Chapter 2

The next day.

Bang.

The heavy manor doors burst open.

The moment I step into the courtyard, two burly orderlies clamp down on my arms from both sides.

"Let go of me." I lift my gaze, my eyes pinning Liam down where he stands on the steps.

He wears an expensive cashmere coat today. His eyes hold a sickening kind of pity. "Chloe, you're really sick. The drug trial triggered your underlying bipolar disorder. You were talking absolute nonsense to me on the street yesterday. For the sake of the family's reputation, I have no choice but to check you into a closed psychiatric facility."

Bipolar disorder?

I let out a dry laugh. "Using mental illness to cover up medical malpractice from an illegal drug trial? Liam, when did that walnut-sized quarterback brain of yours learn such high-level PR tactics?"

Stung by the public humiliation, a vein throbs at his temple. "You're completely out of your mind! Take her away!"

"Wait!"

A fake, sweet voice chimes in right on cue.

Mia walks up to me, surrounded by her entourage. She flaunts a gold-stamped acceptance letter in her hand.

"Hey sis, since you're going away for 'treatment,' I guess I'll just have to take your spot at the elite art summer camp." She flashes an innocent smile, but her eyes swim with vicious mockery. "Besides, Liam agrees that a manipulative, emotionally unstable woman like you doesn't even deserve to be in those top-tier circles anyway."

My eyes instantly lock onto that letter.

That is the ticket I earned after three solid months of all-nighters and countless models.

"Give it here." I reach out to grab it.

"What are you doing!" Mia screams in fake terror.

Her two minions immediately step up and shove my shoulders hard.

The trial drug damaged my prefrontal cortex, causing a slight delay in my balance. I stumble backward entirely out of control and crash into the hard ground.

My knees scrape raw instantly. Blood begins to seep through.

Mia smugly loops her arm through Liam's.

I don't break down in tears like they expect me to. Swallowing the sharp pain, I push myself up with cold precision. "Assault and battery. Theft of personal property. You'd better pray that letter brings you some serious luck, Mia."

Seeing Liam instinctively shield Mia behind him, my damaged hippocampus suddenly spasms. A sharp pain drills straight into my temples.

Two years ago, the family trust fund completely collapsed, dragging us to the edge of bankruptcy. My fragile little sister Mia didn't hesitate to drain the very last of our liquid assets, fleeing to Europe with some trust-fund kid to dodge the debt.

It was me who swallowed the vicious gossip of New England high society. I worked three jobs a day and stayed right by Liam's side, dragging him through his darkest days when a scandal got him suspended from the team.

And what did I get for it?

The second the crisis blew over, Liam wrapped his arms around a crying, returning Mia. Then he turned to me and delivered his cold verdict. Chloe, you only stayed with me because you calculated I'd bounce back. A woman like you is too manipulative. You don't understand the first thing about pure love.

The old me cried until I threw up in the middle of the night over those words. But the new me? I just find the sheer absurdity of it hilarious.

The scene shifts abruptly.

I am dragged into the so-called closed psychiatric facility. This place isn't a hospital. It's an off-the-books black site where rich people dump their family stains.

"Roll up your sleeve," the masked nurse orders, her voice completely dead.

A thick needle jams into my vein every single day, right on schedule, drawing vial after vial of blood. They are tracking the metabolic data of that illegal trial drug in my system.

At night, the punishment escalates. Two guards drag me down into the basement's cold-water room.

"Liam gave specific orders. Said we need to teach you how to obey." The guard sneers. The heavy medical rubber hose in his hand lashes across my back without mercy.

Freezing water blasts from a heavy-duty hose, slamming into my body. Crack. The rubber hose strikes again. Fresh bruises bloom across my thighs, arms, and spine like toxic patches of mold.

Does it hurt? Hell yes.

But I bite down hard on my jaw, refusing to utter a single sound of surrender.

My brain, completely stripped of its fear receptors, processes everything with terrifying, hyper-focused clarity. The exact frequency of the blood draws. The guards' shift changes. The camera blind spots in the cold-water room. Every single welt they leave on my skin is hard evidence. Evidence that will lock them all in federal prison.

Late at night, they toss me back into a dark, damp solitary cell.

I lean against the freezing concrete wall. Memories of Liam glitch and flash through my head. The golden smile he gave me after winning a championship game. The ugly snarl on his face in that dark alley when he accused me of manipulating him.

The sweet moments and the vicious fights. The deep love and the crushing injustice.

These damn emotions act like stubborn ghosts refusing to be erased, misfiring erratically across my damaged neural synapses. My brain feels physically tortured by the split. I gasp for air, my fingernails digging so deep into my palms that warm blood pools in my hands.

"So damn stupid."

A low, cold laugh escapes my throat in the dark.

Confusion? Heartbreak? To hell with heartbreak.

I violently wipe away the saline leaking from the corners of my eyes, a purely physiological reaction to the pain. Whatever pathetic, weak emotions are left inside me are currently being pulverized. Crushed into dust by absolute, cold rationality and pure, unadulterated rage.