Love's Betrayal, Fortune's Irony

ie

The air in our small living room grew thick with unspoken history, with shared memories twisted into bi

d dangerous, a tremor running through his f

Barton, a ghost of a smile playing on

forward, placing a trembling hand on Barton's shoulder.

a protective shield against the man who had once been like a son

been sharper, more observant than us. Even then, he possessed a quiet intensity, a wisdom beyond his years. I remembered him as a boy, his eyes holding a depth that both fascinated and unnerved me. It was o

e universities-full scholarships, a golden ticket out-it should have been a celebration. Instead, it plunged our families deeper into despair. The scholarships covered tuition, but living expenses, boo

ce cut through the humid summer air, a venomous litany of how he was a burden, how they couldn't afford a "college boy." She threatened to throw him out, to make him und

letter burning a hole in my pocket. "Armand," I whispered, my

llen. "More than anything, Ellie," he choked out

nd insane. I went home and told my parents I was dropping out of art school. My scholarship, my dreams of painting, of creating beauty – they vanished in that

oppe

ning, night shifts at a convenience store. My hands were always chapped, my feet always aching. Every dollar I earned went towards

I' d only ever seen from outside. He ordered for me, explained the dishes, his eyes shining with an almost childli

et this. You gave me a chance when no one else would. I promise, I'll gi

, were the most beautiful poetry I had ever hea

, we moved into a slightly larger apartment. He and Barton thrived. I watched them,

with connections, with a network of powerful friends. He was told, subtly at first, then more directly, that a lawyer without a lineage was merely a clerk, a grunt.

wanted it; it was a PR nightmare. Armand took it. He worked tirelessly, dissecting every detail, finding the obscure loopholes others missed. He got the rich kid off. A tech

new kind of confidence radiating from him. I waited for him, m

im. She wielded a steak knife, a blur of silver in her hand. "You let him go!" s

A searing pain ripped through my side, a hot, wet sensation spreading across my clothes. The world s

no! Stay with me! Don't leave me!" he begged, his words tumbling out, despera

other. He knelt by my bedside, his head bowed, his hands clasped in a silent prayer. He sobbed, sometimes quietly

llen. He clutched my hand, his body shaking with relief, tears streaming down his f

d, gasping for air, his body slick with sweat. He would cling to me, his arms wrapped around me like a drowni

elt real. Utterly

y I now held tight. A memory to counter the bit