Never Meet Again After Your Betrayal

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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The rain over Washington D.C. was a solid, freezing sheet of gray, blurring the illuminated dome of Capitol Hill through the windshield of Alya's cheap rental car.

She gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles were bone-white.

A sudden, violent spasm ripped through her chest. It felt like a steel vice crushing her ribs, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

Alya gasped, her vision tunneling into dark, fuzzy edges. The PTSD was triggering the physical decay of her heart, right here on 14th Street.

She needed the pills. Now.

Her right hand left the wheel, trembling violently as she reached blindly into her open purse on the passenger seat. Her fingertips brushed the smooth plastic of the unmarked prescription bottle.

She fumbled. The bottle slipped from her slick, cold fingers and dropped onto the floor mat.

"Damn it," Alya hissed through her teeth.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting copper, and ducked her head for a fraction of a second to grab the bottle.

In that split second, the wail of a D.C. police siren pierced the rain.

Alya snapped her head up. The police cruiser had abruptly blocked the intersection. Directly in front of her, a massive, black armored Cadillac Escalade slammed on its brakes.

Her pupils dilated. She stomped her right foot down on the brake pedal with all her remaining strength.

The rental car's cheap tires shrieked against the wet asphalt. It wasn't enough.

The front of her sedan slammed into the reinforced steel bumper of the Escalade. The sickening crunch of twisting metal echoed through the street.

The airbag deployed with the force of a heavyweight punch. It smashed into Alya's face, throwing her head back against the headrest.

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Warm, thick blood immediately began to slide down her eyebrow, mixing with the cold sweat on her face.

Her chest heaved. The heart palpitation was turning into a lethal flutter.

Ignoring the blood dripping into her eye, Alya grabbed the pill bottle from the floorboard. She popped the cap, shook a single white pill into her palm, and swallowed it dry. It scratched her throat on the way down.

Through the cracked windshield, she saw the driver's side door of the Escalade open.

A man in a dark suit stepped out into the pouring rain. He held a black umbrella. His right hand hovered near the bulge of a holstered weapon under his jacket.

It was Marcus Vance.

Alya's stomach dropped. The bile rose in her throat.

Marcus walked over to her crumpled door, his face a mask of cold, professional indifference. He tapped on her window.

Alya took a ragged breath. She unbuckled her seatbelt and shoved her shoulder against the warped door. It groaned, popping open just enough to let the freezing rain whip into the cabin.

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