Chapter 6

Cruel satisfaction flashed in Sara’s eyes. “If I can’t have it, neither can you!”

A wave of blind fury crashed over me. I lost all reason. Grabbing her hair, I slammed her against the wall with all my strength. Blood trickled from her forehead.

Sara screamed, “Help! Murder! She’s trying to kill me!”

The door burst open. Jackson rushed in, taking in Sara’s bloodied state. His face went pale. He pinned me against the wall, his voice shaking with rage and shock: “Zoey! Have you lost your mind?!”

Behind him, Sara swayed unsteadily, one hand pressed to her bleeding forehead, the other trembling. “Darling,” she whimpered, “I’m… I’m terrified.”

I shoved Jackson away and fell to my knees, my hands shaking as I tried to gather the shattered pieces of the camera. They were cold and sharp, refusing to fit back together.

Glass sliced into my fingertips, blood dripping onto the floor, but I barely noticed.

Jackson roughly grabbed my hands. “Stop it! It’s broken! You can’t fix it!”

I recoiled violently, tears streaming down my face.

Through clenched teeth, he shouted, “It’s just a damn camera! You can buy another! Is this worth going crazy over?!”

His words cut like a knife. This wasn’t just a broken camera. It was my mother’s only remaining gift, her final legacy. To him, it was nothing.

I looked up, hatred surging through me. I slapped him hard, smearing my blood across his cheek. “Jackson, get out! Get out of my life!”

His face froze in shock. Without hesitation, I yanked off my engagement ring and hurled it into the trash.

I packed my belongings and returned to my hometown to visit my mother. I sat before her gravestone all day. Jackson called repeatedly. I never answered. Finally, I blocked his number.

Sometimes, shame overwhelmed me. Would my mother be disappointed? She’d raised me to live proudly, bravely, to explore the world. Instead, I’d wasted three years on a man who didn’t deserve them.

On the third day of my visit, I found something unexpected by her stone: a pot of bird-of-paradise flowers. My heart stopped. They were her favorite.

Who had been here?

I rushed to the cemetery office to ask. The staff said someone brought flowers every few months. They gave me an address. Following the address led me to a small flower shop.

The owner explained that, three years ago, someone had placed a standing order for bird-of-paradise flowers to be delivered to Amanda’s grave every three months. “They paid three years in advance, so I remember clearly,” the shopkeeper said.

My heart raced. “Who placed the order?”

The shopkeeper checked their records. “A man named Joseph.”

My breath caught. I nearly collapsed.

“We haven’t been able to reach him lately,” they continued. “We had a supply issue once and wanted to ask about substituting flowers, but never got through.” They looked up, their expression turning concerned. “Miss, are you… are you alright?”