Her Mute Heart, His Burning Betrayal

Max. A

Modern | Completed

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My name is Arlie Stevens, and I was a mute girl who grew up in the shadows of the Rust Belt. My street art was our daily bread, and Bowen McClure was my protector, my first love, and my voice. But the boy who once fought off bullies for me decided to climb the social ladder by getting engaged to a ruthless corporate heiress, Kassandra Woodard. On their engagement night, Kassandra falsely accused me of ruining her gown. Bowen, my Bowen, publicly whipped me as punishment to appease her family. He told me it was to protect me, a necessary evil. Then he locked me in my room. As the party's fireworks lit up the sky, I smelled smoke. The apartment was on fire, and the door was locked from the outside. Through the flames, I heard Kassandra's voice, "Bowen locked her in. He wanted her out of the way." He didn't just abandon me; he tried to burn me alive. But I survived. And when a broken, guilt-ridden Bowen finally found me years later, begging for forgiveness after destroying the woman who orchestrated it all, I had only one thing to say to him.

Betrayal Disabled Flashback Female-centered Personal growth

Chapter 10

01-06 22:07

Chapter 1

My name is Arlie Stevens, and I was a mute girl who grew up in the shadows of the Rust Belt. My street art was our daily bread, and Bowen McClure was my protector, my first love, and my voice.

But the boy who once fought off bullies for me decided to climb the social ladder by getting engaged to a ruthless corporate heiress, Kassandra Woodard.

On their engagement night, Kassandra falsely accused me of ruining her gown. Bowen, my Bowen, publicly whipped me as punishment to appease her family.

He told me it was to protect me, a necessary evil.

Then he locked me in my room.

As the party's fireworks lit up the sky, I smelled smoke. The apartment was on fire, and the door was locked from the outside.

Through the flames, I heard Kassandra's voice, "Bowen locked her in. He wanted her out of the way."

He didn't just abandon me; he tried to burn me alive.

But I survived. And when a broken, guilt-ridden Bowen finally found me years later, begging for forgiveness after destroying the woman who orchestrated it all, I had only one thing to say to him.

Chapter 1

My name is Arlie Stevens, and the day Bowen McClure, the only home I' d ever known, shattered our world, began with the cold weight of a stranger' s ring on his finger.

I grew up in the shadows of the decaying Rust Belt, a mute girl in a loud, harsh world. My voice had been stolen by a childhood trauma, leaving me to speak in colors and lines, my street art a silent scream on cracked brick walls. Those murals weren't just paint; they were our daily bread, traded for scraps and favors. They were all I had to give to Bowen, my protector, my first love, the boy who shielded me from the world's sharp edges.

Bowen, even as a child, had a fire in his eyes that burned hotter than the city's crumbling furnaces. He was all sharp angles and defiant stares, a scrawny boy with a man's fight in him. When older kids would taunt me, calling me "the mute freak," his fists would fly without a second thought. He didn't care about the bruises; he only cared that I was safe. He was my shield, my voice when I had none.

I remember one brutal winter, we were starving. Bowen, barely a teenager, worked three dangerous odd jobs, his hands raw and bleeding, just to buy me a cheap, worn art book he' d found. He' d pressed it into my hands, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion but shining with pride. "So you can keep dreaming, Arlie," he'd whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air. He sacrificed everything, even a piece of his childhood, for my future, for my art.

"You're going to break yourself," I'd scrawled on a scrap of paper, holding up my drawing of him, hunched and tired, a single tear falling from his eye.

He' d just laughed, a rough, warm sound that used to make my heart ache with love. "Don't be silly, Arlie. I'm building us a life. A real one. Somewhere far from here, where you won't have to scrounge for paint and I won't have to dodge thugs." He'd ruffled my hair, his touch a familiar comfort. "Just you wait. We'll get out."

He' d always taken care of me. When I' d fall sick from the damp, freezing apartment, he' d brave the worst storms to find medicine, wrapping me in every blanket he could find, his own body shivering but his arms steady around me. He' d tell me stories, his voice a low rumble, until I drifted into a fitful sleep. We were a unit, two halves of a fractured whole, bound by poverty and an unspoken promise.

But even then, in our shared destitution, he was always looking up, always yearning for more. He saw the towering skyscrapers downtown, shining like distant gods, and he craved to climb them. I just wanted to paint, to survive, to be enough for him.

His ambition, once a beacon of hope, turned into a relentless, consuming fire. He started taking on bigger, riskier "fixer" jobs for a powerful logistics corporation, disappearing for days, then weeks. When he returned, his clothes were better, his pockets fuller, his eyes harder. He was climbing, just like he'd promised.

He was making a deal. I didn' t know the details then, only that it involved a woman named Kassandra Woodard, the ruthless heiress to that powerful corporation. And it involved leaving me behind.

The whispers started subtly, then grew into a roar. I was at the docks, sketching the grimy, hardworking boats, the familiar scent of salt and fish a comfort. Two women, their voices sharp and clear, cut through the din.

"Did you hear? Bowen McClure, the one who cleaned up the Woodard mess, he's engaged."

My charcoal stick snapped in my hand.

"Engaged? To who? That scrawny mute girl he drags around?" The second woman cackled, a harsh, grating sound.

"No, you fool! To Kassandra Woodard herself! Can you believe it? From the slums to the top of the empire, just like that. He' s truly made it."

My blood turned to ice. Kassandra. The name was a venomous whisper in the executive suites, a symbol of cold power.

"Poor Arlie, though," the first woman said, though her tone lacked any real pity. "What will become of her? She's no match for a woman like Kassandra. That Woodard girl has class, breeding. Not some street rat who can't even speak."

They never even bothered to lower their voices. They simply talked around me, as if I were just another piece of the dilapidated scenery. It was a familiar ache, that feeling of invisibility, but this time, it was laced with a new, searing pain.

I remembered Bowen. How he used to defend me with such ferocity. Once, a group of boys cornered me, throwing rocks and mimicking my silence. Bowen, younger and smaller, had exploded. He' d fought like a cornered animal, bloodying his knuckles, his eyes blazing, shouting, "Leave her alone! She's worth more than all of you combined!" He was a whirlwind of protective rage.

Now, he was choosing a different kind of fight. One where I was the collateral damage. My chest felt hollow, a gaping wound where my heart used to beat. Was I truly so worthless? So broken that he'd be ashamed of me, ashamed of us?

My legs felt like lead. Each step away from the malicious whispers was heavy, dragging through an invisible mud. I felt small, insignificant, exposed.

Then, strong arms scooped me up. My heart leaped, a flicker of that old, familiar hope. Bowen. He held me close, just like he used to, his scent of salt, sweat, and something new-a sharp, expensive cologne-filling my senses.

But as he swung me effortlessly into his arms, my gaze fell on his hand, now resting on my back. A ring. A thick, silver band glinted on his ring finger, set with a single, dark, polished stone. It wasn't the kind of ring a man like him wore for himself. It was a statement, a declaration.

My fingers instinctively reached for it, a silent question.

He flinched, pulling his hand back slightly. "Just... a work thing, Arlie," he mumbled, his voice tight, not meeting my eyes. "It's valuable. Can't risk you scuffing it."

Valuable. I remembered how he used to let me play with his most prized possessions – the carved wooden bird his mother had given him, the lucky coin he always carried. He'd never once worried about me "scuffing" them. He'd always said I was his most valuable possession.

I felt a cold dread settle deep in my stomach. What did this ring mean? Who was it for?

From my pocket, I pulled out a small, crudely carved wooden fish, painted in vibrant blue and green. It was my latest creation, a miniature replica of the first fish he ever caught, a symbol of our origins, our shared struggles, our love. I held it out to him, a peace offering, a plea for connection.

He glanced at it, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – was it recognition? Regret? Then, with a dismissive shrug, he tossed it away. It clattered against the cobblestones, the painted fins chipping. "What's this trash, Arlie? You shouldn't waste your time on these childish things. You need to focus on what's important now."

My breath hitched. The fish. That little wooden fish was a reminder of our earliest days, when we were just kids, surviving on the docks. He' d been so proud of that catch, so eager to share it with me. It was a symbol of his promise, of our innocent love.

Now, it was trash.

My world tilted. The boy who had promised to build us a real life, who had sacrificed so much for my dreams, was gone. Replaced by this stranger, this man with an expensive ring and a cold disregard for our past. How could you change so much, Bowen? The silent question screamed in my head, tearing at the edges of my sanity.