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The reunion party's Truth or Dare was getting rowdy. The former prom queen clearly got wasted.

What's the most messed-up thing you've ever done? someone asked her.

She pointed straight at me in the corner, and let out a mean little snicker.

Oh, that's easy! Remember back in college? I took advantage while someone was in the shower.

"I grabbed his phone to delete his broke-ass girlfriend's desperate text begging for help. Oh, and I replied with a nice 'Fuck off!'"

She dissolved into giggles again. "You should've seen it! That poor little thing actually waited for him all night in the pouring rain! I thought I'd die laughing!"

The private room erupted in cruel laughter.

Except for the man sitting at the head of the table. The crystal glass in his hand shattered with a sickening crack.

Blood mixed with the expensive red wine, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth.

He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot and burning with something terrifying.

Calmly, I offered him a napkin. "Mr. Crawford, you should clean up your hand. Its all bloody."

Some stains, once they set, never wash out.

The most exclusive private club in Chicago was booked solid tonight.

Rumor had it some hotshot venture capitalist, worth billions, was back from overseas, ready to flaunt his success in front of his old college buddies.

The manager handed me the gold-embossed wine list, his eyes holding a flicker of pity I couldn't quite place.

"Emma that VIP suite tonight If you don't want to take it, I can assign someone else."

I smoothed down the slightly ill-fitting server's uniform and gave him a faint smile.

"It's fine, Mr. Johnson. That's the highest-spending suite we have. The corkage fee commission alone is decent. I need the money, you know that."

Mr. Johnson sighed but didn't argue, just patted my shoulder.

Pushing open the heavy door to the V888 suite, I was hit by a wave of heat, thick with expensive perfume and cigar smoke.

It smelled like burning money.

Right in the center of the plush leather sofa sat the man I hadn't seen in seven long years.

He'd changed a lot.

The memory of the boy in faded jeans and worn sweaters, with his quiet, intense stare, was gone.

In his place was a man radiating power and cold confidence, every inch the ruthless business mogul.

He was leaning slightly, listening to someone beside him, a detached, almost cruel smirk playing on his lips.

And nestled against him was the prom queen who'd stolen him away back then.

Scarlett tonight was poured into a Chanel haute couture white dress, a diamond necklace around her neck sparkling blindingly under the lights.

She swirled her red wine, looking every bit the proud, perfect swan.

"Oh, Ethan came back mainly for me," she simpered, loud enough for everyone. "He's shifting the company HQ back here too. We're getting engaged, after all!"

A chorus of sycophantic congratulations erupted instantly.

"Prom queen and valedictorian! A match made in heaven!"

"Mr. Crawford is the face of finance magazines now. Scarlett! You lucky thing!"

"This is what you call 'sweet after bitter.' Unlike some people," someone added pointedly,

"who dumped the poor guy for greener pastures. Bet they're choking on regret now, huh?"

The air in the room froze for a split second.

Every single eye swiveled towards me, standing silently in the corner, uncorking a bottle.

I moved like an automaton. I slid the foil cutter, twisted the corkscrew, eased the cork out with a soft pop.

"Bordeaux Left Bank," I announced, my voice steady. "Best decanted for twenty minutes."

I poured the wine into the crystal glass in front of Ethan Crawford. My movements were flawlessly standard.

Finally, Ethan looked up.

His eyes God, his eyes. Pure contempt, disgust, hatred, and a trace of deeply buried disdain.

He didn't take the glass, leaving me holding it.

My wrist, already aching from holding the heavy tray, began to tremble slightly.

"Emma?" His voice was low and rough.

"Heard you dropped out of college? What happened? That trust fund brat got tired of you and tossed you out? Now you're reduced to this? Serving drinks?"

The room fell deathly quiet. Everyone leaned in, hungry for the show.

Scarlett gasped dramatically, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my God! Emma? Is that really you? What what are you wearing?"

Her voice dripped with fake concern.

"If you needed money, you should have just asked! I mean, sure, you dumped Ethan for cash, but we're old friends! I could probably get you a janitorial gig somewhere."

She emphasized "dumped Ethan for cash" like it was a punchline.

Snickers rippled through the crowd.

"Serves her right. Ethan was crazy about her back then."

"Karma's a bitch. Look at Mr. Crawford now C billions! And her? Pouring wine."

"Wow. How the mighty have fallen."

I listened to the barbs expressionlessly, as if hearing a story about someone else.

Seven years.

Id long since developed a shell of iron.

I'd crawled through the gutters of this city, washed dishes in steamy kitchens until my hands bled, and hauled frozen goods in sub-zero warehouses.

I had beer thrown in my face by drunk patrons and had been screamed at by landlords calling me "white trash."

Dignitythat shattered into dust on a rain-lashed night long ago.

"Your wine, Mr. Crawford," I repeated, my voice flat.

Ethan stared into my eyes, desperate to find a flicker of remorse, shame, maybe tears.

He found nothing.

Just endless numbness and bone-deep exhaustion.

My indifference seemed to ignite something in him.

He suddenly lashed out, swatting the glass from my hand.

It flew, shattering against the wall, wine splattering the expensive wallpaper.

"This swill is beneath me," Ethan stated coldly, pulling a pristine handkerchief to wipe his hand.

"Bring another bottle. Something with age. Something like seven years ago."

He was humiliating me on purpose.

Seven years ago, he was broke. He'd saved every penny for three months to buy a cheap bottle of red for my birthday.

We'd sat on a patchy campus lawn, sharing it sip by sip, our faces flushed, promising to be together forever.

Now, he used that memory as a weapon to remind me of the price of betrayal.

Scarlett tittered beside him.

"Oh, Ethan, don't be mean! That bottle cost thousands! She could never afford to replace it."

She turned a saccharine smile my way.

"Just apologize to Mr. Crawford, clean up this mess, and we'll forget it happened, okay?"

I knelt, pulled a cloth from my apron and started wiping the dark stain from the plush carpet.

A shard of glass bit into my fingertip, a sharp, piercing pain.

I didn't flinch.

I just calculated silently: No commission from this bottle.

Have to pay for the broken glass. Tonight's shift is wasted. Might even owe them for half a month's wages.

This was my life now.

No room for romance or dreams. Just the relentless math of survival, bills, and debts I couldn't shake.

As for love?That was a luxury only the rich could afford.

"My apologies, Mr. Crawford."

I finished wiping, stood up, posture still subservient.

"I'll inform the manager to bring our finest vintage."

Ethan's gaze flickered to the blood welling on my fingertip.

His pupils contracted for a fraction of a second before the ice returned.

"Get out."

I didn't leave.

Because Mr. Johnson said the guests in V888 specifically requested me to serve them for the rest of the night.

If I left, the $20,000 tip would be vanished. They might even dock my base pay.

I really, really needed the money.

Mom's dialysis payment next month wasn't secured and the landlord had just texted, demanding next quarter's rent.

So, I went to the restroom, rinsed the cut on my finger, and walked back into that suffocating room.

The atmosphere had shifted when I returned.

Several rounds of drinks deep, the polished veneer of the elite crowd had cracked. Their baser instincts were showing.

They were playing Truth or Dare.

A clich game, but always effective, especially fueled by expensive liquor.

It was the perfect tool to rip off the mask.

The table was littered with empty bottles: Louis XIII, Hennessy Richard, Ace of Spades

The combined cost could probably buy me a closet-sized apartment in this city.

Scarlett was clearly drunk.

Her cheeks were flushed, her body fused to Ethan's side, her eyes glassy and overly bright.

She was the star tonight, the ultimate winner.

Engagement to Ethan Crawford, soon-to-be Mrs. Crawford, the envy of everyone had made her giddy with pride, almost floating.

"Alright! Next round!" slurred Mark, the former class monitor.

"Who's it gonna be?"

The empty bottle spun wildly on the polished marble table, screeching. Everyone held their breath, watching the bottleneck.

Slowly, it wobbled to a stop.

Pointing directly at Scarlett.

"Whoa! Prom queen takes the hit!"

"Truth or Dare, Scarlett?"

Scarlett giggled, waving a dismissive, unsteady hand. "Truth! Bring it on! Nothing I won't say!"

Mark rubbed his hands together, a sly grin spreading. His eyes darted between me and Scarlett. He was itching for drama.

"Okay, let's make it juicy. Scarlett, what's the most messed-up, guiltiest thing you've ever done?"

The room hushed. Adults playing this game knew everyone had skeletons. But the thrill was the point.

Ethan, who had been resting with eyes closed, lifted his eyelids indifferently at the question but didn't intervene.

To him, Scarlett was a spoiled rich girl, maybe a bit bratty, but harmless.

Scarlett hiccuped. Her gaze suddenly swept across the room and landed on me, pouring water for another guest in the corner.

A vicious smirk twisted her lips. The alcohol had fried her brain and amplified the jealousy and malice festering inside her.

"The most messed-up thing" Scarlett swayed as she stood up, her finger pointing straight at me.

"...was that thunderstorm night, seven years ago. I went to Ethan's crappy little apartment"

At the words "seven years ago," my hand jerked, nearly spilling the hot water.

Ethan's body tensed almost imperceptibly.

Scarlett laughed in a cruel sound, like she was sharing the funniest joke.

"Ethan was in the shower. His phone was just lying there. And guess what? This broke bitch Emma texted him."

She paused, relishing the moment.

"Wanna know what she said? Ha! 'Ethan, please, my dad's dying! I need five grand I'll do anything, anything to pay you back!'" Scarlett mimicked a whiny, desperate voice.

"Pathetic, right? Just pitiful." Her eyes gleamed with malice.

"I thought, how could someone as brilliant as Ethan be dragged down by some charity case clinging to his ankles! "

" He belonged with me! He should be in the big leagues! Not stuck in the gutter with trash like her!"

"So" She paused dramatically, her expression manic. "...I did Ethan a favor."

"I deleted that pathetic text. And then," she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "I texted her back from his phone. Two words: 'Fuck. Off.'"

"HAHAHAHA!" She threw her head back, laughing hysterically.

"You should've seen it! That broke little idiot actually waited outside all night in the downpour! "

" I watched from the window as she got drenched like a drowned rat! I watched her collapse on the sidewalk, crying like her world ended! I thought I'd die laughing!"

She beamed, utterly self-satisfied. "Seriously, guys, wasn't I doing everyone a favor? "

"If it wasn't for me, Ethan would never have dumped that dead weight! He'd never be where he is today! Ethan, honey, you owe me big time"

Scarlett's gloating was cut off by a sharp, crystalline CRACK.

The stem of the wine glass in Ethan's hand snapped clean off. He'd crushed it in his fist.

Shards of crystal bit deep into his palm. Blood, mixed with the red wine, welled up and dripped thickly onto the white tablecloth, a horrifying sight.

He didn't seem to feel the pain.

He just stared at Scarlett, his eyes, usually so cold, now bloodshot and terrifying.

"What did you say?" His voice was dangerously low.

Scarlett, still riding her drunken high, didn't grasp the danger. "I said I helped you ditch that poor little"

"SHUT UP!" Ethan roared, lunging forward and flipping the heavy coffee table with a deafening crash.

The sound jolted Scarlett. She screamed, half-sobered by shock.

She stared at the man who now looked like a enraged beast.

"E-Ethan? What's wrong? I was just joking"

"Joking?" Ethan staggered to his feet, advancing on her, step by menacing step.

"You're telling me she didn't run off with Chad that night? She didn't text me saying she was dumping me because I was poor?"

His voice rose, raw and ragged.

"You're telling me she was at the hospital? She was begging for help? For her father?"

Scarlett crumpled back onto the sofa under his fury.

Ethan didn't look at her again. He whipped around, his burning gaze locking onto me in the corner.

"Emma" His voice cracked, thick with unshed tears. "Is is what she said true?"

His eyes pleaded. "That night you were waiting for me?"

The room was utterly silent. No one dared breathe.

I set the water pitcher down slowly. I looked at this truth, seven years delayed, and felt nothing. Just a vast, hollow emptiness.

Too late.

Way too fucking late.

I pulled a clean napkin from my pocket and walked towards him.

"Mr. Crawford," I said calmly, holding it out towards his bleeding hand.

"You shouldclean up your hand. Its all bloody."

Ethan didn't take the napkin. He grabbed my wrist instead, his grip bruising. "Answer me! Emma! Tell me it's not true!"

I met his bloodshot eyes and gave him a small, sad smile. "What if it is, Ethan?"

Ethan's hand trembled on my wrist. He stared at me, desperate to find any trace of a lie on my face.

Even hatred, even vengeance, even if I had fabricated this lie to make him sufferhe could have handled that.

Anything but this truth.

Because if this was real then all the hatred, all the struggle, all the drive that fueled him for seven years to claw out of poverty, the very foundation of his success it was all a sick joke. A monument built on a lie.

"If you were really in trouble," he choked out, "why didn't you call me? Why didn't you come find me? Why send that text saying you'd found someone else?"

His brokenness felt absurd to me now. "Call you?" I let out a humorless laugh. "Ethan, I called you thirty-seven times that night."

"Thirty. Seven. Times."

"The first call was when the doctor handed me the critical condition notice. You didn't answer."

"The tenth call was after I'd been thrown out of my uncle's house where I was begging on my knees for a loan. You hung up."

"The twentieth call was in the middle of that storm, I was soaked to the bone, with nowhere else to turn. Your phone was switched off."

"The last one was after I sent that desperate text and got your lovely 'Fuck off' reply."

I took a shaky breath. The memories, buried deep, surged back, raw and painful. "You ask why I didn't come find you? I did."

"I stood outside your apartment building all night. I knew you were home. The light was on. I saw Scarlett's shadow against the blinds. I heard you laughing."

"My thoughts?" My voice was flat.

"If you'd just come down. If you'd just seen me. Even if you'd said you had no money. Even if you'd just held me and told me it would be okay I could have found a way to keep going."

"But you didn't."

"You told me to fuck off."

Ethan's face lost all color. He released my wrist like it burned him, stumbling back a step.

"It wasn't me I didn't" He clutched his head, a low groan escaping him.

"My phone went missing that night. I thought I'd lost it. Later, Scarlett told me you'd run off with Chad. "

"She showed me a text she said it was from you saying you couldn't handle being poor anymore"

He whirled back towards Scarlett, his expression murderous. "My phone! You took it?!"

Scarlett was frozen, terrified. She'd never seen Ethan like this C unhinged, dangerous.

"Ethan, please, let me explain" she whimpered, tears streaming, reaching for his sleeve.

"I loved you so much! I couldn't watch her drag you down! Her father was a bottomless pit! I did it for your future!"

"For my future?" Ethan's hand shot out, a brutal backhand catching Scarlett full across the face.

SMACK! The blow was so hard that Scarlett was flung sideways, crashing to the floor, blood trickling from her split lip.

Gasps filled the room, but no one dared intervene.

"You did it for yourself!" Ethan roared, his pointing finger trembling. "How dare you make that choice for me! How dare you delete that message!"

"Do you have any idea what that money was for?! Do you know what you took from her?!"

Ethan seemed possessed. He swept his arm across the table, sending the remaining bottles crashing to the floor.

He remembered that night seven years ago.

He came out of the shower to find his phone missing.Scarlett was on the couch, looking jumpy, claiming she hadn't seen it.

He hadn't thought much of it then, assuming it was lost.

The next day, the whole campus was buzzing: Emma ran off with rich kid Chad.

He'd confronted heronly to see her back as she walked away from the registrar's office, dropping out.

He thought she was guilty, ashamed.

"Emma" Ethan turned back. With a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees, right onto the broken glass littering the floor.

Shards pierced his trousers, blood instantly staining the expensive fabric.

He didn't seem to notice and crawled towards me, his hand reaching out, grasping desperately for the hem of my server's skirt.

"I'm sorry I didn't know"

"If I'd known I would have sold a kidney, sold my blood, done anything to help your dad! I would never have let you face that alone!"

"Your dad where is he now? I'll get him the best hospital, the top specialists! Money is no object!"

He babbled, his eyes suddenly bright with a desperate hope as if throwing money at the past could fix it.

I looked down at the man weeping at my feet. My expression remained calm, detached.

Some mistakes can be fixed.

But some mistakes cost lives.

"Save it, Ethan," I cut through his fantasy, my voice icy. "My dad is dead."

Ethan froze.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"One week after that night," I stated, the words devoid of emotion, like I was reciting a news report.

"He missed the critical surgery window because we couldn't scrape together the money. He lingered in the ICU for seven days and died in agony."

"Before he went," I added, the only hint of feeling a slight tremor in my voice,

"he grabbed my hand and told me not to blame you. He said, 'Ethan's a good kid. He's got it tough. Don't hold money against him.'"

I tilted my head, looking down at him. "You said you'd save him, Ethan?"

"How? By digging him up?"