Chapter 5

His voice was so soft, like he was afraid he'd wake me from a dream:

"I'll stay with you until you recover."

I closed my eyes.

He tucked my blanket in, his movements careful.

Then he ran around handling paperwork, picking up meds, buying hospital supplies—nearly an hour of back-and-forth before he finally sat down, looking like the most responsible boyfriend in the world.

And yet—He was also the one who pushed me into all of this.

I pretended to sleep, but my heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might explode.

All night, Vincent barely closed his eyes.

He kept watch by my bed. Tears fell one drop at a time. He held my hand like he couldn't let go, like if he loosened his grip I'd truly disappear.

"I'm sorry, Claire... this is all my fault," he whispered, choking on the words. "I shouldn't have listened to them. I shouldn't have hurt you."

"Thank God I still have a chance... I'll never hurt you again. You're my life, Claire."

"Just a little more... and I would've lost you. I'm sorry..."

He repeated it over and over, like confession was the rope keeping him from falling.

And I lay in the dark, fingers icy, terrifyingly awake.

Every tear he cried couldn't change one fact:

From start to finish, me and my baby were just levels in that folder called "Progress."

Now it was my turn to make him taste how was lose like.

I knew he was hurting because I was hurt.

Last time, he even told Sienna and the others: pranks are pranks, don't touch my body.

A softness flickered in me, and I hated myself for it.

Vincent Jones only had one principle:

Sienna White.

This was prank 99. I was still just a toy to please her.

And once again, he had allowed it.

Who could guarantee that on prank 100, he wouldn't keep being the accomplice who hurt me?

The next morning, while Vincent went downstairs to buy breakfast, I called my dad and told him to send people for me, to trigger the "plane crash" plan.

The moment I hung up, my hospital room door swung open.

Sienna came in.

She looked like a winner.

Her smile was bright, like a friend here to visit a patient, but in truth she was an executioner here to read a sentence.

"Claire," she said my name, gentle enough to make my skin crawl. "Making you break your leg? That was part of my plan—prank 99."

I stared at her, my gaze sharp as a blade.

Sienna looked me up and down, then pulled her shawl a little tighter over her shoulders, like she was admiring a toy she'd broken.

"Prank 100 is at Keystone Invitational." Her smile deepened. "You'll be labeled a plagiarist."

My fingertips went numb.

"Your game, Ashes?" she said like it was an ad she was bored of. "Every dungeon, every version, every mechanics document —Vincent sent it all to me."

Then she added, slow and cruel:

"He already bribed the committee. Your submission time will always be three minutes later than mine. Just wait to get nailed to the wall of shame."

Keystone Invitational—the most authoritative game design competition in the U.S. industry.

I'd prepared for it for two years, burning through every drop of my passion and pride.

And the final version of Ashes was in my computer.

Rage slammed into my skull. I raised my hand and slapped her hard.

"Stealing my work. Desiring my boyfriend." My voice shook, but I bit each word out clean. "Sienna, you'll only ever deserve secondhand goods for the rest of your life—and you don't even mind if they're dirty."

Sienna's brows shot up. Her face twisted ugly in an instant.

She grabbed my wrist and wrenched. Pain ripped through me. She lifted her hand to slap me back—But the slap never landed.

"What are you doing?" A voice, burning with fury, exploded from the doorway.

Vincent was back.