiny of dozens. At least Cole was only one person.

Ever since the hospital, Cole had become more frightening to me than ghosts in the dark. But Mom didn't know that.

I shook my head slightly, trying to drag my feet and slow us down, but Mom—utterly oblivious to her child's distress—tightened her grip on my thin wrist and plowed through the crowd.

The moment we turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue, I saw Lauren standing there with Cole. As the two mothers greeted each other with enthusiastic warmth, Cole glared at me with eyes full of irritation and contempt.

I shrank back instinctively. Lauren rested her hand on Cole's shoulder and gave him a firm push forward.

"Cole Ashford. Don't you have something to say to Vivian?"

Her voice was gentle but unyielding.

Cole, who'd been resisting with all his strength, stumbled forward as if he might fall, stopping directly in front of me. I gasped and tried to retreat, but Mom yanked me back out.

We stood face-to-face. Cole stared at some point above my head, his jaw tight, and forced out the words like they physically hurt him.

"I'm sorry."

Lauren pressed his shoulder. "And?"

Cole tilted his head and sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"And then?"

He suddenly thrust something he'd been clutching in his hand toward me.

"This is my apology gift."

I flinched and stepped back. Cole's face darkened immediately. Mom grabbed my arm and shoved me forward.

My eyes landed on the object in his hand—a book tied with a pretty silk ribbon.

"Oh..."

My mouth fell open.

It was Unicorn in the Moonlight, the newest volume in my favorite series. My shoulders, which had been hunched up to my ears with tension, lowered slightly. I twisted my fingers together and accepted the book.

"Vivian, what do you say when someone gives you a gift?" Mom poked my back.

"Thank you," I whispered, the words barely audible, a script I'd memorized but didn't feel.

Cole spun around immediately and looked up at Lauren with clear impatience.

"There. Can I go play now? Everyone else got taken to Central Park. I'm the only one stuck here."

But Lauren shook her head firmly.

"No. Today you're staying home and playing with Vivian. Be a gentleman, Cole Ashford."

Cole's face crumpled. He turned back to look at me, and the expression in his eyes was one I'd never forget—as if to say, This is all your fault.

He was the one who'd pushed me into the hospital. Yet somehow, I'd become the one who owed him.

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but as always, my voice failed me at the crucial moment. The words spun in circles inside my head and never made it past my lips.

I lowered my gaze and clutched the unicorn book tightly to my chest.

The book was wonderful. But the person who'd given it to me was the one I feared most in the entire world.

I opened it and closed it, closed it and opened it again. I didn't know what to do with it. If I liked it, it felt like forgiving the boy who'd put me in the hospital. If I rejected it, I'd be giving up something I'd wanted for so long.

An eight-year-old brain couldn't hold contradictions that large. All I felt was a heavy tightness in my chest, like I'd swallowed a lump of sugar that wouldn't dissolve.

On the way home, Mom spent the entire time praising Cole for being so thoughtful, marveling at how expensive the book must have been. She never once asked if I was scared, if I wanted to go back.

I was used to it. In my mother's eyes, Cole's kindness was a gift to our family. What I actually felt about it had never been part of her calculations.

I held the book close and didn't say a word.

When two things that shouldn't coexist happened at the same time, my small mind couldn't process it.

That night, lying in my narrow bed in the basement apartment, I opened the unicorn book.

On the title page, there was a line of crooked handwriting. Cole had written it.

"I already read this one. The ending's not great. But you'll probably like it."

I stared at those words for a long time.

An eight-year-old boy had gone to a bookstore to buy a book he thought I'd like as an apology. He'd even read it first to make sure.

He could have picked anything. But he hadn't.

The hard, cold fear inside me cracked just a little. Wind blew through the gap—cool, but somehow warm at the same time.

I didn't know what to do with that feeling.

I closed the book and placed it beside my pillow. That night, I slept more soundly than I had in days.

I didn't understand then that I'd spend the rest of my life caught between those two things, circling back and forth.

On one side: fear.

On the other: the memory of that crooked line on the title page.

It would take many years—until the night I stood outside his door and sold myself for two hundred fifty thousand dollars—before I finally understood.

Those two things had been the same thing all along.