Page 8 of Broken Blades

She would, though.

Soon.

I pulled on my jacket, checked my reflection in the mirror mounted above the sinks. The scars caught light—raised tissue that never quite healed right, that never let anyone forget what I'd done.

Monstrous. That was what Williams had called me once, drunk enough to say it to my face.

He wasn't wrong.

I grabbed my bag. Friday's masquerade loomed three days away. Donors. Media. The same people who'd whisper about my face while smiling to mine.

And her.

She'd be there.

I knew because her father never missed an opportunity to parade his perfect daughter in front of investors.

My phone stayed silent in my pocket as I headed for the exit.

So she was back.

Good.

I'd been waiting.

The rink parking lot sat empty except for my truck and a sedan the equipment manager always forgot to move. Overhead lights flickered on as dusk settled, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made the world look cheaper than it was.

I climbed into the driver's seat. Engine rumbling to life, heater blasting cold air that would take five minutes to warm.

My phone sat in the cupholder where I'd tossed it.

I reached for it. Opened Instagram. Her profile loaded in seconds. Public, of course. No privacy settings. No walls. Just her entire life spread out for anyone with eyes and an internet connection.

@chastityharrington

The profile picture showed her laughing, head tilted back, freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones like someone had flicked a paintbrush. Big eyes—so goddamn big they looked like they belonged in a painting. Green, maybe hazel depending on the light.

Innocent.

That was the word that kept surfacing. Not naïve. Not stupid. Just... unblemished.

I scrolled.

Coffee shop photo from two weeks ago. Some artsy shot of a latte with foam art, her hand wrapped around the cup. Dainty fingers. No rings. Caption read: Fueling finals one overpriced espresso at a time.

Next: A volunteer event. Her in a university t-shirt, hair pulled back, serving food at what looked like a homeless shelter. She smiled at whoever was behind the camera—genuine, not staged. The kind of smile that reached her eyes.

Thirty-seven likes. Dozen comments. All vapid.

You're amazing!

So proud to call you my friend!

Heart emoji heart emoji heart emoji

I kept scrolling.

Birthday dinner. Her surrounded by girls who all looked identical—same highlights, same teeth, same designer handbags casually visible in frame. But she stood out. Softer somehow. Less polished. More real.