The Scars Of My Past

Adria Barr stepped out of the car and looked up at the looming silhouette of her family's estate. It had been six years since she ran away from this place, and more importantly, six years since she ran away from Damon Hansen.

Tonight was her grandfather’s eightieth birthday gala. It was a summons she couldn't refuse, but as she stood on the gravel driveway, her legs felt heavy. In Boston, she was Dr. Barr, a respected cardiothoracic surgeon who held lives in her hands every day. But here, in the salty air of Nanxi City, she felt like the terrified twenty-year-old girl she had been when she left.

She handed her keys to the valet. Her fingers lingered on the metal fob for a second too long, the tips turning white from the pressure. She wasn't just walking into a dinner party; she was walking into a minefield.

"Welcome home, Ms. Barr," the valet said, his smile practiced and hollow.

Adria didn't answer. She couldn't. She turned toward the main house, where the golden glow of crystal chandeliers spilled out onto the manicured lawn. The noise hit her first—a wall of laughter, clinking glass, and the low hum of gossip. She took a deep breath, forcing the air into her lungs.

*Smile,* she told herself. *You fix trauma for a living. Do not let them see yours.*

She pasted on the expression she used when telling a family their loved one wouldn't make it—calm, detached, professional. She stepped through the French doors.

"Adria!"

The voice was deep, familiar. Adonis, her older brother, cut through the crowd like a ship breaking ice. He looked relieved, which only made Adria feel guiltier. He waved, beckoning her toward the family circle near the fireplace.

Adria moved toward him, her eyes scanning the room for threats, for exits. But she didn't look low enough.

Standing by Adonis's leg was a small boy. He couldn't have been more than four years old. He was tugging on Adonis's trouser leg, holding up a toy car.

Leo. Her nephew.

Adria's steps faltered. The air left the room.

Leo looked up. He had the Barr eyes—dark, inquisitive, innocent. He smiled, a gap-toothed, pure expression of joy.

The reaction was immediate and violent. Adria’s stomach lurched. The boy was four years old—the exact age her own child would have been. A phantom pain shot through her abdomen, sharp and twisting, dragging her back to a cold clinic room and a flickering ultrasound screen.

*Why didn't you want me?*

The voice from her nightmares whispered in her ear. Adria took a stumbling step back. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look at him. She averted her gaze, staring fixedly at a point on the wallpaper, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Adria?" Adonis was beside her now, his hand heavy on her shoulder. "You look like you're going to faint. Are you okay?"

"Jet lag," Adria lied, the words tasting like ash. "I just need... champagne."

She reached for a flute from a passing tray. Her hand shook. She needed the alcohol to numb the edges of the panic that was clawing at her throat.

Just as her fingers brushed the cold glass stem, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn't a sound; it was a sudden, collective intake of breath. The ambient chatter died down, replaced by the aggressive click-click-click of shutters.

Adria turned toward the entrance.

Damon Hansen stood in the archway.