Princess of Scars

The hospital air, cold and sterile, usually a familiar hum, felt wrong that day.

My sister, Lily, lay broken and small in that bed, her artist' s hands swollen and bandaged, a machine breathing for her. Someone had done this.

The doctor' s words-"blunt force trauma," "critical condition"-blurred into the background, drowned out by the name: Brandon Thorne, son of a tech billionaire.

My wife, Sarah, a rising star prosecutor, offered only a chilling hesitation when I asked for justice. "We need to be careful, Ethan. The Thornes are a powerful family."

Then the preliminary hearing came. Sarah stood there, a mask of neutrality, while Brandon Thorne smirked and the police chief spun lies.

"Lily Miller has a history of... emotional instability," Sarah' s voice echoed, destroying my sister' s name.

I' d given Sarah Lily' s last texts: "Ethan, I\'m scared." "Brandon... he\'s scaring me."

Sarah declared, "The messages in question appear to have been deleted."

My own wife had covered for him. I saw her later, laughing with the chief and Brandon' s father. My marriage, my life, had been a lie.

The judge' s gavel sealed it: "Case dismissed." Brandon was free. I was ordered to pay $100,000 for defamation.

"You\'re less than nothing," Brandon sneered, tossing a hundred-dollar bill at my feet, his expensive cologne suffocating me as he whispered, "Lily cried for you. Sarah thinks you' re pathetic."

Something broke inside me. The discipline I' d honed as a SEAL shattered. I lunged, my fist finding his smug face. Bone crunched.

Guards slammed me against the cold marble. Sarah screamed "Assault!" playing the damsel, looking at me with pure contempt.