His Wife, His Enemy

stricting type of pain. The kind of sick that made her hands tremble when she saw balloons or flinched at the sound of party poppers. It had been six years since her sixteenth birthday. And

er. He didn't scream either. Just crumpled to the floor in front of her, eyes still open, blood leaking from his mouth but still he muttered, "Run Bella, Run" Then the man looked at her, directly at her. His gun was raised, his mismatched eyes fixed on hers. She stared back. And he ran. Just like that. Like none of it mattered. Like her life wasn't just shattered in under a minute. Arabella dropped to her knees, screaming, clutching her brother's body like she could piece him back together if she just tried hard enough. No one helped. Everyone was gone-vanished, vanished into luxury cars and fake concern. That was the night Arabella Quinn stopped believing in fairy tales or happily ever afters. PRESENT DAY Arabella sat cross-legged on the worn couch of her and Allison's tiny apartment in Queens, a bowl of soggy cereal on her lap and Netflix asking if she was still watching. She wasn't. Her eyes were distant, her spoon frozen midair, milk dripping onto her sweatpants. "Let me guess," Allison called from the kitchen. "You're watching The Crown and thinking about that damn party again?" Arabella blinked. "What gave it away?" "The tears, babe. And the fact that you only eat cereal when you're spiraling." Arabella managed a weak smile. "It's a good cereal." "It's fruit flakes without the fruit. Literally just flakes." She didn't respond. Allison came into the room, her red hair tied up in a messy bun, holding two mugs of instant coffee that tasted like battery acid but worked miracles. "Here," she said, handing one over. "Drink and pretend you're functional. We've got bills." "Yay," Arabella said flatly. "Adulting is so fun." Allison plopped beside her, tugging a blanket over their legs. "Hey. It's been six years." Arabella didn't move. "I know," Allison continued, softer