ZARA
I didn't remember the ride home.
I didn't remember the soft rumble of the car engine, the hum of streetlights passing overhead, or the feel of my heels slipping off my aching feet as I stumbled through the door.
All I remembered was the heaviness.
The kind that sits in your bones.
The kind that wraps around your chest and doesn't let go.
The kind that makes each breath feel like an act of defiance.
The moment my bedroom door shut behind me, I broke.
Like glass—silent at first, then suddenly too loud. Too sharp. Too shattered.
I didn't even make it to my bed. I collapsed just a few steps in, sinking to the floor, my emerald dress pooling around me like the final cruel reminder of what tonight was supposed to be. Of who I was supposed to be.
Beautiful. Loved. Chosen.
Instead, I'd been a joke. A carefully executed punchline in someone else's game.
And it hurt. God, it hurt.
I curled in on myself as sobs wracked through me. It was like my body had been waiting all night for the permission to fall apart. Now, alone in the dark, I couldn't stop it.
I had believed him.
Every touch. Every smile. Every whispered promise. I had let him in, fully, blindly. And now I was paying the price for being the fool.
He had cupped my face like he was going to kiss me. Whispered like I was precious. And then he'd said those words—Don't be silly. You'll never be my type—with a laugh.
A laugh.
The echo of it still stabbed at me, over and over.
I didn't hear the door creak open behind me.
I didn't register the footsteps.
Not until I felt someone sit down beside me.
I flinched, turning sharply, eyes puffy and cheeks damp with tears. My throat burned from crying.
It was Nick.
My stepbrother. The last person I wanted to see right now.
"What do you want?" I croaked, wiping my face quickly, defensively. "You here to say I told you so? Laugh in my face too?"
He didn't say anything at first.
Instead, he gently reached out and pulled me into his chest.
I froze.
"Nick—"
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
My breath caught.
"I'm so sorry, Zara. I should've done more. I should've protected you from all of this. From him." His voice cracked. "From Beatrice. From me not listening when Kaylee tried to warn us all."
I didn't know what to say.
This wasn't the Nick I knew. Not the teasing, cocky guy who always made things worse. Not the guy who dated my best friend and laughed off emotions like they were too much trouble.
This Nick… this one was warm. Steady. Honest.
And in that moment, I let him hold me.
"I feel so stupid," I mumbled into his chest.
"You're not stupid. You're brave. You loved someone and you believed in them. That doesn't make you stupid, Zara. That makes him an asshole."
A sad laugh bubbled in my throat, but it faded too quickly.
"I just… I really thought it was real."
"I know," he said quietly. "So did we. You were glowing, Z. I've never seen you like that."
I leaned back, just far enough to look him in the eye.
"I hated you most days."
He shrugged. "Still doesn't mean I wanted to see you crushed like this."
I blinked through tears, studying him. "Why are you being nice to me?"
He smiled, the soft kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Because you're my sister, whether we like it or not. And you matter. More than that idiot ever will."
The words hit harder than I expected.
No one had said that to me tonight. No one had reminded me that I still mattered. That I was still more than what they did to me.
I reached for the tissue box on my nightstand, blowing my nose ungracefully.
"I probably look like a raccoon," I muttered.
"Like a raccoon who could still deck someone if they crossed her," Nick said. "You'll be okay, Z. You always are."
I nodded slowly, pressing my back against the wall as I tried to catch my breath.
"I don't want to go to school Monday."
"Then don't," he said simply. "Take the week. Hell, take two. Let people talk. Let them realize what they lost when they treated you like a game."
Silence settled between us again. Comfortable this time.
The sobs had stopped. The ache was still there, but quieter. Duller. Like a bruise instead of an open wound.
Nick stood up after a few minutes and pulled the blanket off my bed, draping it gently around me.
"You need anything, I'm next door," he said softly. "Even if you just want someone to punch a pillow with."
I nodded, swallowing thickly.
And just before he left, he paused at the doorway.
"You'll get through this, Zara. And when you do, they'll all wish they never messed with you."
Then he was gone.
I stared at the door for a long moment before turning back to my room—still dim, still silent.
I curled up under the blanket, pulling it tighter around me, and closed my eyes.
Tonight, I lost something I thought was real.
But maybe—just maybe—I found something else too.
A little strength.
And the start of healing