I picked up the shattered name board from the ground, careful not to let the splinters dig into my skin. Even broken, the name Sinclair still glinted under the sunlight.
I turned to Ethan, lifting the board slightly, smirking.
"Now I get it," I said, my voice steady but sharp. "You didn't break this because of a wall. You broke it because you couldn't stand seeing the name Maya Sinclair here, could you?"
He didn't respond. Just stood there, his jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
"You must've thought I'd always be Maya Cole, didn't you?" I went on, letting each word cut through the air between us.
Still, no words from him. Only silence. But silence speaks too, and I could hear the bitterness in his stillness.
"Well, you're wrong," I said, lifting my chin. "I'm proud to be Maya Sinclair. And I'm happy."
He glared at me—an empty, hard stare—and then turned, walking away like he always did when he couldn't control the situation.
Good.
I held the broken board close and walked back into my office.
As I placed it on my desk, I stared at it for a long moment. The splintered letters whispered memories—of the girl who used to cry alone in hospital corridors, of the woman who rebuilt her life piece by piece. I traced my fingers over the cracked 'S' of Sinclair, the name I'd taken back as my own, not because I had to—but because I earned it.
No. I wasn't backing down now.
I worked too hard for this.
Too damn hard.
Ethan is in the past.
Or at least... he needs to stay there.
---
Meanwhile...
At Noah's school, things weren't as calm.
Noah opened his lunchbox with anticipation, only to find it empty. Crumbs. Smudges of jam. Gone.
He already knew who it was. Henry and his gang—again.
Tears welled up, but he held them back. He marched straight to his teacher.
"Ma'am, my lunch was stolen. Henry and his friends took it."
The teacher hesitated. She glanced at Henry, then looked away.
"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding, Noah," she said weakly.
Noah's little fists clenched. This wasn't the first time. They were just afraid—because Henry's family were some great business figures.
So Noah did what most kids wouldn't.
He walked straight to the principal's office.
"Sir," he said politely, "my lunch was stolen by Henry and his friends." He leaned forward and whispered something more into the principal's ear.
When they both returned to the classroom, Henry's face drained of color. His friends looked like ghosts.
"Who stole Noah's pumpkin pie?" the principal asked sternly.
Henry blinked. "Pumpkin pie? N-no, sir, it was a sandwich."
Too late.
The truth slipped from his lips like spilled juice.
Gasps filled the room. Henry flushed with humiliation as the principal gave him a sharp warning in front of everyone.
Once the principal left, Henry sat stiffly in his seat, his face red with embarrassment, his eyes burning with resentment.
---
That evening, when we returned home, Noah didn't say a word about it.
He simply smiled at me, handed me his bag, and asked what was for dinner. Brave, just like his mom.
But across the city, another story was being spun.
Henry, still fuming, complained to Ethan.
"That new kid, Noah... he's arrogant. Thinks he can get me in trouble. He's weird."
Ethan didn't say much. Just listened.
But I knew—some storms don't make noise when they start.
They build slowly.
And when they come… they break more than just name boards.