*TRIGGER WARNINGS* SMUT, power play, medical abortion, fighting, swearing.
Imani walks in without knocking.
It's early, too early for this, but he never waits. Never hesitates. He's always moving, always pushing forward, and today is no different.
The door swings open, and I barely have time to blink before Imani steps inside, eyes sharp, posture tense.
But then he sees.
He sees the state of the room—the sheets tangled, the air still thick with something unspoken, something heavy. He sees me, sprawled across the bed, my bare skin half-covered by a sheet, my hair a mess, my body aching in a way that has nothing to do with pain.
And he sees Miras.
Miras, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back bare, the marks I left on his skin dark against the morning light. Miras, whose head turns slowly, whose expression hardens the second he registers who's standing in the doorway.
For a moment, there's nothing. Just silence, thick and suffocating.
Then—
"What the fuck," Imani breathes, his voice sharp, laced with something dangerous.
I don't move. I don't flinch.
I just smile.
Miras, to his credit, doesn't react the way Imani clearly wants him to. He doesn't scramble for an explanation, doesn't look guilty or ashamed. He just exhales, slow and measured, rolling the tension from his shoulders like this is something he was prepared for.
I sit up, dragging the sheet over my chest with deliberate slowness. "You're up early," I say, my voice hoarse from the night before. I stretch, rolling my shoulders back, letting Imani see exactly what he walked into. "Couldn't sleep?"
Imani doesn't even look at me. His focus is entirely on Miras now, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"What the fuck did you do?" Imani snarls, his voice dropping low, dangerous.
"It's complicated." His tone is calm, but there's a hint of something sharp beneath it, something that's almost a taunt.
Imani moves.
It's fast, faster than I expect, and suddenly he's grabbing Miras by the arm, yanking him up and away from the bed. Miras lets him—for a second. But the moment Imani tries to shove him back, Miras' hand shoots up, gripping Imani's wrist like iron, stopping him cold.
A muscle in Miras' jaw ticks. "Don't touch me," he warns, voice low.
Imani jerks his hand back like he's been burned, but the fury in his eyes doesn't fade. "You really thought this was okay?" His voice shakes, but I don't think it's from fear. It's rage—pure, burning rage. "You thought you could just—just fuck her and act like that's fine? After everything?"
Miras holds his ground. "I didn't do anything she didn't want."
"Don't you dare," Imani seethes. "Don't you fucking dare act like you didn't just take advantage of her—"
"Advantage?" I laugh. I actually laugh, and it makes Imani's eyes snap to mine, wild with disbelief. "Oh, please. If anyone had the advantage last night, it sure as hell wasn't Miras."
Imani's face twists, like he can't decide if he's more furious with me or him. "Cherish," he grits out, his voice breaking on my name. "You don't—you don't get it. You don't understand what this means—"
"I do understand," I cut him off, stepping forward, close enough that he has to look me in the eye. "I understand just fine. I made a choice, Imani. Mine. You don't get to be angry about that."
"Yes, I do," he snaps. "Because this—this is exactly what they wanted, don't you see that? They fucked with your head, they broke you, and now—" His voice hitches, raw. "Now you're just—what? Proving them right?"
My stomach twists, but I refuse to let it show. I refuse to let him make this about something it's not.
Then, without another word, Imani turns and walks out.
The door slams open again.
Oh, of course.
Because this wasn't chaotic enough already.
Imani storms back in like he's got something to prove, his face thunderous, his whole body brimming with barely-contained rage.
"Oh, great," I mutter, completely done. "You're back."
Dewey comes skidding in first, socks sliding against the floor, his eyes blown wide with chaotic delight. "Okay, what the hell did I just miss?" His gaze darts between me, Miras—who's still standing shirtless and unbothered—and the sheets tangled around my legs. Then his eyes flicker to the door Imani just stormed through, and his grin practically beams with mischief. "Did Imani just walk in on—oh my God, he did. He so did."
"Dewey," Aunt Nayley huffs, following right behind him, looking one deep breath away from passing out. Her eyes sweep over the scene, take in my state of undress, the marks on Miras' skin, the entire mess of the bed, and then—oh no. The way she clutches her chest is way too dramatic to be real.
My father steps in behind her, looking considerably less dramatic but no less stunned. He opens his mouth, closes it, then rubs a hand over his face. "I—"
Dewey's face lights up. "Oh no, please, let's not rush this."
"I never left," Imani seethes, his hands shaking at his sides. "Because unlike the rest of you, I actually give a damn about what's happening right now!"
Before anyone can react, Imani spins around on his heel, his hands swinging forward—fast, furious, and aimed straight at Miras.
Miras reacts instantly. He dodges, fast as a whip, but the impact is already there—the heavy weight of Imani's fist slamming into the side of his shoulder, enough to make Miras stagger back. It's like watching a slow-motion car crash—chaotic, violent, the kind of thing you know you should stop but can't.
And then it's on.
Imani doesn't hesitate, throwing another punch, this time aimed at Miras' face, but Miras catches it mid-air, his hand gripping Imani's wrist with terrifying precision. He twists, uses Imani's momentum to throw him off-balance, but Imani's not done. He's furious. He snarls, launching himself forward with a wild fury, swinging at Miras with reckless abandon.
"Stop!"
Aunt Nayley's voice cracks through the chaos, but neither of them listens.
It's brutal. It's raw. It's nothing but rage—the kind that's been simmering beneath the surface for weeks, for months, ever since we came back to this tower. Ever since the world started breaking apart at the seams.
Miras counters every move with deadly precision, his hands moving like they're trained to do this. But every time Imani lands a punch, I can see the satisfaction in his eyes, the desperation in his stance. It's not about winning anymore. It's about hurting.
"Enough!" Aunt Nayley screams again, this time forcing her way between them with sheer force, her hands pushing against their chests like she's about to explode if she doesn't get them apart. "Both of you!"
It doesn't work.
It's only when she shoves her full weight into Imani's chest that he falters, stumbling back with a growl, but he doesn't back down. He glares at Miras, his body still tense, ready to snap again.
Imani's fists are still clenched, his chest heaving with every breath, but his eyes are locked on Miras with a mix of fury and frustration. "He—" His voice shakes, his gaze never wavering. "He's not supposed to be here. None of this—"
"Enough!" Aunt Nayley nearly shoves him again, her voice shrill with fear and anger. She turns to Miras, who's standing there, completely unbothered by the chaos around him, his eyes cold, his fists still clenched. "You," she growls, "don't make it worse."
My eyes flicker to my father who slowly starts lowering himself to the floor. As if the knowledge that his daughter is having sex is putting him into cardiac arrest.
Miras doesn't say a word, but I can see the way his jaw tightens. He's fighting the urge to say something—to make Imani understand.
Imani takes a step back, chest still rising and falling like he's been running a marathon, but his eyes are wild. He's frustrated—with me, with Miras, with the whole situation.
But he's also scared. And I can see it now.
"You're just trying to break me, aren't you?" Imani spits, but his voice is hoarse. "Trying to prove to yourself that this—" He gestures between us all, between Miras and me, "—is real."
"Maybe I am," I snap, and before I can stop myself. "But if I am, that's my choice."
Imani looks at me like I've broken something. And for a moment, I think he's going to lash out again, but Aunt Nayley steps in, hands still on Imani's chest. She looks at him with a kind of quiet desperation—the kind that only comes from years of knowing someone you can't save.
"You two," she says, pointing at Dewey, who's still sprawled out on the floor, grinning like he's at a damn comedy show, "out. Now. Before I lose my mind."
"Hey, I'm just a spectator here," Dewey shrugs, raising his hands as if he's done no wrong. But before he can even finish his sentence, Aunt Nayley is already grabbing him by the collar and hauling him up.
Miras, who's been silent the whole time, watches Aunt Nayley with something between resentment and reluctance. I can see him flexing his fingers, like he's holding onto something—holding back something.
"Don't even think about it," she snaps at him, eyes narrowing. "You're not off the hook, Miras. Not by a long shot."
He doesn't say a word. He just stares back at her, then, finally, turns and walks out the door.
Dewey's already halfway to the door, but not before he shoots me a wink. "I'm on it," he says, voice lowered like we're in on some kind of secret. "I'll keep 'em busy, promise."
"Take her father with you." Aunt Nayley watches him go, then turns back to me, her face hardening into something that looks more like steel than anything else.
I know that look.
She's about to say something that's going to sting like hell.
"Cherish," she starts, the sharpness in her voice unmistakable, "I'm not a fool. I know what's been going on between you and Miras." She doesn't wait for me to interrupt or try to deny it; she already knows. "But what I'm struggling to understand is why."
I don't move. I don't even blink.
"Because I wanted to," I say flatly, crossing my arms. "I wanted it. And I'm not sorry."
Aunt Nayley sucks in a breath like I just slapped her, and for a moment, I can feel her uncertainty in the air. She takes a step toward me, eyes narrowing.
"You think this is some kind of game?" she asks, but it's not an accusation—it's a question, the kind only a mother would ask when she's worried. "This isn't the old Cherish you're dealing with, sweetheart. This isn't—"
"I know who I am," I interrupt, my voice cold. "I don't need you or anyone else telling me who I'm supposed to be."
Her lips thin, but there's a flicker of understanding in her eyes. It lasts only a second before she speaks again, voice softening, even though it's clear she doesn't like this.
"Then tell me—tell me what's going on. What happened between you and Miras? Because this isn't just some physical thing. I can feel it. This goes deeper than that, Cherish."
For a long moment, I just stare at her, my throat tight, like the words are stuck. But they're not.
I know what I need to say.
I force the words out, each one heavy and final. "It wasn't just sex, Aunt Nayley." My eyes lock onto hers. "It was our third time."
She freezes. Her expression flickers—just for a second—before it hardens again, trying to shield whatever hurt might be creeping in. "Third time?" she repeats, voice barely above a whisper. "How long has this been going on, Cherish?"
"Does it matter?" I answer. "I'm not asking for permission, Aunt Nayley. I'm not asking for anyone's approval. I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable."
She opens her mouth, but then she closes it again, letting out a long sigh, the fight draining from her all at once. "I'm trying to understand, sweetheart. I'm trying so hard."
And in that moment, I see it.
She's scared.
And I don't blame her.
"Cherish."
I wait for it—the real question.
"Did you use any protection?" she asks, her words precise, her tone sharp, like she's carefully measuring every syllable.
I blink. Once. Twice. My heart skips, and the air between us feels like it's been drawn taut with a rubber band, about to snap.
I can feel my throat tighten. But I don't flinch. I don't look away.
"No."
I can practically hear her heart stop in her chest. She doesn't turn around. Not yet. But I can feel it. She's pissed.
Then, after a beat, I hear her breath hitch. "Three times, Cherish?" she whispers, and the disbelief in her voice hits me like a punch to the stomach.
The silence after her question is thick.
I nod. I know she's waiting for more—waiting for me to explain myself, to justify my actions, but I'm not going to. I'm done explaining.
Instead, I look up at her, my eyes steady, but my insides are churning. "Yeah, three times," I say, voice low. "What's it to you?"
I think Aunt Nayley might've been holding her breath, because suddenly she exhales, sharply, as if the very act of breathing might give her a second to think before she completely loses it. I know her well enough to know she's processing—trying to keep herself from exploding.
Her fingers tighten on the doorknob, and the tension in her shoulders tells me she's trying to calm herself down.
But then, slowly, she turns around, her face grim, like she's just been handed a ticket to a war she's not ready to fight.
For a moment, I'm not sure who she's angrier at—me or Miras.
"You realize what you've just done, right?" she spits, her voice low and trembling with anger. "You're playing with fire, Cherish. Three times without protection?"
I'm not scared. I don't flinch. I just stare back at her. "I'm not stupid. I know the risks."
Aunt Nayley's face darkens with disbelief, and I can see the gears turning in her mind, trying to figure out how to react—how to manage this. But I can tell she's torn between wanting to yell at me and wanting to strangle Miras for not being careful enough with me.
"Do you even know what you're putting yourself at risk for?" she growls, stepping closer, her hands clenching at her sides. "Do you even realize what kind of mess you've just created? What could happen—what should happen—if things don't go right?"
I stare at her, my chest tight with something I don't quite understand. Is it guilt? Fear? No. It's just… frustration.
She steps forward, her breath quickening, her gaze flashing with a mix of rage and something else—something darker. "You think you can just… throw away your life and everything you've worked for because you want to feel something?" she demands, voice shaking with every word. "Do you really think this is just about you and Miras? About sex?"
I stare at her. Her face is twisted with frustration. I see the way she's holding herself together, barely, and for the first time in a long time, I can feel the weight of everything she's been holding in.
"I didn't throw anything away," I say, my voice quieter now, sharper. "I'm still the same person. I'm just done pretending I'm not."
Aunt Nayley's face reddens, but there's a flicker of something softer in her eyes now, something that stings like regret. She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it again. Her gaze shifts from me to the door, then to the empty space between us—her hands shaking.
"I—" She stops herself. Then, after a moment, she looks back at me, her eyes hardening with something that terrifies me. "I don't know who I'm going to kill first, Cherish. You or him."
And just like that, she walks out, slamming the door behind her with a force that makes the walls shudder again.
The moment my feet hit the stairs, I know the chaos downstairs hasn't calmed—not by a long shot. I can feel the low hum of tension in the air, a storm building that's about to tear through everything in its path.
When I round the corner, I see it—the scene I knew was coming but didn't quite expect to witness.
Aunt Nayley is standing at the kitchen counter, her hands gripping the edge so tightly I think she might break the damn thing. Her jaw is clenched, her eyes flashing with barely contained rage. And Miras, who's usually so calm, so controlled, is standing there with that storm in his eyes, his fists clenched, his breath ragged like he's barely holding himself together.
Then there's Imani. He's pacing around the room, looking like he might just snap at any second. His hands are running through his hair in frustration, his face twisted into a mix of anger and confusion. I can't even begin to figure out what's going through his head, but I know it's not good.
Dewey, true to form, is sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, leaning forward like he's watching the latest action movie. He sees me enter, and for a split second, he looks almost too pleased with himself. Like he's enjoying the damn show.
My father is sitting at the kitchen table, his face pale and unmoving, staring at the mess around him as if he doesn't even know where to start. He doesn't say a word. He just looks like he's watching—paralyzed.
I step into the kitchen, and the instant I do, it's like the room collectively holds its breath.
Aunt Nayley speaks before he does, her voice hoarse but seething. "You think this is some kind of game?" she demands, turning her glare back toward Miras. "You think you can just mess with her like that, without even considering the consequences?"
Miras stands there, silent as ever, but I can see the way his jaw ticks. It's like he's trying to hold back everything. Everything. But whatever he's holding inside isn't good.
"I didn't come here to start trouble," Miras says, his voice surprisingly calm, but there's an edge to it—a controlled fury. "I came here to help. But now I can see, it's just a mess. Everything's a damn mess."
Aunt Nayley scoffs, her hand slapping against the counter as she steps forward. "You think I care about you coming here? No, Miras. What I care about is Cherish, and what you're doing to her."
"You think I don't know what's happening here? I get it, okay? This mess is mine."
Imani looks at me, his expression somewhere between shock and... something else—something I don't want to acknowledge. But Miras just watches, his gaze steady, unreadable.
Imani's voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding.
"You know," he says, eyes locking onto me, "there's a real issue here we need to address, Cherish."
I freeze. I feel it before the words even fully register—like a weight descending, pressing down hard on my chest. I don't like where this is going.
"What?" I snap, my jaw tightening, every nerve in my body bracing for what comes next.
"You're not a kid anymore, Cherish," Imani continues, his voice low but insistent. "And you've clearly made a choice, but you're also not thinking about the consequences. This—" He gestures to the space between us, then flicks his hand at Miras. "—This can't keep happening."
Miras stiffens beside me, his jaw flexing, his fists barely unclenched. His gaze slides to Imani, but there's a tension in his muscles I can see even from the corner of my eye. He's holding back something. Hard.
I step forward, my voice sharper than I intended. "What the hell are you even talking about?"
Imani doesn't flinch. "I'm talking about you taking the morning-after pill," he spits, his voice rising just enough to make the words echo in the room. "Or getting on some kind of contraceptive—a pregnancy test. This is ridiculous. You're not thinking about the risks—"
"Stop," I cut him off, my eyes narrowing into a glare that could melt steel. "I don't need you to tell me what to do with my body, Imani."
But it's already too late. He's on a roll, and there's no stopping him now.
"You think it's just about you? Huh?" He's practically pacing now, his anger making him restless, frantic, like he can't even keep himself still. "What about the consequences? What if something happens, Cherish? What if—"
He's cut off by the sound of Aunt Nayley's voice, which rings out with that same bite I'm getting used to hearing.
"Imani, stop it!" Aunt Nayley snaps, her voice cracking with frustration as she steps forward, arms folded. "This isn't helping. None of this is helping."
But Imani's rage only grows. "No, Nayley, listen to me!" He turns, looking at her like she's the one who doesn't understand. "I'm not going to sit here and watch her—" He motions to me with a dismissive flick of his hand. "—destroy herself because of a momentary lapse in judgment."
"You don't get to talk about me like that, Imani!" I shout, but I'm trembling with the force of it. "You don't get to make decisions for me, you don't get to tell me what I can and can't do!"
I can feel the heat rise between us. There's no escaping this.
Miras hasn't moved, hasn't even flinched, but I can sense it in the way his body tightens, the way his fingers twitch, like he's about to explode too. But he holds back. He's always holding back when it comes to me.
Imani doesn't back down, though. His eyes lock onto mine, burning with an intensity I didn't know he was capable of. "I'm trying to protect you, Cherish. You think I want to be this way? You think I want to be the one telling you what to do? I don't want to, but I'm not going to stand by while you throw your life away for—"
"Stop," I cut him off again, my voice shaking with anger. "Don't act like you know anything about my life, Imani. I'm not stupid. I don't need you to protect me."
But he's not backing down. He's moving toward me now, eyes cold with that familiar anger. "You're acting like you're in control, but you're not, Cherish. You're letting things spiral—letting them get out of hand. You can't just—"
"You're done," I snap, cutting him off. "I don't need you to tell me what I'm doing wrong. You're not my father, Imani. You're not even close to being the person who gets to make decisions about me. I can handle myself."
I glance at Miras, who's still standing there, silent and tense. He meets my gaze briefly, but there's nothing comforting in the look he gives me. It's like he's still trying to figure out what just happened and whether he's part of the fallout. His lips press into a thin line, and he steps back, putting some space between us as if the heat of the moment burned him too.
"Well, I mean, it's getting awkward in here," Dewey says, casually shrugging as though this is just another normal day for him. "You know, maybe everyone should just take a breather before we have round two?"
That's when my father, who's been unusually quiet, finally speaks up. His voice is soft but firm, and it carries a weight I didn't expect.
"I think we all need to take a step back," he says, looking at me, then at Miras. His gaze hardens when it lands on Aunt Nayley, and for the first time, I see a flicker of anger in him. "This isn't the time or place to be having these kinds of conversations."
Aunt Nayley doesn't back down. "Well, then what is the time, Maurice?" She turns toward him sharply, her frustration clearly visible. "Because if we don't address this now, it's just going to keep spiraling out of control. "Miras is my responsibility and I'm not going to stand by while—" She cuts herself off, noticing the way my father's standing there, almost like a wall.
He meets her gaze and holds it. "I'm her father, Nayley. I'm not going to let anyone tell me how to handle this."
His words hit like a punch to the gut. I've never heard him so… stern before. For the first time, I can see the tension between him and Aunt Nayley—something I never noticed until now. Something that's probably been building under the surface for longer than I realized.
I don't say anything. I just stand there, the heat of the moment still burning in my chest, unsure of what I want to do next. This whole mess—everything that happened last night and the chaos this morning—it's all blurring together. And it feels like it's suffocating me, slowly but surely.
Imani's voice comes from the hallway. "I'm leaving," he says, his tone flat and weary. He doesn't look at any of us, doesn't even acknowledge that we're all still standing here, breathing.
Aunt Nayley opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it.
"Let him go," I say, my voice colder than I expect. "I don't need him here."
"Cherish," my father's voice cuts through the air again, gaining the attention of everyone who's still in the room. "My office, now."
My father's tone leaves no room for argument. It's not the usual calm, measured voice I'm used to. It's hard, commanding, and a little terrifying, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a ripple of fear—fear of what's to come.
I let out a shaky breath and turn slowly, my heart hammering in my chest. My father stands there in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He's waiting. The tension between us is thick, and the rest of the room feels like it's fading into the background as I step past Miras and Aunt Nayley without another word.
I make my way toward the stairs, the sound of my footsteps louder than they should be in the heavy silence. I don't glance back again; I can feel Miras' eyes on me, though. His presence is like a weight I can't shake, even when I'm not looking at him. But I'm not thinking about him right now. I can't afford to.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I don't hesitate. I just go straight to my father's office. The door creaks when I push it open, the air inside thick with a kind of cold formality.
I stand there for a moment, not sure whether I'm waiting for him to say something or for me to say something first. But then he speaks, his voice calm, but the quiet anger in it makes my stomach twist.
"Sit down."
I don't argue. I move to the chair across from his desk and sit down, my hands folded tightly in my lap. I can't look at him—not yet. Not until I know what's coming.
He waits for me to settle, and when I finally look up, his gaze is sharp—piercing, like he's trying to read through all the walls I've built up over the years.
"You're not a child anymore, Cherish," he says, his voice low. "And this"—he gestures vaguely toward the house, toward everything we've just been through—"isn't how we handle things."
"I don't know what the hell happened to you, but I know this isn't the person I raised," he continues, his voice hardening. "I'm not some bystander in your life, Cherish. I'm your father. And I won't sit back and let you make decisions that hurt you. You've been shutting me out for months. You've been pushing me away like I'm some stranger, and I won't let you do that anymore." There's a beat of silence between us before my father continues. "First thing is first, you're taking an emergency contraceptive, one that will cause a medical abortion without surgery. BID is going to monitor all your activity throughout the night, and I will know as if you so much as roll over in your sleep. The same for Miras. You two are no longer permitted to be together, your relationship—whatever the hell it is, it ends now. Miras will be suspended from the company, and I'm figuring out how to get you back to the way you were whether you like it or not."
Pain lingers in my lower abdomen, a dull, relentless ache that radiates up my spine and coils around my ribs like something angry, something that refuses to be ignored. My head throbs in rhythm with it, a constant, pulsing reminder of exactly what's been taken from me—of what's been forced on me. I shove the pain aside, just like I shove everything else down. It doesn't matter. It can't matter. I need something else to focus on. Something I can control. throw punch after punch into the reinforced training dummy. The impact rattles up my arms, each hit harder than the last, but it's not enough. It's never enough.
I don't want to think. I don't want to feel.
I want this pounding in my skull to stop.
My father thinks he can break me back into place, like I'm something misshapen, something that needs to be fixed. As if I haven't already been shattered a hundred times over.
He's wrong.
I won't be put back together. I won't be forced into a mold that doesn't fit anymore.
Another strike. A harder one. The dummy absorbs the blow like it's nothing, and frustration spikes through me like a lightning strike. The ache in my stomach twists violently, but I ignore it. I have to.
I throw another punch—hard, too hard—and a sharp pain shoots through my right hand. I falter for just a second, my breath hitching. My nerves scream in protest, reminding me of all the damage the Cube left behind. Weakness lingers there, no matter how much I hate it. No matter how much I refuse to accept it.
I grit my teeth and shake out my hand, forcing myself to adjust. If my right can't keep up, then my left will. If my body won't cooperate, then I'll make it. I won't stop. Not until my muscles give out. Not until I can breathe again.
"Cherish."
The voice cuts through my focus, sharp and intrusive.
Miras.
I don't stop. I don't even turn to look at him.
"Leave." My voice is flat, stripped of anything soft.
"No."
That makes me pause. My grip tightens, knuckles white.
"I said leave."
Footsteps. Slow, steady. Closer.
"I heard you," he says, and I hate the way his voice sounds—calm, controlled, like he's measuring every word before it leaves his mouth.
I force out a breath, try to steady the heat rising in my chest. "I'm fine."
"You're in pain."
His voice is softer now, but that only makes it worse.
I finally turn to him, and the look on his face almost sends me over the edge. It's not pity—not exactly. It's something else, something more infuriating.
He sees me.
And I hate it.
I cross my arms, my body aching in protest. "So what? You're not allowed to care anymore, remember?" I throw my father's words between us like a knife, like something sharp enough to cut through whatever this is.
Miras' jaw clenches. "I don't care what he says."
"Well, you should." I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Because apparently, he owns me now." I take a step closer, ignoring the way my vision blurs for just a second. "He thinks he can make my choices for me. That he can decide what's best. But you know what the best part is?" I tilt my head, my smile sharp and humorless. "You played right into it."
Miras stiffens. His expression doesn't shift, but I see the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.
"That's not fair."
I let out a harsh breath, shaking my head. "None of this is fair."
His silence is heavy, weighted.
I don't stop. My body protests, the sharp pang in my abdomen tightening with each strike, but I push through it. I have to. Because if I don't, if I give myself even a second to breathe, I'll have to face the fact that Miras is still standing there. Watching me.
I hear him shift behind me, his presence pressing against my back like a weight I can't shake.
"Are you just going to stand there and watch?" I snap, my breath coming sharp as I drive another punch into the dummy.
Miras doesn't answer right away, but I can feel his frustration rolling off him in waves. Finally, he exhales, long and slow. "You're pushing yourself too hard."
I let out a hollow laugh, barely glancing over my shoulder. "What else is new?"
"You're in pain."
"And?"
"And you're ignoring it."
I whirl around before I can stop myself, my vision swimming slightly from the sudden movement. "You don't get to lecture me about my choices, not after what you did."
Miras' jaw tightens. "What I did?"
"Oh, don't act like you don't know," I spit, taking a step closer, my anger burning hotter than the fire in my muscles. "You let him do this. You let him take away the one choice that was still mine to make."
His eyes darken, something dangerous flickering in them. "I tried to stop him."
"Not hard enough," I snap. "You could've fought him, Miras. You should've fought him."
His expression shutters, but his body is still tense, like he's holding himself back. "You think I wanted this?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's something raw beneath it, something barely contained. "You think I just let him make that call?"
I scoff, shaking my head. "You didn't stop him. That's all that matters."
Miras steps closer, closing the space between us in a heartbeat. "And what, exactly, did you want me to do, Cherish?" His voice is quieter now, but it's sharper too, cutting right through me. "Take you and run? Fight your father in front of everyone? Because I guarantee you, if I had, you'd be screaming at me right now for making that choice for you instead."
My hands clench at my sides. "I would've figured it out."
His eyes narrow. "Would you?"
"Yes."
His lips press into a thin line. "You can lie to everyone else, Cherish, but you don't get to lie to me."
The next punch I throw is sloppier, my control slipping the second Miras speaks again.
"How bad was it?"
I stiffen mid-strike, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. I don't turn around. I don't want to see his face when he asks that.
"What the hell kind of question is that?" I mutter, shaking out my hands, ignoring the burning deep in my muscles.
"You know exactly what I mean."
His voice is too steady. Too careful. It grates against my nerves like nails dragging against stone.
I take a slow breath through my nose, trying to shove down the tension creeping up my spine. "Drop it."
"No."
That one word makes my hands clench again.
I whirl around, my vision flashing with irritation. "I said drop it."
Miras doesn't move. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable, his shoulders squared.
"How bad was it, Cherish?" His voice is lower now, quieter, but there's something beneath it—something weighted.
I grit my teeth. "Like you actually care."
His jaw tightens. "I do."
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "That's rich, coming from you." I tilt my head, arms crossing over my chest. "You weren't exactly fighting to stop it from happening, were you?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but his gaze doesn't waver. "I would've, if I had the chance."
I scoff. "If you had the chance?" I take a step closer, my body still humming with anger, still fighting the lingering aches from the medication coursing through my system. "You think that makes a difference? That if you'd been given the opportunity to step in, everything would've magically been okay?"
Miras doesn't flinch, but I can see it—the flicker of something like guilt behind his steady gaze.
I let out a breath, sharp and tired. "It hurt, Miras," I say, my voice quieter now, but no less venomous. "It still hurts. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it."
His expression tightens, like the words hit exactly where I wanted them to.
Good.
"Cherish—"
"Don't." I shake my head, stepping back. "Don't try to make this better. Don't stand there and act like you can fix any of this."
Silence hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.
Miras exhales slowly. "I just wanted to know if you were okay."
I laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "That's the thing, Miras. I'm never okay."
His gaze darkens, but he doesn't argue.
The door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Imani's voice crashes over me like a wave, sharp and cutting, filled with something I don't have the patience to deal with right now.
I don't even turn around. I already know exactly what kind of expression he's wearing.
Miras, on the other hand, barely acknowledges him, standing just a few feet away from me, arms crossed. "You really need to work on your entrances."
Imani's steps are quick, heavy, the sound echoing off the walls as he storms toward us. "I told you to stay away from her."
Miras lets out a slow breath, like he's already bored of this conversation. "And I told you to stop giving me orders."
Imani doesn't hesitate. He shoves Miras back, hard enough that his boots scrape against the training mat. "I swear to God, if you don't back off—"
Miras barely stumbles. "Or what?" His voice is calm, but there's something underneath it now, something sharp and dangerous. "You'll try to fight me? Again?"
"I wouldn't try," Imani snaps. "I'd end you."
I sigh loudly, finally turning to face them. "Can we not do this right now?"
Neither of them look at me.
Imani is still in Miras' space, his jaw tight, his fists curled like he's waiting for any excuse to swing. Miras just stares back at him, looking entirely unbothered, like Imani is barely worth the energy.
And I should step in. I should tell them to stop before this escalates—
But I don't.
Because a sick, twisted part of me wants this to happen.
His fist collides with Miras' jaw in an instant, the crack of it echoing through the room.
Miras stumbles back a step, tongue swiping over his lip where blood beads up. And instead of getting mad, instead of shoving Imani away—
He grins.
"Finally," he mutters.
Then he lunges.
The force of it sends both of them crashing to the ground, a tangled mess of fists and fury.
I should stop them.
I should.
But instead, I watch.
Because I'm sick of being told what to do. Sick of being controlled, managed, restrained.
Let them fight. Let them tear into each other.
Let them burn.
They move fast, years of training making their strikes sharp and brutal. Miras rolls them over, pinning Imani down with an arm pressed against his throat.
Imani doesn't panic. He twists his body, knocking Miras off balance just enough to reverse their positions.
I finally move, stepping closer. "That's enough."
Neither of them listen.
Miras shoves Imani back, but Imani retaliates instantly, aiming another punch at his ribs.
Enough.
I don't realize I've reached for them until I'm already pulling.
Miras is yanked backward as if an invisible force has grabbed him, his body slamming into the opposite wall. Imani stumbles, nearly losing his footing.
They both turn toward me at the same time, eyes wide.
I exhale slowly, my fingers tingling from the sudden burst of energy.
My voice is cold when I speak.
"I said, that's enough."
For a moment, the only sound in the room is their heavy breathing.
Miras straightens from where I threw him, rolling his shoulder like he's shaking off the impact. Imani wipes blood from his lip, eyes still burning with fury as he glares at me, at Miras, at the entire situation.
I exhale, shaking out my hands, trying to dispel the remnants of energy still buzzing under my skin. I wasn't even trying to use it, but my patience is razor-thin, and I've had enough.
Neither of them move.
Neither of them dare say anything.
Good.
I take a step forward, voice steady. "Are we done?"
Miras watches me carefully, like he's weighing his options.
Imani's jaw clenches. "You shouldn't be alone with him."
Miras tilts his head, watching the exchange with mild amusement now, despite the split in his lip.
Imani shakes his head, his anger shifting into something else, something deeper. "I don't want to control you, Cherish. I just want you to see that he's not good for you."
I scoff. "And you are?"
His expression tightens.
Miras huffs out a low chuckle. "That's what this is really about, isn't it?" he murmurs.
I throw him a warning look, but he keeps going.
"Not that I'm 'bad' for her." Miras gestures vaguely, eyes still locked onto Imani. "But that she doesn't need you anymore."
Imani tenses like he's been struck.
I watch the words hit him, watch the weight of them settle into his stance, his posture.
I should feel something about that.
But I don't.
I turn away, heading for the door, done with this entire conversation. "This was pointless," I mutter.
Miras steps aside to let me pass, but Imani isn't done yet. "Cherish—"
I pause at the doorway, not looking back. "Let it go, Imani."
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
Then—
"I can't."
I close my eyes briefly, jaw clenching. "That's not my problem."
Aunt Nayley finds me curled up on my bed, my back to the door, my arms wrapped around my stomach like I can hold myself together through sheer force of will.
The pain hasn't let up. If anything, it's worse now, a deep, twisting ache that radiates through my entire body, leaving me tense and exhausted.
I hear her approach before I see her—the quiet footsteps, the slight hesitation before she steps fully into the room.
She doesn't speak right away. She just stands there, watching me, probably taking in the way I'm curled in on myself, the way I haven't moved in what feels like hours.
Then, finally—
"How long have you been like this?"
I don't answer.
She sighs, stepping closer. "Cherish."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers clenching the fabric of my shirt. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," she says, firmer now. "And you know it."
I feel the bed shift as she sits down beside me. She doesn't push me to face her, doesn't force me to move, but her presence is heavy, grounding.
"You need something for the pain," she says.
I shake my head. "I don't need—"
"Don't start," she cuts in. "You're miserable. I can see it."
I press my lips together, my breathing uneven. Another sharp pulse of pain rips through me, and despite everything, I flinch.
Aunt Nayley doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly—
"Let me help you."
I don't know why those words hit me the way they do. Maybe because no one's asked to help me in a long time. Everyone just demands, pushes, forces. But she's just offering.
And right now, I don't have the strength to fight her.
I exhale shakily, finally shifting just enough to glance at her. "Fine."
She nods, standing up. "Stay put. I'll be right back."
She leaves the room, and I let my eyes slip shut, my body still aching, still wrong.
Aunt Nayley returns a few minutes later, her movements brisk but careful. I hear the clink of glass, the rustle of fabric as she sets things down beside me.
"Sit up," she says.
I don't move at first. I can't. My body feels heavy, every breath dragging through me like it's caught on something sharp.
But then she places a warm hand on my shoulder, a firm, steady weight. Not forcing, just waiting.
I grit my teeth and push myself up, biting back a grimace as a fresh wave of pain grips my abdomen. I hate this. I hate how small I feel right now, how I can't even sit up without feeling like my body is working against me.
Aunt Nayley doesn't comment on my struggle. She just hands me a glass of water and two small pills.
"Take these."
I hesitate, eyeing them warily. "What are they?"
"For the pain," she says simply. "And before you ask—no, they won't knock you out, and no, they're not gonna mess with your head. They'll just help."
I don't want to need them.
I don't want to need anything.
But my body is screaming, and my pride isn't enough to drown it out.
I swallow the pills without another word.
She watches me for a moment, then shifts, grabbing something else from beside her—a heating pad.
"This'll help too," she says, pressing it gently against my stomach.
The warmth sinks into my skin almost immediately, dulling the worst of the ache. I exhale slowly, my shoulders loosening just a fraction.
Aunt Nayley doesn't speak, doesn't push for conversation. She just stays there, sitting beside me on the bed, solid and unmoving.
The silence isn't uncomfortable.
I shift slightly, adjusting the heating pad against me, and glance at her out of the corner of my eye. "You're not gonna start lecturing me now, are you?"
She snorts. "Tempting. But no. I don't think anyone should be lectured while going through this. An abortion is hard enough when you choose it voluntary, nevermind—"
Aunt Nayley cuts herself off. She doesn't want to say it was forced onto me. We both know the old Cherish would have done exactly that. It's not that I wanted to be pregnant.
I just wanted the choice.
Finally, she continues, "this is hard enough on its own."
Miras doesn't stop trying.
Even when I push him away.
Even when I make it clear I don't need him.
Even when Imani makes his life a living hell for it.
I see the bruises on his knuckles, the tightness in his jaw whenever Imani calls him into another conversation—which is just code for another round of punishment disguised as discipline. I don't ask what happens behind closed doors, but I already know. Imani is making him pay for refusing to let me go.
And Miras?
He's taking it.
For me.
I catch him watching me between training sessions, his gaze full of something I don't want to acknowledge.
Pity. Concern. Determination.
I hate it.
I hate that he still looks at me like I'm something worth saving.
"You should stop," I tell him one evening, my voice cold as I adjust the wraps around my hands. "You're making things worse for yourself."
Miras doesn't look away. "Not worse than they are for you."
I roll my eyes. "Spare me the martyr act."
"It's not a martyr act, Cherish," he says, stepping closer. His voice is low, steady—too steady. "I care about you. That's not going to change just because Imani wants me to stay away."
I scoff, focusing on my hands. "You act like you have a choice in this."
He reaches out then, just enough to brush his fingers over mine, stopping my movements.
"I do have a choice." His eyes are sharp, burning into mine. "And I keep choosing you."
Something twists inside me, sharp and painful.
I hate him for saying that.
I shoulder past him. "Go hover over someone else, Miras."
He falls into step beside me, completely unfazed. "Not a chance."
I grit my teeth. Of course not.
I don't know why I agreed to this.
Maybe because avoiding him forever isn't an option. Maybe because part of me wants to believe that this isn't just another attempt to control me.
But as I sit across from my father in his office, watching the way he studies me like I'm some kind of equation he's still trying to solve, I already know I'm not going to like what he has to say.
"I've been speaking with specialists," he starts, leaning forward, hands clasped on the desk. "People who understand what happened to you in the Cube. What they did to your mind."
I go rigid. My fingers curl into the fabric of my sleeves, nails pressing into my skin.
He watches my reaction closely but doesn't stop.
"They believe there's a way to fix it."
Fix.
Like I'm broken.
Like I'm some malfunctioning machine that just needs to be rewired.
I feel my pulse hammer against my ribs. "You think I need to be fixed?"
His jaw tightens. "I think you need to be yourself again."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, leaning back in my chair. "You mean her."
His eyes darken. "Cherish—"
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "No. You listen." My voice is sharp, my body buzzing with barely restrained energy. "I don't care what some specialist thinks. I don't care what kind of science experiment they want to run on me. This—" I gesture to myself, to every jagged, fractured piece of me, "—isn't something you can just undo."
His mouth presses into a hard line. "It's not undoing. It's healing."
I shake my head, letting out a bitter breath. "I don't need to be healed."
He stands then, his presence looming, but I don't back down. "You don't even realize how much you've changed," he says, voice tight with frustration. "The daughter I raised—"
"Is dead," I snap. "And you need to start accepting that."
I should have known better than to say that.
I sit at the farthest end of the room, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
I don't understand why this has to be a group conversation.
It's my brain. My mind. But, apparently, everyone gets a say in whether or not I should still be me.
My father sits at the head of the table, speaking in the same controlled, authoritative tone he always does when he's trying to steer a conversation. "The specialists believe that the energy explosion didn't just damage Cherish's body—it altered her neural pathways. The memories, the instincts, the emotional connections she once had… they've been rerouted. If we can restore those pathways, we may be able to bring her back."
I scoff loudly. "Bring me back? I'm right here."
No one acknowledges that.
Imani leans forward, arms braced on the table. "And what exactly would that restoration involve?"
My father meets his gaze evenly. "Cognitive reconditioning. Neural stimulation. Potentially memory reintroduction therapy—"
"You mean brainwashing," I snap.
"It's correction," my father corrects, his voice unwavering. "If this works, you could be yourself again."
I glare at him. "This is myself."
Miras shifts in his seat, his expression darkening. "So what, you just expect her to sit back and let some scientists reprogram her? Like she's a defective piece of tech?"
"This isn't your decision to make," my father says, voice sharp.
"Oh, yeah? Then maybe you should stop making it a group discussion," I shoot back.
Imani sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. "Look, I'm not saying I agree with this, but if there's a chance to undo what was done—"
Miras cuts him off with a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Of course you'd be on board. Must be real convenient for you to have an obedient Cherish again."
Imani's eyes narrow. "That's not what this is about, and you know it."
Miras leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "Do I? Because from where I'm sitting, you've loved having an excuse to shove me out of the picture. And this? This would make it real easy, wouldn't it?"
Imani's fists clench, but my father's warning look stops him from responding.
I exhale sharply, standing so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. "This conversation is over."
My father fixes me with a hard stare. "It's not over just because you don't like it."
I stare back at him, unflinching. "I am not letting anyone mess with my head again."
His expression doesn't change, and I already know—this isn't going to go away.
But neither am I.