When Trust Became a Poisoned Blade

d debts." What kind of debt was worth sacrificing his wife, his child, his integrity? What dark pact h

dy to reach for him, were now clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I fought the urge to bre

sdain, an adopted girl from a middle-class background. I wore the right clothes, learned the right etiquette, stifled my quirky artistic impulses, all

pouring my soul onto digital canvases. Emmett had found me one night, paintbrush in hand, a surprised smile on his face. "Adelia, this is... amazing," he' d said, his eyes filled w

as harvesting with Elisa. He hadn't seen my art as talent; he saw it as an asset, something to be exploit

asn't sure if it was audible. "My lov

eyes. Then, he chuckled, a forced, light sound. "Silly gi

arefully constructed blank. "Yes, a

back under his thumb. He thought I would fall back into line, meek and compliant. He was wro

ed Emmett as much as possible, retreating to Alexis's hospital room, my phone clutched in

a triumphant glint in her eyes. She wore a tailored silk dress, her hair perfectly coiffed, radiating

eet. "Show everyone we're still friends. And you know, a little public app

ut. I remembered our past. Elisa and I, once inseparable. She was the glamorous socialite, I the quiet artist. She' d always been a little

t beneath the surface, her family's fortune had been dwindling. She often spoke of financial worrie

a tear of joy, or of something else? A subtle, almost imperceptible possessiveness in her gaze when she looked at Emmett. A casual to

y glint. "Don't forget, Adelia. Your daughter is still... vulnerable. Emmett is v

the air from my lungs. Alexis. Always Alexis. My daught

y voice barely au

pped out of the car, a discreet envelope was pressed into my hand. Jeremiah' s legal papers. Signed and dated. A tiny flicker of triumph,

posing for photographers. He looked at her with an adoration he had never shown me in public. He never even held my hand in front of the cameras. The cr

And worse, I heard the whispers. "Isn't that Adelia Murray? Didn't she try to sue the school?" "She looks... disheveled." "Such a pity, tryi

e gossip, cornered me. "Ms. Murray," she chirped, shoving a microphone in my face, "sources say

oor friend has been through so much. It's truly tragic, the way her mental health has deteriorated. We're all just trying to support her, guide her through this difficult time."

. Poor, troubled girl. The dismissive tone, the subtle insinuation that Ale

at Elisa's performance. The whispers grew louder. "Poor Elisa, dealing with a ma

husband, my reputation. But they would not, could not, trash