Never!
The word fractured the room's silence, splintered against silk‑upholstered walls and gilded mirrors. Crystal teardrops on the chandelier trembled, casting broken rainbows across the ceiling—beautiful chaos, mirroring the man before her.
Harrison's jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck strained. His eyes—once warm whiskey in sunlight—now smoldered with something feral. His handsome features twisted into a mask of possession so alien it stole her breath.
This wasn't Harrison.
Delilah's fingers pressed into silk sheets. The grandfather clock ticked—loud, indifferent, marking seconds that stretched into centuries.
"Ha... Harri—" Her voice cracked, splintered like a teacup on marble.
The sound ignited him. He released her wrist, and she felt the ghost of his grip—four faint impressions branded into her skin.
He stumbled backward, hands clawing through dark hair, pacing like a caged predator across plush carpet. Oil paintings of stern ancestors watched from their gilded frames, silent judges.
"Argh!"
The roar tore from his throat—primal, inhuman. He fled. The door slammed. Footsteps faded.
Delilah stared at the empty space.
A tear traced her cheek—warm against cold skin. She slid from the bed, feet meeting hardwood. The transition from carpet to wood was jarring, cold against her soles.
She found the light switch. Click. Darkness swallowed the room.
Only moonlight remained—pouring through floor‑to‑ceiling windows, painting geometric bars of silver across the floor. A cage of light and shadow.
She lowered herself against the wall, wallpaper texture pressing into her back. Knees drew up. Arms wrapped around them.
The moonlight crept toward her, inch by inch, as if offering solace. As if the night itself understood loneliness better than any person could.
"How did we come to this?" she whispered.
The question hung in the void, unanswered.
---
Seven years earlier.
The school gates rose before her like iron jaws-- wrought spirals painted burgundy, curling into decorative points that pierced the pale sky. Ivy claimed the stone pillars, green tendrils indifferent to generations of students passing beneath.
Delilah stood frozen, patent leather shoes polished to mirror perfection. Her white shirt was crisp, buttoned to the top. Midnight blue skirt pleated and pressed. Her dark silk hair danced in the late summer breeze, teasing her hesitation.
Students streamed past in a river of blue and white. Some dragged their feet like weary soldiers. Others bounced with careless laughter. A girl checked her compact mirror. A group of boys shoved near the entrance.
So many faces. So many stories.
Her knuckles whitened on backpack straps. She bit her inner lip, tasted copper.
This is a new beginning.
She could almost hear her mother's voice—soft, lilting, full of gentle warmth.
Be happy, my darling. Face your studies.
Fragrance from within the compound wrapped around her—fresh grass, jasmine climbing trellises, something floral that smelled of her grandmother's garden. She inhaled. The scent pushed against the knot in her chest.
Breathe.
"Delilah! Hey, Delilah!"
The voice cut through like a knife—sharp, familiar, impossible to ignore.
She turned.
A figure hurtled toward her, black hair bouncing, arms pumping. Theatrical. Unnecessary. The kind of running reserved for airport reunions.
"Amy?"
Bei Xiao Shi—Amy—skidded to a halt, bent over with hands on knees. Her chest heaved. A stray strand stuck to her forehead.
"Scared?" Amy straightened, eyebrows wiggling with mischief, already grinning.
Delilah's instinct was to deny. But Amy's raised brow called her bluff.
Her shoulders sagged. Her lips pouted. "Mhm mm," she murmured, staring at her ridiculously shiny shoes.
Amy threw her head back and laughed—bright, unapologetic, startling a pigeon into flight. "Oh, come on! It's just high school! No classes today—just orientation, which is basically wandering around judging people. You love judging people."
"I do not—"
"Remember the sandals‑with‑socks guy in 7th grade? You made a chart."
A reluctant smile tugged at Delilah's lips. "That was... architectural."
"Those were feet, Delilah. Regular human feet."
Amy patted her shoulder—too hard. Delilah stumbled sideways, arms flailing. The pink pompom on her bag swung violently, utterly indifferent to the near‑catastrophe.
"Aiya!" Amy grabbed her arm. "So fragile. Are you made of glass?"
"You're made of glass," Delilah mumbled.
Amy's teasing faded to warmth. She stepped closer, voice dropping to sincerity. "You'll be fine. No 'what ifs.'"
Delilah looked at her friend—shoulder‑length hair framing delicate angles, dark eyes sparkling with mischief and kindness, that button nose, those pink lips curved into a smile so genuine it made everything seem possible.
"That's a good girl." Amy clapped her back—gentler this time. "Now come on. Let's go before you turn into a pillar of salt."
Delilah's feet finally obeyed. Her shoulders dropped.
"We'll check the class list first," Amy said, already striding forward, hand wrapped around Delilah's wrist. "If we're not in the same class, I'm staging a protest. A violent protest. I'll chain myself to the principal's desk. Bring snacks. It'll be a whole thing."
Delilah laughed—bright, genuine, cutting through the morning air like sunshine through clouds.
Two girls walked through the iron gates, one dragging the other, laughter mingling with birdsong.
The pompom danced with each step, carefree and bright.
---
The corkboard near the main hall was a swarm of craning necks and overlapping voices—excitement and disappointment colliding.
Delilah's gaze found her name. Scanned for Amy's.
Not there.
The disappointment crashed over her like a wave. Her face fell. Her jaw tightened. She stared at the paper as if it had personally betrayed her.
Amy appeared at her side, having fought through the crowd. "Hey. It's okay. We'll still—" She broke off, seeing Delilah's expression. "Oh no. The sad‑puppy face."
"I don't have a sad‑puppy face."
"Your eyes go all big and your lip trembles and it's adorable but concerning." Amy grabbed her hands. "We're still best friends. Sisters. A different class doesn't change that. Okay?"
Delilah dropped her head. Stared at her shoes. "Okay," she whispered.
"Good girl. Now stop looking like you've been jilted at the altar. People will think I'm bullying you, and I have a reputation to maintain."
A surprised laugh escaped. "What reputation?"
"Nicest person in school. It's delicate. Like a soap bubble, and your sad‑puppy energy is about to pop it."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm wonderful. There's a difference."
Amy pulled her into a hug. The floral scent of her perfume, the warmth of her embrace—something loosened in Delilah's chest.
"Amy?" Muffled against her shoulder.
"Mhm?"
"Thank you."
"Thank me by smiling. And not getting lost. And—" Amy pulled back, flicking her forehead, "—not worrying so much."
Delilah winced. "That hurt."
"Love tap. Now go. East wing. I'm west. I'll find you at lunch."
And just like that, Amy disappeared into the crowd, shoulder‑length hair bouncing.
Delilah watched her go, a small smile on her lips.
This is high school. This is a new beginning.
She squared her shoulders. Adjusted her backpack strap. Walked toward the east wing.
The pompom swayed behind her, carefree and bright.