Chapter 3

Cecelia nodded obediently. At sixteen, she was so soft, so sweet.

To stop her from ending her life ten years later, I had to start with Cole. Cecelia once mentioned that Cole died in a reckless motorcycle crash on a stormy night in June 2013.

My mission was twofold: first, prevent his death two months from now; second, cut his toxic hold over Cecelia down to zero.

Cecelia and I were in the advanced honors track, while Cole was stuck in the remedial class down the hall. During evening study hall, he tapped on the window beside her desk, flashing a two-finger running gesture.

He was trying to get her to ditch school and run off with him.

Cecelia looked torn. Seeing her hesitate, Cole mouthed words aggressively, hopping around like an agitated monkey outside the glass.

Just as she moved to stand up, I caught her arm. "Cecelia, you bruised my back earlier. You owe me some tutoring as payback."

Guilt flickered across her face. "Okay."

I took a notebook, scribbled bold letters across the page, and held it up against the glass: [SHE'S NOT GOING.] Then I mouthed a clear "piss off" at him.

I graduated from an Ivy League university, so I originally planned to show off and tutor her myself. Turns out, after all these years, I had forgotten half of high school calculus and chemistry.

Cecelia let out a quiet giggle, pulled over some scrap paper, and patiently broke down the problems for me.

Every time she finished explaining a concept, I showered her with praise. She tried to play it cool, but she couldn't stop the small, proud smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Teenage girls just needed genuine encouragement.

Cecelia seemed to rediscover her confidence through studying. Whenever Cole showed up trying to drag her out for joyrides, she made excuses, saying she had to help me with schoolwork.

At least right now, my future wife's heart was leaning a little closer to me.

Knowing Cecelia had barely any pocket money, Cole often snuck into our classroom to shove cheap junk food into her desk.

Every time she found those snacks, her face lit up.

I felt a pang of jealousy. In our marriage, I had showered her with gifts—designer bags, jewelry, cosmetics, even hand-crafted keepsakes that took me weeks to make. She had always received them with calm detachment.

She was so impossible to please as an adult, yet a bag of cheap chips from a punk made her beam like sunlight.

I plucked out a peach jelly cup and tossed it straight into the trash.

"You're allergic to peaches. He doesn't even know what you can eat, and he's trying to play the hero?"

Cecelia frowned, clearly annoyed. "Cole told me that while the whole world throws mud at me, he's the only one bringing me flowers. How could you just throw away his kindness?"

I rubbed my temples, suppressing a groan. "Sweetheart, he's textbook gaslighting you."

From that day on, I brought her milk and fresh breakfast sandwiches every morning, packed seasonal fruit for after lunch, and stocked her desk with high-end snacks.

"This is what real attention looks like. If someone tries to flatter you with anything less, don't even look at them. Got it, silly girl?"

When the monthly weekend break arrived, Cole pulled up on a battered motorcycle, helmet in hand, and whistled at Cecelia.

"Cecelia, don't bother going home. You'll just get in the way of your mom's clients. Everyone else treats you like trash, but I'll do you a favor—come crash at my place."