Part 2The Most Wretched and the Most Arrogant

But his eyes never left Morgan’s trembling shoulders. He didn't see the web of my hand, split open by the bullet's shockwave, blood welling up from the wound.

I heard my own voice, terrifyingly cold. "Don't bother. No one's forcing you to play out this twisted soap opera."

"Sebastian, we're done."

He froze, the words seeming to hang in the air between us as he stared, uncomprehending. After all, we had nearly died together in the trunk of a kidnapper's car, and even then, I hadn't left his side.

Just as he reached out, a flicker of hesitation on his face, Morgan let out a sharp laugh. "Done? Stella, who are you trying to fool?"

"You have nowhere to go! This is just another one of your pathetic games, trying to guilt-trip him with that time you saved his life!"

Sebastian's expression turned to ice. He hated being manipulated.

Morgan’s voice turned sickly sweet. "They always say the thing we have in common is our dimples. Why don't we just carve yours out? Then Sebastian will never get us mixed up again."

Sebastian hesitated for a split second. It was all the opening Morgan needed. She clutched her stomach. "Ow… I've never been hit like that in my life. We… we weren't careful. What if… what if she just hurt our baby?"

He shot her a weary glance, then gave a final, fatal nod.

Her bodyguards seized me instantly, twisting my arms behind my back. My eyes widened in disbelief, but before a word could escape my lips, Sebastian cut me off, his voice deceptively gentle. "Stella, you always said you hated your dimples."

"Thorne Medical has the best cosmetic surgeons in the world. Don't worry, there won't be a scar."

The tip of a blade pressed against each of my cheeks, and a starburst of agony erupted. The bodyguard, loyal to Morgan, maliciously twisted the blade. Tears streamed down my face, hot and involuntary.

I used to despise every feature I shared with her.

On my eighteenth birthday, I’d waited all night for him to celebrate with me. His phone was off. When I finally dragged my heartbroken self back to the tiny safe house we shared, I found him tangled in our narrow bed with her. The world dissolved into a deafening roar. I remember stumbling to the wall, my body shaking as I threw up until there was nothing left.

He knelt before me, swearing he’d been drunk, that he thought it was me. I’d sobbed, shaking uncontrollably, asking him why, why, why?

At thirteen, he was a bloody, bruised mess, but he’d still kicked the teeth out of the thugs who followed me home from school. At fifteen, he was a fugitive who couldn't afford a decent coat, but he’d saved for months to buy me a necklace I’d glanced at once in a shop window. On my seventeenth birthday, I’d hidden under the covers, whispering into the phone. "Are you crying? Because I said I love you, are you crying?" His choked voice came back, "I haven't even given you flowers yet, I haven't officially asked you… you can't be the first one to say it."

And now… now there was a second time he "mistook" her for me. And a third.

By the tenth time, Morgan had ripped the covers off and sneered, "How could anyone make the same mistake ten times? Even if you can't see, can't you feel? My sister is built like a twig. Just admit it, you want me!"

And he had just stood there, silent.

With two bleeding holes carved into my face, I was thrown to the floor like a broken doll as the crowd dispersed.