Chapter Fifteen

The house was dark except for the faint glow of the hallway nightlight — a soft, watery blue that barely chased the shadows out of the corners.

The spring air drifted through the cracked window, carrying the sharp-sweet scent of lilac and damp earth. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then fell silent, swallowed by the hush of the neighborhood settling into sleep.

I stood in the doorway of Sam’s room, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching her sleep.

She sprawled across the tangled sheets, one foot kicked free, curls sticking damply to her cheeks. Bun Bun dangled from one hand, ears dragging against the quilt she refused to give up even though it was worn thin at the seams. Her breath came in soft little huffs, steady and certain in the hush.

In sleep, she looked untouched. Safe. Like this little room might hold the world at bay a while longer. A fragile refuge, for both of us.

For a long moment, I just stood there, listening to her breathe, matching the rise and fall of her chest with the shaky rhythm of my own heart.

My fingers grazed the envelope in my pocket. Thick with a sum I didn’t need to see. It pulsed against my ribs like a secret heartbeat, each thump echoing the obscene promise inside.

I thought of Bianca.

Bianca, who had shown up on my doorstep with takeout and stubborn grace. Who hadn’t waited for permission, hadn’t demanded explanations — just walked into my wrecked life like it was still hers, too. Bianca, who had offered help a hundred different ways.

And me —

I had pushed her away. I had smiled. Thanked her. Lied through my teeth. Telling her I had it under control when we both knew I was sinking. The shame twisted in my gut, sharp and oily.

Outside the window, the stars were faint and few, washed out by the city's dull glow. One or two hung on anyway — stubborn little sparks in a sky too big to fight.

I heard Ziya’s IV drip echo in my memory—loud in the sterile hush, a promise of revival that never came.

I felt Meg’s absence like cold smoke slipping through my fingers—no footprints, no goodbye.

That weight pressed against my chest, bitter and undeniable.

No one stayed.

Sam stirred, murmuring something soft and half-formed, her fingers tightening briefly around the Bun Bun’s limp body. I crossed the room before I knew I was moving, crouching beside the bed and smoothing a damp curl away from her forehead. Her skin was warm, her breath sweet with sleep.

I sat back on my heels, legs aching from the long day, from the weight of everything I hadn't said and everything I couldn't afford to lose.

I wasn’t Bianca.

I wasn’t Ziya.

I wasn’t Meg.

But I was here—tired and frayed, held together with spit and stubbornness, still fighting.

I eased the envelope out of my pocket. For a heartbeat, I almost let my fingers open it. Build her a life they couldn’t steal…

Then revulsion twisted through me. They weren’t giving me anything. They were buying Sam.

Sam sighed in her sleep, her body relaxing deeper into the mattress, and something inside me cracked wide open.

I turned the envelope over once, twice, slow and methodical.

Then, without ceremony, I tore it in half.

I tore it again, and again, then discarded the unrecognizable fragments into the trash, each one a vow dissolved.

I sank onto the little bed’s edge, careful not to wake her. My body ached in a dozen quiet ways I couldn’t name — the kind of ache that seeped into the marrow when you stayed standing after every good reason said you should fall.

I wouldn’t give up. Not because I was the strongest. Not because I had anything left to prove. Because love—real love—wasn’t about staying when it was easy.

It was about staying when it was the hardest thing you ever did in your entire life.

I’d stay.

I’d fight.

I’d bleed.

Even if it killed me—

I’d never let go.