No Love Left for Her

No Love Left for Her

Gavin

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The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop. It wasn't like the movies. It just sounded wrong. I looked up from my SAT prep book, but my sister Sarah didn't even flinch. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew this sound. I knew this exact moment. In my last life, this was when I grabbed Sarah, screaming for her to run. The second shot came, closer. I dragged her under the table, promising to protect her. The shooter found us anyway. I felt the searing pain in my shoulder. But my focus was on Sarah, bleeding from a bullet to her abdomen. I called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance, the world-renowned neurosurgeon. "Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped. "Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled. "Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan." "It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!" But the line went dead. She had hung up on me. Sarah died in my arms, waiting for an ambulance that came too late. My family never forgave me. They looked through me, not at me. Olivia painted me as the monster. "He was jealous of her," she' d said. "He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly." They believed her. They always believed her. They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter. A few weeks later, my mother found me in the kitchen. Her eyes were hollow, dead. She held a syringe. "It should have been you," she whispered. "It' s all your fault." She plunged the needle into my neck. The world went dark. And then I woke up. I was back in the library, the SAT book open to the same page. Sarah was across from me, alive. The date on my phone confirmed it. It was the same day. Then came the pop. The first gunshot. This time, I looked at Sarah. I saw the daughter our parents adored. The girl who got everything while I got scraps. The centerpiece of the family that cast me out and left me to die. The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses. The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival. A second shot, closer this time. Sarah finally looked up, eyes wide. "Liam? What was that?" I didn' t answer. I didn't grab her hand. I didn't scream for her to hide. I stood, my chair scraping loudly. I turned my back on her. And I ran. I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall. I didn' t look back. This time, I would not be the hero. This time, I would save myself.

Introduction

The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop.

It wasn't like the movies. It just sounded wrong.

I looked up from my SAT prep book, but my sister Sarah didn't even flinch.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I knew this sound.

I knew this exact moment.

In my last life, this was when I grabbed Sarah, screaming for her to run.

The second shot came, closer.

I dragged her under the table, promising to protect her.

The shooter found us anyway.

I felt the searing pain in my shoulder.

But my focus was on Sarah, bleeding from a bullet to her abdomen.

I called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance, the world-renowned neurosurgeon.

"Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped.

"Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled.

"Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan."

"It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!"

But the line went dead. She had hung up on me.

Sarah died in my arms, waiting for an ambulance that came too late.

My family never forgave me.

They looked through me, not at me.

Olivia painted me as the monster.

"He was jealous of her," she' d said. "He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly."

They believed her.

They always believed her.

They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter.

A few weeks later, my mother found me in the kitchen.

Her eyes were hollow, dead.

She held a syringe.

"It should have been you," she whispered. "It' s all your fault."

She plunged the needle into my neck.

The world went dark.

And then I woke up.

I was back in the library, the SAT book open to the same page.

Sarah was across from me, alive.

The date on my phone confirmed it.

It was the same day.

Then came the pop. The first gunshot.

This time, I looked at Sarah.

I saw the daughter our parents adored.

The girl who got everything while I got scraps.

The centerpiece of the family that cast me out and left me to die.

The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses.

The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival.

A second shot, closer this time.

Sarah finally looked up, eyes wide. "Liam? What was that?"

I didn' t answer.

I didn't grab her hand.

I didn't scream for her to hide.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly.

I turned my back on her.

And I ran.

I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall.

I didn' t look back.

This time, I would not be the hero.

This time, I would save myself.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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