The Forgetting Order: 600 Days of Atonement

I chased Sterling for four years.

I had no shame. I had no dignity.

I was, as they whispered in the high-society salons of the Upper East Side, obsessed.

He grew tired of the noise.

With a single phone call, he exerted his pressure. My family, terrified of losing their connection to his capital, shipped me off.

"I don't care what methods you use," Sterling had told them, his voice cold enough to freeze the Hudson. "Send her to the Swiss clinic. The best one. I want her treated, not punished. Just make sure she never appears in front of me again."

The "school" deep in the Utah Desert didn't use textbooks. They used chemical restraints, "The Reflection Suite," and "Attack Therapy."

It worked. God, did it work.

I forgot what it felt like to love him.

Eventually, the memories of his faceonce my muse, my entire worldblurred into static.

When he finally signed the papers allowing my return to New York, I was no longer the girl who collected his discarded cigarette packs as art. I was a ghost.

I learned to avoid the places he frequented.

"You can't afford to offend him, Seraphina," my mother, Catherine, warned me. "That man is a king. You are... well, you are you."

But fate has a cruel sense of humor.

I saw him one night, standing next to my sister, Victoria, outside a gala. The composition was perfect. The symmetry was undeniable.

He saw me. His eyes were dark, violent, predatory.

I didn't run towards him. I shrank into the shadows of the brick wall, my body trembling so hard I could barely speak.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, shrinking deeper into the shadows. "I... I didn't mean to stare. You just... you look right together. Perfect. Like a painting. I swear, I'm not obsessing."

I didn't understand why Sterlingthe man who prided himself on absolute, icy rationalitylooked at me then as if I had just stabbed him.

His pupils dilated. His hands shook.

Chapter 1

A black SUV idles at the service entrance of the townhouse. The door slides open.

I stumble out, clutching a plastic bag containing my discharge papers. The driver doesn't help me. He just speeds away, leaving me in the exhaust fumes.

I stare at the heavy iron gate. My hands tremble.

"Rule Number One," I whisper to the cold air, reciting the lesson drilled into me for three years. "Be invisible. Be compliant. Exist without taking up space."

I take a breath and punch in the code. It hasn't changed. Neither have I. I'm just... quieter.

Since coming back from Utah, my brain feels like its packed with wet cotton.

I spend most of my days sleeping. Its not a choice; its a biological imperative. My body is still processing the cocktail of sedatives they fed me for three years.

"I think something is wrong with me," I whispered one morning, staring at my trembling hands.

Catherine doesn't look up from her iPad. She takes a sip of her tea, perfectly poised. "Don't be dramatic, Seraphina. Youve always been a little lazy. A 'space cadet,' remember? Youre not like Victoria. She has discipline."

"But I"

"It doesn't matter," she cuts me off, her tone smooth and dismissive. "Everyones constitution is different. If youre tired, go sleep. Just stay out of the way."

Gaslighting. The word floated in my mind, unmoored. I pushed it away.

I went to the kitchen. My throat feels like it's filled with sandXerostomia, a side effect of the high-dose antipsychotics.

I don't need food; I need water. I grab a crystal tumbler. I turn on the tap, gulping the water down desperately, spilling it down my chin.

I need to wake up. I needed to feel something other than this suffocating gray fog. I tap my temple, trying to jumpstart my synapses.

Then, the heavy oak front doors swung open.

"Miss Victoria is home," Geoffrey, the butler, announced, his tone clipped. "Mr. Sterling has arrived with her. They are expecting dinner to be served immediately."

The atmosphere in the foyer shifted instantly.

My father, William, practically leaps from his armchair, his face arranging itself into a mask of eager servitude. Catherine smooths her dress, her eyes lighting up with the avarice of a social climber spotting a golden ladder.

They rush to the door.

Catherine paused, looking back at me. Her expression hardened. "Seraphina."

I nodded mechanically. "I know. Sterling doesn't like me."

My voice was flat. "Victorias engagement is important. Ill go upstairs. I need to sleep anyway."

"Good girl."

Catherine offers a brief, satisfied smilethe kind you give a well-trained dogand turns away.

I start toward the service stairs, the invisible path for the invisible daughter. But the thirst was unbearable.

I turn back. Just for a second.

That was my mistake.

Across the expanse of the marble foyer, through the archway, my eyes locked with his.

Sterling.

He stood there in a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than my life was worth. He radiated that terrifying, cold powerthe kind that sucked the air out of the room.

He wasn't just rich; he was the apex predator of New York.

He looked at me. His gaze was disgusted, icy.

Trigger.

My amygdala hijacked my brain. I didn't see a man; I saw the Reflection Suite. I saw the restraints.

I forgot the water. I forgot my dignity.

I turn and scramble up the stairs, my bare feet slipping on the polished wood. I run like an animal fleeing a forest fire.

I burst into my room, locked the door, and then, panting heavily, I drag my heavy writing desk across the floor to barricade it.

Safe. I am safe. I am invisible.

I curl up in the corner of the room, hugging my knees. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Why?

Why does the sight of him make my bile rise?

"It's his aura," Catherine had told me once. "Sterling is a natural ruler. Lesser people feel pressured around him. Especially someone... fragile, like you."

"He doesn't have patience for stupidity, Seraphina," she had said, applying her lipstick. "He likes excellence. He likes Victoria."

"Think about itif we secure this marriage, the family is set for three lifetimes. Don't be the burden that ruins this."

I am not a burden. I am compliant.

I pressed my forehead against my knees. The townhouse was silent, perfect, suffocating.

But downstairs, I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of laughter. Victorias bright, charming laugh. Williams obsequious chuckle.

They were happy. They were perfect.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me, praying that when I woke up, the world would finally be quiet.

Chapter 2

When I wake up, the sky outside is the color of a fresh bruisepurple and fading into black.

It is evening. The silence in the townhouse is heavy, expensive.

Sterling must be gone.

Hunger. Its a physical pain, gnawing at my stomach lining. But worse is the thirst. The drugs dry me out from the inside.

I slip out of my room. Im wearing a white vintage nightgown that hangs off my skeletal frame like a shroud. I dont bother with slippers.

The marble stairs are ice-cold against my bare feet. It helps. The cold makes me feel... real.

I reach the sink, my hands shaking. My throat feels like it's filled with sand. I grab a crystal tumbler. I turn on the tap, gulping the water down desperately.

Click.

The sound of the study door opening echoes like a gunshot.

I freeze.

Sterling enters. The temperature in the foyer plummets. He doesn't need to speak.

His presence alone consumes the oxygen, leaving none for the rest of us.

He is still wearing his suit, a sharp, charcoal masterpiece that fits him with military precision. Under the warm hallway lights, his features look carved from granite.

He stands across the vast expanse of the formal living room. His gazedetached, clinicallocks onto me. His thin lips press into a flat line.

Danger.

The air in the room instantly grows heavy. Its not just awkwardness; its the pressure of a predator entering the enclosure.

The crystal tumbler slips from my hand. SHATTER.

The sound is deafening.

I drop. Not to hide, but to submit. My knees hit the hard marble with a sickening thud.

My hands fly up to cover the back of my neckthe "Safety Position" drilled into us during lock-downs.

"I am safe," I whisper frantically, my voice trembling. "I am not a danger. Please don't send me to the Reflection Suite. I'm compliant. I'm compliant."

"Sterling!"

Victorias voice floats down the stairs, light and airy. She bounds into the room, a vision in silk. She wraps her arm around his bicep, leaning into him.

"Leaving so soon?" She pouts, tilting her head. "You haven't even seen the new Vogue campaign proofs. They just came in. Stay for dinner?"

Victoria is usually the Ice Queenpoised, untouchable. But right now? She is soft. She is the perfect, doting fiance.

She is a beautiful, colorful bird singing a song for her owner.

Sterling doesn't answer her.

His eyes are still fixed on the floor. On the trembling ball of white fabric kneeling amidst broken glass.

Victorias smile falters. She follows his gaze, her expression tightening with annoyance. She bites her lip.

"If you're busy, we can do it another time," she says, her voice dropping the sweetness. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

Sterling doesn't move.

The silence stretches, taut as a piano wire. He ignores her completely.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is a low, rich baritone that vibrates through the floorboards.

"Fine. I'll stay for dinner."

Victoria and my father, who had just entered the room, freeze. Shock flashes across their faces.

Sterlings lips curve into a faint, mocking smirk.

"What are you afraid of?" He glances at them, his eyes empty. "She forgot everything, didn't she? That's what the doctors said."

He walks toward me.

I hear the heavy, rhythmic thud of his dress shoes getting closer. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He stops right in front of me.

Slowly, Sterling crouches down. The expensive fabric of his trousers stretches over powerful thighs. He invades my sanctuary.

"Seraphina."

His voice is calm, but it carries the weight of a verdict.

"Do you still know who I am?"

I slowly lift my eyes. I see his face.

Flashback. The glaring lights. The group therapy circle. The yelling. "Admit youre obsessed! Admit youre a stalker! Admit it so we can fix you!"

I look down immediately. I nod slowly.

Then, terror explodes in my chest.

Wrong answer.

If I know him, I am obsessed. If I am obsessed, I am sick. If I am sick, they take me to the Reflection Suite.

My nerves scream. I feel phantom restraints digging into my wrists. I feel the needle.

I let out a strangled, high-pitched yelp.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head so hard my neck cracks.

"No! I don't!"

My voice is a broken rasp, desperate and pathetic.

I curl tighter into a ball, shielding my head with my hands.

"I don't know you! I promise! I'm cured! Please, I don't know who you are!"

Chapter 3

The dining room feels like a mausoleum.

The only sounds are the scrape of silver against fine china and the heavy, suffocating tick of the grandfather clock.

William and Catherine are trying too hard. My father laughs too loudly at things that arent funny. My mother keeps signaling Geoffrey to refill wine glasses that are still full.

Sterling says nothing.

He eats with surgical precision. He cuts his steak, chews, swallows. He is a machine fueled by expensive protein and indifference.

I dont eat. I push a single green pea around my plate, trying to make myself smaller. Be invisible. Be part of the furniture.

Victoria sits opposite me. She isn't eating either. Shes staring at me, a cruel glint in her eyes. Shes bored, and when Victoria is bored, she plays games.

"Seraphina," Victoria says suddenly, her voice slicing through the tension.

I flinch. My fork clatters against the porcelain.

"Why don't you show Sterling your little... project?" She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

My heart stops. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"The metal box, silly." She turns to Sterling, looking at him with feigned sympathy. "Its a shrine. She hasn't let go of her... delusions. It's actually quite sad."

Sterling stops chewing. He looks at me. His gaze is heavy, expecting entertainment.

"Go get it," Catherine snaps, eager to please the guest, even if she doesn't understand the game.

Compliance.

My body moves before my mind does. I stand up, legs shaking, and run upstairs.

I grab the rusted tin box from the back of my closet. It used to be my most precinct possession. Now, it feels like holding a bomb.

I return to the dining room. The silence is deafening.

I place the box on the table. My hands tremble as I lift the lid.

Its not just trash. Its art. Or... it was art.

Inside lies a collage I spent two years making before they sent me away. Its a portrait of Sterling.

But not drawn with ink.

Its constructed from the debris of his life that I collected. The silver foil from his discarded cigarette packs forms the shadows of his jawline. Dried, blackened rose petals from a bouquet he once threw in a bin form his lips. Burnt matchsticks create the texture of his hair.

It is brilliant. It is obsessive. It is terrifying.

"I found this," I whisper, staring at the floor. "It was in my closet. I... I think it belongs to you?"

Sterling stares into the box.

For a second, the air leaves the room. He sees the foil. He sees the matches. He realizes what this isgarbage repurposed into worship.

His face darkens. The disgust is immediate and visceral.

"Is this a joke?" His voice is low, dangerous. "You kept my trash?"

"It's mixed media," I say automatically, a ghost of my old self speaking. Then I catch myself. "I mean... it's evidence. Of the sickness."

Victoria lets out a soft, mocking laugh. "See? She's a regular artist. A stalker artist."

Sterling stands up. He looks at the box like it contains a severed head.

"Get rid of it," he orders. "Its repulsive."

The Command.

I nod. "Yes, Sir."

I pick up the box. I walk past the table, past my horrified parents, head bowed, slipping through the swinging door into the butler's pantry.

Its a narrow, sterile space hidden behind the dining roomwhere the help goes to be invisible.

I walk to the industrial steel sink.

I turn on the faucet. The water rushes out.

I dump the contents into the sink. The dried petals swirl down the drain. But the foil and the matches float.

I reach in, ignoring the slime, and shove them deep into the black rubber opening. I force them down until my fingers brush the cold metal blades.

Then, I flip the switch.

CRUNCH.

The machine chokes. It makes a horrific, grinding sound as it tears through the metal and wood, vibrating the entire countertop.

I stand there, watching it happen. My face is blank. My pulse is steady.

I am killing her.

I am killing the girl who loved him.

The noise stops. I turn off the water.

The room is dead silent.

I turn back to face them. I hold up the empty, rusted tin box.

"It's gone," I say. My voice is devoid of emotion. "It's all gone."

Sterling is standing by his chair. He is staring at me, his pupils blown wide. He looks... shaken.

He expected me to cry. He expected me to beg to keep it. He didn't expect me to shred my soul in a kitchen sink without blinking.

But he recovers quickly. The mask of indifference slides back into place.

He sneers.

"Dramatic," he says, buttoning his suit jacket. "You're a better actress than I remember. Next time, spare me the performance."

He turns and walks out.

The front door slams.

I stand in the kitchen, gripping the empty metal box until my knuckles turn white.

I survived.

Chapter 4

The heavy front door clicks shut, sealing Sterling out and locking us in.

The silence lasts exactly three seconds.

Then, the performance begins.

Victoria collapses onto the velvet ottoman in the foyer, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake with violent, theatrical sobs.

"How could she?" Victoria gasped, her voice trembling with practiced fragility. "She humiliated me. She humiliated us."

Williams face turned a mottled shade of crimson. He didn't speak. He marches toward me, his face twisted in silent, aristocratic fury.

"You are a disgrace," he hissed.

I flinch violently, scrambling backward to escape his looming shadow. My heel caught on the Persian rug. I fell hard.

The back of my head cracked against the sharp marble corner of the console table.

A high-pitched ringing exploded in my ears. Eeeeeeeee.

I slump to the floor, dazed. My vision swam. A warm, sticky liquid trickled down my forehead, stinging as it seeped into my left eye. Blood.

"William!"

Catherine shrieks, but she didn't move to help me. She rushed to comfort Victoria. "Oh, my poor baby. Shh, its okay."

Then, she turns her gaze on me. Her eyes were cold, hard flints of disappointment.

"Don't blame your father, Seraphina," she spat. "You earned that. You have disappointed us beyond words tonight."

I touched my forehead. My fingers came away red.

"I..." I tried to speak, but my jaw ached. "I thought he had left. I didn't mean to"

"You didn't mean to?" Victoria suddenly stands up, the tears vanishing instantly.

She doesn't touch me. She recoils, pressing her back against the wall as if I were a contagious disease. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide with feigned terror.

"Get her away from me!" she shrieked, looking at William. "Dad, she's having an episode! She's going to hurt me! Do something!"

She pointed at mebleeding, cowering on the floor.

"...clutching a box of garbage like a drug-addled little stray," she hissed, her lip curling in disgust. "You look like a junkie, Seraphina. You're polluting my air."

"Do you know who Sterling is? Do you know who you are? You are a liability, Seraphina. You are the depreciation on this family's balance sheet."

"I wasn't..." I choked on a sob.

"You nearly cost me everything!" Victoria sneered. "If he leaves me because he thinks insanity runs in our bloodline, I will destroy you."

She turned to our parents, her chest heaving. "I can't do this. I don't feel safe with her here. She's unstable."

She turns and marches toward the door leading to the garage.

"Victoria! Wait!" Catherine panicked, chasing after the Golden Child. "Where are you going?"

Victoria paused, hand on the doorknob, looking back with a sneer. "To a hotel. Somewhere safe."

The engine of her Porsche roared to life a moment later.

William kicks the wall in frustration. "Goddammit!"

The air in the foyer was suffocating. I wiped the blood from my eye, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. Conflict. Danger. Escape.

"I'll go," I whispered.

My voice was barely audible.

Catherine turns back to me, her eyebrows raised. "What?"

"I'll leave," I said, my voice shaking. "I'll go stay at a hotel. I... I used to do it all the time when I escaped the clinic. I know how to disappear."

It was a pathetic offer. A desperate attempt to de-escalate the violence by removing the trigger: me.

Catherine stared at me for a long moment. She looked at the blood on the floor. She looked at the door where her "investment"Victoriahad just fled.

She made a decision.

"You're right," she said coldly. "You should go. Until your sister calms down, you are not welcome here."

She walks over to the side table where her purse sat. She pulls out a crisp 0-000 bill and throws it at me.

It fluttered down like a dead leaf, landing in the pool of my blood.

"Mom?" I looked at the money, confused. "My cards? My ID?"

"Confiscated," she said, crossing her arms. "You aren't responsible enough for credit cards. And you don't need ID to sleep on a park bench or a cheap motel. Consider this a lesson in gratitude."

"But... it's raining," I whispered.

Outside, a storm had broken. Thunder rattled the windowpanes.

"Then you better hurry," William growls, opening the front door. The wind howled, spraying rain onto the expensive marble.

I grab the 0-000 bill. I didn't pack a bag.

But as I turn, slide my cracked iPhonethe one Id hidden under the loose floorboardinto my waistband. It has no SIM card, only Wi-Fi. But it holds the photos. It holds the evidence that I exist.

Compliance.

I step out into the dark, freezing rain. As the heavy door slams shut behind me, locking with a definitive click, I didn't feel sad.

I take a deep breath of the cold, wet air.

For the first time in three years, no one was watching me.

I was cold. I was bleeding. I was homeless.

But I was free.

Chapter 5

The hundred dollars lasts exactly one night at a flophouse in the Bronx. For the next six days, I slept on the N train. I washed my face in McDonald's bathrooms. I waited for the summons.

I stand in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. The fluorescent bulb buzzes like a dying fly.

I dab a wet paper towel against my forehead. The white tissue turns crimson instantly.

The cut is deep. A jagged line where the corner of the table met my skull. A single Band-Aid won't cover this; I need butterfly closures, maybe stitches.

But I can't leave.

Its 2:00 AM. Outside this door is the city. The noise. The people. The chaos.

Fear. It paralyzes my legs.

If I go out, I might do something wrong. I might be seen. I might get "sent back."

So, I press the paper towel harder against the wound. The pain is sharp, biting. It cuts through the chemical fog that usually wraps my brain in cotton.

For the first time in months, I cant sleep. The throbbing in my head is a metronome keeping me awake.

Throb. Throb. Throb.

I stare at my reflection. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. Eyes that look like broken glass.

Why was I sent away?

The memories are slippery. They dissolve when I try to touch them.

I remember Victoria. She was always the sun. Bright. Burning. Perfect.

She was a child model. Then an Ivy League scholar. Then a social media icon. She walks into a room, and the world tilts toward her gravity.

And me? Im just the shadow she casts.

We have the same nose, the same lips. But on her, they look regal. On me, they look... wrong. Defective.

I understand why William and Catherine chose her. Its simple economics. You invest in the asset that yields returns. You discard the liability.

Rationalization.

"The pills will make you better, Seraphina," Catherines voice echoes in my memory, tinny and distant over the phone line while I sat in the solitary confinement cell in Utah. "They will fix your brain. They will make you smart like your sister."

I swallowed them. Handfuls of blue and orange capsules. I swallowed them until I couldn't remember my own name.

I look at the blood drying on my temple.

Am I smarter?

No.

I feel slower. My thoughts wade through molasses. I drop things. I stutter. I forget words.

A tear slides down my cheek, stinging the open wound.

Maybe the treatment failed. Maybe thats why they hate me. Not because Im "obsessed," but because even after three years of torture... Im still just broken.

I am a bad investment.

I slide down the bathroom wall to the cold tile floor. I pull my knees to my chest.

I don't need a doctor. I need to disappear.

I close my eyes and wait for the sun to rise, praying the bleeding stops on its own.

Chapter 6

Daylight is for wandering. Darkness is for hiding.

I spend my days walking the streets of Manhattan, blending in with the tourists and the homeless. At night, I retreat to the hotel room, locking the deadbolt three times.

I stay for a week.

I wait for the summons. Come home, Seraphina. Youve been punished enough.

It never comes.

My cash runs out on Tuesday. I skip lunch. By Wednesday, I skip dinner.

I try to text Catherine.

Message Not Delivered.

The little red exclamation point mocks me. She blocked me. I am cut off.

Exhaustion sets in. Its a physical weight, pressing on my shoulders. I sit in the hotel lobby, tucked away in a corner behind a large potted fern, staring at the marble floor.

Im dizzy. The hunger is making my vision swim, adding a soft, hazy filter to the world.

Then, I see them.

Through the glass doors of the hotels indoor atrium garden.

Sterling and Victoria.

They are breathtaking.

Sterling stands with his back to me, but I know those shoulders. Broad, tense, powerful. He is wearing a navy suit that screams power.

Victoria stands facing him, looking up with a dazzling, adoration-filled smile. She is wearing a cream-colored silk dress that hugs every curve.

They look like statues. Like royalty.

Gods and Monsters.

The artist in methe part I thought was deadtwitches. The composition is perfect. The lighting, the contrast between his dark suit and her light dress, the way the greenery frames them.

My brain is foggy, detached. I don't think; I just react.

I lift my shattered phone. I frame the shot.

CLICK.

The sound of the shutter is like a gunshot in the quiet lobby.

I forget the flash. A burst of white light tears through the atrium.

Sterling spins around instantly.

His jaw is set tight. His eyes scan the lobby like a predator seeking a threat. They lock onto me.

Terror.

My blood turns to ice.

He starts walking toward me. Fast. Aggressive. Victoria follows, her face twisting from angelic to annoyed.

I want to run. But my legs are jelly. I can only sit there, trembling, clutching the phone like a lifeline.

Sterling looms over me. He blocks out the light.

"Seraphina," he says. His voice is a low growl. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I look at Victoria. She crosses her arms, looking down at me with pure disgust. I shrink into the chair.

Sterling holds out his hand. Palm up. Expectant.

"Phone. Now."

I don't argue. I place the device in his hand. My fingers brush his palm, and I flinch back as if burned.

He taps the screen. He enters the six-digit passcode without hesitating.

How?

I type the numbers blindly. 0-5-0-3-1-8. For a second, I stare at them, confused. Then, the fog lifts. May 3rd, 2018. The night on the bridge.

He pulls up the photo. His eyes narrow dangerously.

"Stalking again?" He turns the screen to face me. "Why did you take this? Planning to sell it to the tabloids? Trying to ruin Victorias image?"

"No," I whisper. I shake my head violently. "No, I swear."

Flashback. The flashbulbs. The red carpet. Victoria screaming at me later. "You ruined my moment! You wore that dress to upstage me! You want everyone to look at you!"

I didn't. I just wanted to be pretty like her.

"Please," I choke out. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring his angry face. "I wasn't trying to hurt her."

I reach out, instinctively grabbing his sleeve with my trembling hand. "Please believe me, Sir."

He looks down at my hand on his expensive suit fabric. He frowns.

"Are you still acting, Seraphina?" He sneers. "Or did you forget your medication today? You expect me to believe this innocent act?"

"I don't know!" I sob, pulling my hand back and clutching my chest. "I don't know what I remember! I don't know what I forgot! Just please don't send me away!"

Sterling steps closer. He invades my personal space, using his height to intimidate.

"Then answer me," he demands. "Why the photo? If not to hurt her, then why?"

He looks at me like Im vermin. Like Im something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Shame. It burns hot in my stomach. I feel dirty. I feel wrong.

I wipe my eyes, keeping my head bowed. I stare at his polished shoes.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I just... I thought you looked perfect."

Sterling freezes.

I continue, the truth spilling out of me in a rush of pathetic honesty.

"You and Victoria. You match. It was... aesthetic. Like a painting. I just wanted to capture it because... because you look like a fairy tale."

Sterling raises his arm. Hes going to smash it. He intends to shatter the device against the marble floor, destroying the "evidence."

But as his arm cocks back, his sleeve pulls up. And he freezes.

He pulls my hand closer.

And then he sees it.

There, circling my wrist, is a band of keloid scarring. The skin is raised, shiny, and an angry, permanent dark redwhere the restraints rubbed the dermis raw every single night for three years. It looks like a bracelet made of burnt flesh.

Sterling stares at the scars. He stares at the wrist that looks like it belongs to a skeleton