*Trigger warnungs* mentions of medical abortion, physical violence
I don't even see Nakita coming.
I'm too tired. Too drained from dodging my father's constant control, from the unspoken tension with Miras, from Imani's calculated silences. The nausea and pain from the abortion still linger, a dull ache in my stomach that refuses to fade. I just wanted to get through today without another fight.
But Nakita has never been the kind to let things go.
She corners me in the school hallway, her smile sharp, eyes full of something venomous. "Guess you're not so untouchable, huh?"
I freeze. I don't know what she means—not at first.
She tilts her head, feigning curiosity. "I mean, you act all tough, but at the end of the day, you're just like any other girl who can't keep her legs closed. And now? You don't even have anything to show for it."
The air around me drops ten degrees.
Blood roars in my ears.
I don't even realize I'm moving until I've slammed Nakita against the lockers, my fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt.
"What did you just say to me?" My voice is low, dangerous.
Her lips curl in satisfaction, like she wanted this reaction. "I said—" she breathes, leaning in— "how does it feel, knowing you had to kill your own—"
I don't let her finish.
The pressure in my chest snaps. My power surges—heat and energy crackling beneath my fingertips, searing through my veins. The lockers rattle from the force of it.
She laughs—a breathy, delighted sound—"Oh wow, I really did hit a nerve—"
And then he is there.
Miras.
His hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me back. "Cherish—"
I see red.
He knew.
He told her.
I don't even think. I move.
My fist collides with his jaw so hard my knuckles sting. The crack of impact echoes down the hallway.
Nakita lets out a laugh of shock.
Miras barely stumbles, but the shock in his eyes is unmistakable.
"Cherish—"
"You told her?!" My voice shatters through the hallway. "You—you—" I lunge again, but he catches me this time, his grip firm, his eyes flashing with something I can't name.
"I didn't—"
"Then how does she know?" I shove against him, fury coursing through me, burning, aching. "You're the only one—"
"I didn't tell her." His voice is sharp now, cutting through my rage. "You think I would do that to you?"
I don't know.
I don't know anything anymore.
I rip myself out of his grasp, chest heaving, hands shaking. The whole hallway is silent—people watching, whispering. Nakita, still smirking, rubbing her wrist where I grabbed her.
I don't stop walking.
Not through the hallway. Not down the stairs. Not even when I hear Miras' footsteps behind me.
I don't care where I'm going—I just know I need to get away.
But he won't let me.
"Cherish." His voice is right behind me, low and steady, but I can hear the tension beneath it.
I ignore him.
He grabs my wrist.
Wrong move.
The moment his fingers close around me, I explode.
I spin so fast it throws him off balance. My energy crackles through the air, knocking his hand away as I shove him back against the nearest wall.
"You don't get to walk after me like you own me." My breath is uneven, my vision swimming with too much fury, too much pain. "You don't get to grab me like I belong to you."
His jaw tightens. "I never said you did."
My chest rises and falls sharply, my hands still burning with raw power. "Then why are you still here?"
Miras' gaze locks onto mine, and for the first time today, I see something there—hurt. But I don't care.
He slowly shakes his head. "You think I'd leave you like this?"
"I think you should," I snap.
But he doesn't move.
He just stays there, steady, infuriatingly calm, even after I hit him, even after I shoved him back. Like he knows I'm a storm trying to destroy everything in my path, and he's just waiting for me to run out of lightning.
I hate him for it.
I lunge forward again, grabbing his shirt in my fists, shaking him. "Then who told her?" My voice cracks, my body trembling from the weight of it all. "Who the hell—who—"
"I don't know," he says, his voice too level. "But I promise you, it wasn't me." Miras' hands come up slowly, cautiously, brushing against my wrists. "I would never do that to you."
I swallow hard, my grip loosening. "Then why do I feel like you already did?"
Miras exhales, his fingers flexing like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn't. "Because you're angry." His voice drops, softer now. "Because you're in pain."
I shake my head. "I don't need you to tell me what I feel."
"No," he agrees. "You don't."
I don't look back as I walk away, but I know Miras is still there, watching me. I can feel his gaze pressing into my back.
But I don't stop. I push open the doors leading outside, letting the cold air slap against my skin. I need the bite of it, the shock, anything to pull me out of my head.
Of course, Miras doesn't let me go far.
We stand there, tension thrumming between us like a live wire. "I'll make sure Nakita doesn't say anything."
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, really? You think you can just tell her to shut up and she'll listen?" I shake my head. "She wants people to know, Miras. And if she already said it to me, then that means she's probably been running her mouth all day."
Miras clenches his jaw. "Then I'll make her regret it."
I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. "You think I haven't already done that?" I glance at him, eyes narrowed. "What are you gonna do, Miras? Beat her up? Ruin her life? Threaten her?"
His lips part slightly like he's considering it. Like he would if I asked him to.
I don't know what to do with that.
I don't remember the walk home.
One minute, I'm pushing open the doors of the school, the weight of the stares and whispers pressing down on me like a vice. The next, I'm standing in the middle of my room, hands trembling, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.
I can still hear Nakita's voice, that smug, sharp edge to it. Guess all that power doesn't mean anything when you can't even control what happens inside your own body, huh?
My stomach twists violently, the sting behind my eyes becoming unbearable.
I don't want to cry.
I don't deserve to cry.
But the second I sink down onto the edge of my bed, I feel it all at once—like a dam breaking.
I curl in on myself, gripping the fabric of my shirt like it'll somehow hold me together. My body still aches from everything, my mind still raw and frayed, and now—now the whole school knows.
There's a soft knock at the door.
I don't respond, but it doesn't matter. Aunt Nayley doesn't wait for permission. She steps inside, closing the door quietly behind her.
She doesn't speak right away. Just stands there, watching me. Taking me in.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing myself to pull it together.
I hear her sigh before she moves closer. "Sweetheart." Her voice is softer than I expect.
I shake my head. "Don't."
"Don't what?" she asks gently.
"Don't act like this is something you can fix." My voice cracks, and I hate it. I hate this.
Aunt Nayley kneels beside me, resting a careful hand on my knee. "I know I can't fix it." She pauses, then adds, "But that doesn't mean I'm not gonna sit here with you through it."
She crosses the room, sinking down onto the bed beside me. "I'm guessing this isn't just about school."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, it is about school. Just not in the way you think."
She waits, patient as ever.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the words burning my throat. "Nakita knows."
Aunt Nayley stills. "Knows what?"
I don't look at her. "About the abortion."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then—
"That little—" Aunt Nayley cuts herself off with a sharp inhale, her fingers curling into fists. "How?"
I shake my head. "I don't know." My voice wavers, and I hate it. "She threw it in my face like it was a joke, like it was just another thing to humiliate me over." I swallow hard. "And I bet she's already told half the school."
Aunt Nayley curses under her breath, rubbing her hands down her face. "I swear, if I get my hands on that girl—"
"It doesn't matter," I cut in, my voice hollow. "It's done. It's already out there." I wrap my arms around my legs, curling in tighter. "I don't even care what they think. I just… I wanted it to be mine."
Aunt Nayley softens at that. "I know, sweetheart."
I shake my head, my throat tightening. "It's not fair."
She sighs, scooting closer, her arm brushing against mine. "It's not."
The knock on the door barely registers before it pushes open, and I already know who it is before I look up.
Miras.
I lift my head from Aunt Nayley's shoulder, my face blank, my body tense. His eyes flick between us, landing on me first. He takes in my position on the floor, the exhaustion in my face, the way I don't immediately snap at him like usual.
Then his gaze shifts to Aunt Nayley, who is already standing, arms crossed. "I hope you have a damn good reason for walking in here uninvited," she says, her voice sharp.
Miras hesitates. "I wanted to check on Cherish."
Aunt Nayley narrows her eyes. "Check on her? Or cover your ass?"
Miras' brows pull together. "What?"
She steps closer, her voice like a knife. "How did Nakita find out?"
I watch Miras carefully, my heart thudding. Because I want to know the answer too.
Miras shakes his head immediately. "I didn't tell her."
"Then who did?" Aunt Nayley demands.
He clenches his jaw. "I don't know."
"Not good enough," she snaps. "Because somehow, the entire school now has gossip about something that was no one's business, and I find it real interesting that Nakita knew first."
Miras' eyes flick to mine again, and I cross my arms, waiting.
He exhales through his nose. "I swear, Cherish, I didn't tell her. I wouldn't."
I search his face, looking for the lie, but I don't see one. That doesn't mean I believe him.
Aunt Nayley tilts her head. "Then explain how she knew."
Miras runs a hand through his hair, frustration flickering across his face. "I don't know." His voice tightens. "But I'll find out."
Aunt Nayley watches him, measuring. "You better," she says, voice low. "Because if I find out you had anything to do with this, I won't stop Cherish from taking your head off."
Miras looks at me again. "You believe me, don't you?"
I don't answer right away.
Because I don't.
Aunt Nayley exhales sharply, like she's already made up her mind. "Fine," she mutters. "If you don't know, then we're going to someone who does."
Miras straightens. "What?"
She grabs her coat from the back of my desk chair, already heading for the door. "You're driving me to Nakita's house."
Miras hesitates. "And what exactly are we planning to do when we get there?"
Aunt Nayley throws him a look. "You're driving. I'll handle the rest."
I push myself up from the floor, still sore but now burning with curiosity. "You're just going to confront her?"
Aunt Nayley scoffs. "I'm going to beat her ass." She looks at Miras expectantly. "Well? Get your keys."
Miras lets out a breath like he already regrets getting involved, but he turns and heads for the door anyway. "This is a bad idea," he mutters, but he's already pulling his keys from his pocket.
Aunt Nayley nods, satisfied. "We'll be back soon." Then she's gone, following Miras down the hall.
I don't know what she's planning, but one thing is for sure—Nakita isn't ready for her.
The house is quiet when the front door opens. Too quiet.
I sit up straighter on the couch, my eyes narrowing as Aunt Nayley steps inside first, looking…satisfied. Not smug, exactly, but like someone who had just put a problem in its place.
Miras, on the other hand, looks pale.
Not just his usual serious expression, not just tired—pale. His jaw is tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he's trying to shake something off. His eyes flick to me, then away just as fast.
My stomach knots.
Aunt Nayley pulls off her coat and throws it over the back of a chair. "Well," she says, brushing off her sleeves. "That's taken care of."
I stare at her, then shift my gaze to Miras. "What happened?"
Miras doesn't answer.
Aunt Nayley waves a hand. "Don't worry about it."
My brows furrow. "What do you mean, don't worry about it? You went over there for me." I look at Miras again, narrowing my eyes. "What did she say?"
Miras still doesn't speak.
Aunt Nayley sighs. "Long story short, Nakita won't be running her mouth again. Consider the problem handled."
"That's not an answer," I say sharply.
Miras shoots me a look, one that I can decipher from across the room. You don't want to know.
"Cherish. My office. Now."
I close my eyes for half a second. Of course.
Aunt Nayley mutters a curse under her breath. Miras straightens but doesn't say a word, his jaw still tight from whatever happened at Nakita's.
"We're doing brain scans."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says. "I've already scheduled them. We start tomorrow."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Because I wasn't already having such a great time."
"This isn't a debate, Cherish," he says firmly. "You want to act like you're fine, but you're not. And I'm done sitting back while you spiral."
I glare at him. "Spiral? You forced a medical abortion on me. You're tracking my every move. And now you want to dig through my brain like I'm some kind of science experiment?"
"If that's what it takes to get my daughter back, then yes."
The words hit harder than I want them to.
Because I know what he means. He doesn't see me when he looks at me. He sees a mistake. A glitch. Something that shouldn't exist.
I grip the back of the chair in front of me, my nails pressing into the wood. "I'm not your daughter anymore."
His expression hardens. "Not yet. But you will be."
I don't know if it's anger or something else clawing at my throat, but I force my voice to stay steady. "And what if I don't want to be her?"
For the first time, he hesitates.
But it doesn't last.
"You don't have a choice."
********
The tension in the room is suffocating.
I sit stiffly in a chair, my arms crossed over my chest, watching my father as he pulls up the brain scans on the monitor. The fluorescent glow casts sharp shadows across his face, making the lines around his eyes more pronounced.
Miras is standing off to the side, arms folded, jaw locked. Imani sits near him, just as rigid, his expression unreadable. Aunt Nayley leans against the back of the chair next to me, her lips pressed into a tight line. Dewey, predictably, is perched on the arm of the couch, legs swinging as he watches everything like it's just another episode of a show he can't turn off.
I don't know why they all have to be here for this.
My father clears his throat. "The results confirm what I suspected." He turns slightly, motioning to the scans. "There are significant changes in Cherish's neural activity compared to previous scans. The energy from the Cube altered her brain on a fundamental level."
I roll my eyes. "Wow. Shocking."
Miras shoots me a glance but doesn't say anything.
My father continues, unfazed. "The neural pathways responsible for personality, decision-making, and emotional regulation have all been rewired—some more drastically than others." His eyes flick to me. "Your memories are intact, but the way your brain processes them isn't."
Imani leans forward slightly, his gaze narrowing. "Can it be reversed?"
I exhale sharply through my nose. Of course, that's the question he asks.
My father nods. "Potentially."
"You can't just fix me like I'm broken."
"You are broken," Imani cuts in coldly. "This isn't you, Cherish."
I whip my head toward him. "And what if I don't want to be her?"
Silence.
Aunt Nayley sighs, rubbing her temples. "Alright, enough of this back and forth. If we're talking about potential treatments, let's be real—how risky is this?"
My father hesitates. It's subtle, but I see it.
"There are risks," he admits, glancing at me. "Altering the brain like this is complicated. If it's not done correctly, there could be… unintended consequences."
Miras' voice is sharp. "Like what?"
My father exhales. "Memory loss. Cognitive impairment. Personality fragmentation."
I let out a bitter laugh. "So I either stay like this or let you scramble my brain and hope I come out the other side?"
My father meets my gaze. "You won't come out the other side like this."
That's what he cares about. Not me. Not what I want. Just the idea of getting his real daughter back.
Miras' voice is low. "You can't force her into this."
"She's my daughter," my father says firmly. "And she's not capable of making this decision herself."
My nails dig into my palms. "I'm standing right here."
Dewey, who's been mostly quiet up until now, leans forward slightly. "So, just to be clear—our options are 'stay the same' or 'potential brain scramble'?" He tilts his head. "Because neither of those sound great."
I let out a sharp exhale. "Finally, someone with a brain in this room."
Imani ignores him, his gaze locked on my father. "If it can be reversed, we have to do it."
Miras steps forward. "If it goes wrong, we lose her—again."
Screw this. Screw them. Screw—
"Cherish."
Miras' voice is the only thing that makes me pause. I don't turn around, but my hands curl into fists at my sides.
"You want to talk about how different I am?" My voice is sharp, cutting. "Fine. Let's talk about it."
My father is still by the monitor, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Imani looks like he's itching for a fight, and Aunt Nayley already has a headache from dealing with all of us. Dewey, bless him, looks delighted at the prospect of more drama.
But my attention is on Miras.
"Tell me something," I say, tilting my head slightly. "If I'm so different, if I'm not her anymore, then explain this to me—" I cross my arms, my voice lowering just slightly, enough to be dangerous. "The first two times we had sex, I was still Cherish."
Miras' expression shifts, but I don't give him time to respond. I turn my gaze to the rest of them.
"So, really," I continue, "how different am I?"
Silence.
Aunt Nayley sighs. "Jesus, Cherish."
Imani looks like he's about to combust. "Are you seriously using that as an argument?"
I shrug. "Why not? You all act like I'm a completely different person, like I woke up in this body with no connection to my past at all. But I remember it. I remember him." My gaze flickers back to Miras, who is standing frozen, his jaw tight. "So tell me—how much of me is still her?"
Miras finally speaks, his voice controlled but firm. "Cherish—"
"No," I cut him off. "You don't get to look at me like that. Like I'm some stranger. You didn't have a problem touching me back then. And you sure as hell didn't have a problem last time."
Aunt Nayley groans, rubbing her temples. "I really don't need these details."
Imani, on the other hand, looks seconds away from murder. "This isn't about that—"
"Isn't it?" I throw back. "You're all so obsessed with the idea that I need to be 'fixed,' that I need to go back to who I was, but maybe I haven't changed as much as you all think. Maybe this is just who I am now."
Dewey whistles under his breath. "Whew. This is so much better than the shows I watch."
My father finally speaks, his voice low and commanding. "This conversation is over."
I shake my head. "No, it's not. Because I want to know—how do you decide which parts of me are worth saving? Because clearly, there are pieces you want to keep." I gesture toward Miras. "But everything else? You just want to wipe clean?"
Miras finally steps forward, his voice quieter than before. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" I challenge.
He doesn't answer right away.
Aunt Nayley, seeing the way Miras' expression falters, sighs again. "This is a damn mess."
Imani, still seething, shakes his head. "This—this whole thing is proof that you're not thinking straight." He turns to my father. "We have to do the procedure. We have to fix this."
Miras tenses. "You don't get to make that decision for her."
"She's not making the decision," Imani snaps. "Because she's not her."
Dewey crosses his arms. "You really know how to get a room going, don't you?"
Once the dust settles—meaning once Aunt Nayley threatens to knock Miras and Imani's heads together if they so much as breathe in each other's direction—the room falls into a tense, exhausted silence.
My father straightens his suit jacket, regaining his composure like he didn't just say something that made Miras nearly commit murder. Then he takes a slow breath, running a hand down his face before stepping forward. "Cherish, you are going to listen."
I fold my arms, narrowing my eyes. "Oh? And what exactly do I need to listen to, Dad? How you're going to poke around in my brain and flip the switch to bring back your perfect daughter?"
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't take the bait. Instead, he pulls up the holographic scan of my brain—something I hadn't even realized he had ready until now. The image flickers to life in the air, casting a faint blue glow over the room.
"You were damaged by the Cube," he says, pointing to certain darkened areas on the scan. "Prolonged exposure to that energy, to whatever Amar did to you, altered your neural pathways. Specifically, it disrupted memory processing, emotional regulation, and identity reinforcement."
I scoff. "That's a lot of words for I don't act the way you want me to."
Miras tenses beside me, but he doesn't say anything. Imani, for once, is also silent.
My father exhales sharply, clearly forcing patience. "Your entire sense of self was rewritten, Cherish. This isn't just about personality changes—this is about you, the core of who you are, being unstable. If we don't address it, your condition will only deteriorate."
"So what, you just go in and rewire me like some kind of machine?" I challenge.
"No," he says. "We reinforce the original pathways that should be there. The ones that make you, you. The ones Amar damaged."
Something cold creeps up my spine. I look at the scan again, and for the first time, I feel something close to dread.
He's serious.
This isn't just about bringing back old Cherish.
This is about removing who I am now.
I swallow hard. "And if I say no?"
His face hardens. "Then I watch my daughter disappear."
A thick silence stretches between us. My pulse pounds in my ears.
Miras shifts beside me, his voice low but firm. "There has to be another way."
"There isn't," my father says sharply. "This is the only way to fix what's been done to her."
My father takes another controlled breath, adjusting the holographic scan until it zooms in on a particular section of my brain. The glowing neural pathways flicker in and out like frayed electrical wires.
"We would use a combination of neurostimulation, controlled memory reactivation, and targeted cognitive reinforcement," he says, his voice calm and clinical—like he's reading a damn instruction manual. "Essentially, we guide your brain back to its original state."
I stare at him. "Guide it back?" My voice is sharp, incredulous. "That sounds an awful lot like erasing what's here now."
"It's not erasure," he counters, his expression impassive. "It's restoration."
"That's the same thing!" I snap.
"No, it's not." He gestures toward the scan. "Right now, your mind is unstable. It's why your memories feel fragmented. Why you're latching onto certain emotions while discarding others. Amar did this to you, and the longer we wait, the harder it will be to undo."
I shake my head, something twisting in my stomach. "So what, you zap me back to normal?"
He doesn't react to my sarcasm. "We stimulate dormant pathways, reinforce past associations, and counteract the unnatural neural restructuring caused by the Cube's energy."
I swallow hard. "And how do you do that?"
He hesitates, just for a second.
And that's how I know I'm not going to like the answer.
"We induce deep-memory recollection," he finally says. "Through controlled reliving."
The words slam into me like a punch to the ribs. My skin goes cold.
"You mean re-traumatization," I whisper.
His silence is answer enough.
Miras steps forward before I can react, voice deadly quiet. "You're saying you want to force her to relive everything? To put her back through it?" His fists clench. "And you think that's the solution?"
My father's gaze doesn't waver. "I think it's the only way."
Aunt Nayley exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down her face. "God, this is insane."
"No," Imani says, and when I turn to him, I find his expression unreadable. "It makes sense."
Miras rounds on him. "Of course you'd say that—"
"It's science," Imani cuts in, tone cold. "Cherish's mind isn't hers right now. The only way to undo the damage is to force her brain to process what happened instead of suppressing it."
I exhale shakily, pulse thudding in my throat. "You're saying you want to break me."
"We want to bring you back," my father corrects.
I let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah? And what if I don't want to go back?"
For the first time, his mask of control slips. Something dark flickers across his face.
"Then we'll have to make you."
I don't wait for them to keep arguing.
I don't wait for my father to say something else that will make me want to scream.
I turn on my heel and walk out.
No one stops me. Not Miras. Not Imani. Not Aunt Nayley. They're too busy fighting.
I make my way to the lower level. There's a fully stocked bar down there—not for me, obviously, for my father and his ranking business employees. When I push open the heavy wooden door, the dim glow of the bar's overhead lights washes over me. Shelves of liquor line the back wall, all neatly arranged, expensive bottles untouched. My fingers twitch as I step closer, scanning the labels, searching for something strong. Something that will burn on the way down.
I grab the first bottle of whiskey I see, twisting off the cap with one sharp motion. The smell alone is enough to make my nose sting.
Good.
The whiskey is sharp, fire slicing down my throat, spreading through my chest. It's exactly what I need. Something stronger than my father's words, stronger than the war raging inside me.
I take another sip. And another.
I don't stop until the edges of my thoughts start to blur. Until the room tilts, just slightly, and I can't hear my own mind screaming at me anymore.
I sink down onto the couch in the corner of the bar, stretching my legs out in front of me, head resting against the back of the cushions. The bottle is still clutched in my hand, half-empty, the burn now a familiar comfort.
This is what I wanted.
No more thinking. No more choices. No more Cherish.
Just me and the numbness.
I don't know how long I sit there, eyes half-lidded, body warm and heavy. Time stops mattering. Everything stops mattering.
Then I hear the door creak open.
Footsteps.
Heavy, slow, purposeful.
Miras.
I don't have to look to know it's him. I can feel the way the air shifts when he steps closer, the way his presence fills the space like he's preparing for a fight.
I smirk to myself, lifting the bottle to my lips again.
His voice cuts through the quiet. "You've gotta be kidding me."
I hum, tipping my head back against the couch. "Took you long enough."
He stops in front of me, and I can feel the way he's looking at me. The frustration. The disbelief. The barely contained anger.
"What the hell did you do?" he asks.
I lift the bottle, shaking it slightly. "What does it look like?"
He swears under his breath. "You drank the whole thing?"
"Not all of it," I say, smiling lazily. "There's still a little left."
"Cherish." His voice is tight. Warning.
I roll my eyes, shifting slightly on the couch. "Relax. It's just a bottle."
"You're drunk," he snaps.
"That's kind of the point," I say, taking another sip for emphasis.
Miras moves before I can react, snatching the bottle from my hand and setting it on the table behind him.
I lunge for the bottle.
Miras is faster.
He steps back before I even get close, holding it just out of my reach.
"Give it back," I snap, pushing off the couch, but the alcohol in my system makes my movements sluggish, uncoordinated. I barely get to my feet before Miras plants a firm hand against my shoulder and shoves me right back down.
"Not happening."
I scowl up at him, pushing against his grip. "You don't get to decide that."
"Yeah?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it sure as hell looks like I do."
I hate him.
I hate the way he looks down at me like I'm some mess he has to clean up. Like I'm his responsibility. Like he has any say in what I do with my own damn body.
With a growl, I shove his hand away and push up again, swinging for the bottle in his grasp. He sidesteps easily, shifting it to his other hand, his movements effortless.
It just pisses me off more.
I launch myself at him, trying to rip the bottle away, but Miras catches me by the wrist and twists, spinning me so my back is against his chest. His arm locks around my waist, pinning me in place.
"Let go!" I struggle against him, kicking, thrashing, trying anything to break free, but he's stronger. He's always been stronger.
"Not until you calm the hell down," he growls into my ear.
I snarl, throwing my head back. The back of my skull cracks against his collarbone, and he lets out a sharp curse, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist out of his hold.
I make one last desperate grab for the bottle.
Miras sighs. And then, before I can blink, he lifts the bottle over his head—
And slams it against the wall.
Glass shatters, amber liquid splattering across the floor, soaking into the carpet.
I freeze.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at the broken shards, at the whiskey bleeding into the fabric like a wound.
Then I whip around to face him, rage surging through me. "You—"
Miras meets my glare, completely unfazed. "There. Problem solved."
I breathe hard through my nose, fists shaking. "I hate you."
"I'll get over it."
I'm not ready for this.
Before I can even react, Miras's arms are under mine, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
"Put me down, Miras!" I scream, thrashing, digging my heels into the floor to try and stop him, but it's useless. He's too strong, and my body feels like it's made of dead weight.
"Not a chance," he grunts, his grip tightening as he starts carrying me out of the room.
I kick and punch, but every movement is sluggish, my limbs uncoordinated, my vision blurry. The alcohol is making everything spin, everything feel heavier. My powers? It's like they're behind a wall now—my own energy is locked away somewhere deep inside, unwilling to respond to me.
I try to push against his chest with my hands, but it's like trying to shove a brick wall. "I don't need you to—"
My words catch in my throat as my stomach lurches, and I slump in his arms, the burning shame mingling with the alcohol-induced haze.
Miras doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. His grip stays firm as he carries me through the halls, out of the living room and into a small room I don't recognize. He sets me down on the bed without ceremony, and the instant he lets go of me, I try to get up.
I try, but my legs aren't cooperating. My head spins as I try to focus, but everything is moving too fast, too erratically.
Miras watches me for a moment before crossing the room to sit down at the edge of the bed, the tension between us thick and uncomfortable.
"You really want to keep this up?" he asks, voice low, almost weary.
I don't know what to say. My throat feels tight, my head still spinning with everything that happened—the argument, the alcohol, the way he carried me like I was helpless.
I try to reach for my powers, to grab hold of that energy like I normally would, but it's like trying to grasp smoke. I can feel it, just out of reach, my hands trembling as I strain against it.
"Come on," Miras says, watching me struggle. "You think you can use that against me right now? Not in this state."
His words stab through me, sharper than I expected.
I grit my teeth, trying again, but it's like pushing against an invisible wall, every ounce of effort just slipping away. The whiskey is slowing me down, clouding everything, and I can feel the frustration building inside me like a pressure cooker about to explode.
"Just stop," Miras says softly, and I can hear the edge in his voice, the frustration, the exasperation.
Miras exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he looks away. The weight of the night hangs heavy between us, thick with unspoken words and emotions neither of us can afford to deal with right now.
Before I can say anything, the door swings open with a sharp creak, and Imani steps inside, his expression already dark with irritation. My father follows close behind, his gaze flicking over me before settling on Miras with barely contained anger.
"You have got to be kidding me," Imani mutters, crossing his arms. "You were alone with her? Like this?"
Miras straightens but doesn't move from his spot on the bed. "I wasn't going to leave her passed out on the floor," he says flatly. "Someone had to make sure she didn't—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," Imani snaps. "You don't get to make that decision for her." He turns his sharp glare toward me. "And you—what the hell were you thinking?"
I let out a breathless laugh, the alcohol still buzzing in my system, keeping everything just a little too soft around the edges. "Oh, come on, Imani," I say, stretching out my legs like I don't have a care in the world. "What's the worst that could've happened? You think he's gonna brainwash me while I'm drunk?"
Imani's scowl deepens, but it's my father who speaks next, his voice low, edged with something almost unreadable. "You're reckless," he says. "You're not invincible, no matter how much you pretend to be."
I tilt my head, blinking slowly at him. "Oh, and you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" My voice is sharp, bitter, and I see his jaw tighten in response. "Guess what, Dad? You can't force my memories back while I'm like this." I gesture vaguely toward myself, smiling, though it's anything but warm. "Whatever twisted little plan you've got going on? Looks like you'll have to wait."
His eyes narrow, and for a second, I think he might actually say something real, something raw—but then, like always, he schools his expression into something cold and unreadable.
"Get some rest, Cherish," he says instead, his voice clipped. "We'll talk when you're sober."
He turns on his heel and strides out of the room, Imani lingering just a moment longer before following with a final, frustrated glance at Miras. The door clicks shut behind them, and the silence that follows is almost deafening.
Miras watches me, his expression unreadable. "That was a choice," he says after a beat.
Miras keeps one arm wrapped around my waist as we make our way down the hall, his grip firm but careful, like he's afraid I'll slip right through his fingers. I don't fight him, not this time. The alcohol dulls the edges of everything—my pain, my exhaustion, the memories I don't want clawing their way to the surface.
I sway slightly as we reach my bedroom door, and Miras steadies me with a quiet sigh. "You really did a number on yourself tonight," he mutters, pushing the door open with his free hand.
I hum in response, half a laugh, half something else. "You make it sound like I don't know what I'm doing."
Miras doesn't answer right away. Instead, he guides me toward the bed, his movements careful, precise. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in the quiet of my dimly lit room. He lowers me onto the edge of the mattress, crouching down so we're at eye level.
I should be embarrassed—should be angry, should be something—but instead, all I feel is tired. And loose. And maybe a little too open.
I meet his gaze, the dim light catching in his dark eyes. "Miras," I say, softer than I mean to.
His shoulders tense slightly, but he doesn't look away. "Yeah?"
For a moment, I hesitate, feeling the words teeter on the edge of my tongue. And then—maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the exhaustion—I let them slip.
"I don't think I can do this." My voice wavers, and I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep looking at him. "I keep trying to be what everyone wants me to be, but it's not working. I feel like… like I don't even know who I am anymore."
Miras doesn't say anything, but something in his face shifts. His fingers tighten slightly on my wrist, grounding me.
"I was strong before," I whisper. "Before everything. Before the Cube. Before him." The words choke me, but I force them out. "I could fight. I could win." I shake my head, my vision blurring at the edges. "And now? Now I can't even reach my own damn power when I need it."
Miras exhales sharply, and when I blink up at him again, I see something raw in his eyes. Something broken.
"Cherish," he says, and my name sounds almost fragile in his mouth. "You're still strong." His voice is quiet, steady, but there's something else there too—something close to desperation. "I don't care what happened in that hellhole. You're still you."
I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. "You don't get it."
"I do get it," Miras says fiercely, his grip on my wrist tightening just a little. "I see you trying. I see you fighting through all of it. And yeah, maybe it's not the same as before. Maybe it never will be." His voice wavers, just for a second. "But you're still here."
The way he says it—it makes something inside me ache.
For the first time in weeks, I see it—the flicker of something old, something familiar in the way I smile at him, the way I tilt my head like I used to, teasing and tired and a little reckless. "God, you're dramatic," I murmur. "When did you get so emotional?"
Miras lets out a strained chuckle, dropping his head for a second before looking back up at me. "Shut up," he mutters, but his voice is thick.
And that's when I see it—just for a second—the way his face crumbles, the way his breath catches like he's barely holding himself together.
Because he sees it too.
A flicker of me.
The real me.
And it breaks him.
***
The pounding in my skull is relentless, a deep, aching throb that pulses behind my eyes and makes even the dim morning light feel like a personal attack. My mouth is dry, my stomach uneasy, and every breath feels like it scrapes against raw edges inside my chest.
I groan, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead, willing the pain away. It doesn't work. Nothing does.
"Good morning."
The voice—cold, sharp, and unmistakably my father's—sends a fresh wave of pain through my already suffering brain. I pry my eyes open just enough to see him standing at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But I know better. Beneath that carefully composed mask is disappointment. Frustration. The same emotions I've seen from him a hundred times before.
I close my eyes again. "If you're here to lecture me, can it wait until I'm not dying?"
He doesn't even hesitate. "No."
Of course not.
I let out a slow breath, steeling myself, before forcing my eyes open again. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
His jaw tightens. "Do you have any idea how reckless you were last night?"
I scoff, dragging myself up into a sitting position. My head spins, and I have to brace myself against the mattress. "Oh, please," I mutter. "I got a little drunk. It's not the end of the world."
His eyes narrow. "You lost control."
The words cut deeper than I expect.
"I was fine," I argue, even though we both know that's not entirely true. "Miras was there."
His lips press into a thin line. "That's another thing. You let him—" He exhales sharply, cutting himself off. "You put yourself in a vulnerable position, Cherish. After everything that's happened, I would've thought you'd be more careful."
Something in my chest twists, ugly and tight. "You mean after you ripped my memories apart?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don't regret it.
His expression doesn't change. "We've been over this."
"No," I say, shaking my head despite the pain it sends through my skull. "You've been over it. You did what you thought was best, and now I just have to live with it, right? No say in the matter. No choice."
His silence is an answer in itself.
I laugh, hollow and bitter. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The tension in the room is suffocating, pressing down on me along with the weight of my hangover.
The smell of coffee and toast should be comforting, but my stomach is still an uneasy mess from last night's terrible decisions. Every movement sends a dull throb through my skull, the kind of headache that makes me question every life choice that led me here. I chew slowly, trying not to anger whatever gods control nausea, while Imani works with quiet efficiency, sticking cold electrodes to my temples like this is just another day. "Can you at least let me finish breakfast before violating my brain?" I mutter, flinching as another wire presses against my scalp.
Imani doesn't even pause. "The sooner we start, the sooner it's over."
I shoot him a glare, but he's too focused, double-checking the readings on his tablet as if my discomfort is just background noise. "Oh, perfect, because that makes me feel so much better about this."
Across from me, Dewey slouches in his chair, stirring his cereal with disinterest. "I'm just saying, if you puke, you should aim for Imani's shoes."
"Noted," I reply, flashing him a weak smirk.
Imani sighs sharply. "I swear, if either of you vomits on my equipment—"
"Maybe you should have considered that before you decided to do this right now," I snap. "I just woke up, I'm hungover, and I haven't even finished my damn toast."
"Cherish," Imani warns, like he's trying very hard to be patient. "We don't have time to wait for you to feel ready. You need your memories back."
I press my lips together, my headache pulsing harder with the surge of irritation. "You mean you need them back. I'm pretty sure I never asked for this."
Imani's jaw tightens, but before he can retort, the door swings open and Miras walks in, already looking like he regrets it. He takes one glance at me, then at the wires trailing from my head, and lets out a sharp breath.
"Are you serious?" His gaze swings to Imani, voice clipped. "She's barely functioning, and you're doing this now?"
Imani doesn't even look up from his tablet. "She'll be fine."
Miras makes a sound that's almost a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Yeah? That what you tell yourself every time you mess with her head?"
Imani does look up at that, expression hardening. "She needs this."
Miras steps forward, jaw tight. "She needs time."
"Oh, really?" Imani crosses his arms, unimpressed. "Because from what I saw last night, you don't seem too concerned with what she needs."
Miras stiffens, and I know that hit home.
"Letting her drink herself half to death?" Imani continues, voice sharp. "Letting her lose control like that? You were supposed to have her back, not stand by and watch while she spiraled."
Miras exhales slowly, like he's trying very, very hard to keep his temper. "You really think she would've listened to me?" His voice is low, edged with something dangerous. "You think she wanted me to stop her?"
"I think you should have tried harder."
The tension in the room is suffocating. Miras clenches his jaw. "You act like I don't care. Like I don't see what she's going through. Like I don't—" He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply, shaking his head. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. "I tried, Imani." His gaze flickers to me, something raw in his expression. "But maybe if you actually listened to her instead of deciding everything for her, she wouldn't be fighting you at every turn."
Imani doesn't respond right away, but I see the flicker of hesitation in his face.
Dewey, meanwhile, lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Wow, love the energy in here. Just the perfect way to start the morning." He gestures lazily toward me. "You dying yet, or do I have time to go make more coffee?"
"I think I need an IV drip of caffeine if I'm supposed to survive this," I mutter, wincing as Imani adjusts another wire.
Miras finally sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, the fight draining out of him. "You okay?"
I meet his gaze, and for a second, the tension shifts into something else—something quieter. He's mad, yeah, but not at me. And that realization settles deep in my chest.
I shrug. "I mean, aside from the crushing headache and the whole forced memory retrieval thing?" I flash a too-bright smile. "Never better."
Miras doesn't look convinced.
Imani, clearly out of patience, taps his tablet screen with unnecessary force. "Enough. If you're done complaining, we need to get started."
Dewey stands, stretching. "I'm gonna go make that coffee. You guys have fun with the emotional trauma."
I scowl at Imani as he reaches for the last connection. "You really suck at bedside manner, you know that?"
He sighs. "Cherish—"
"No, no, it's fine," I say, voice dripping sarcasm. "Let's just get this over with before I change my mind and rip these wires off my head."
Miras mutters something under his breath, shaking his head as he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching.
The wires feel cold against my scalp, and every time I move, they tug slightly, an unwelcome reminder of what's about to happen. The headache from last night's drinking hasn't gone away, and now Imani is making it worse with all his careful calibrations and unreadable expressions.
"Just so we're clear," I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, "I hate this."
"Duly noted," Imani replies, not looking up from his tablet. "I'd be more concerned if you were excited about it."
Across the room, Miras leans against the counter, arms crossed, his coffee untouched beside him. He's been watching the whole process like he's expecting to have to rip these wires off me at any second. He's not wrong. I might do it myself.
Imani finally pauses, fingers hovering over the settings. "Before we start, you need to know what to expect." His gaze flicks to me, then to Miras. "Your memories won't return all at once. They'll integrate gradually, but in the meantime, you might experience fluctuations."
I frown. "Fluctuations?"
Imani exhales. "Your mind will be juggling two different versions of yourself—the Cherish you are now and the Cherish you were before." His expression is clinical, but there's something tense about it. "It's possible you'll shift between the two for a while."
The words sink in slowly, like a lead weight dropping into my stomach.
"So… what?" I scoff. "You're telling me I'm going to have a split personality now? Just randomly switching between who I am and who I used to be?"
Imani tilts his head. "Not exactly, but you might react to things differently depending on which version of yourself is active at any given moment."
"Oh, perfect," I mutter. "Because I wasn't having enough of an identity crisis."
Beside me, Miras straightens, his jaw tight. "How long is that supposed to last?"
Imani hesitates. "It's hard to say."
"That's not an answer."
"I don't have a definitive answer, Miras," Imani says, voice clipped. "It could be hours, days—"
"Days?" Miras' voice sharpens, his arms uncrossing. "And what happens if she—" He stops himself, shaking his head like he doesn't even want to finish the thought. "And you're still going through with this?"
Imani's gaze darkens. "She needs those memories."
Miras lets out a quiet curse, running a hand over his face.
The room is silent for a long moment. Even Dewey, who has been unusually quiet, finally speaks up from the couch where he's sprawled with his cereal bowl.
"Okay, not to sound too concerned," he says, "but are we just accepting that Cherish might start randomly glitching between personalities like a corrupted save file?"
"Apparently," I say flatly.
From the corner of the room, Aunt Nayley sighs, arms folded. "I'm with Miras on this one," she says, giving Imani a look. "This sounds insanely risky."
"It's necessary ," my father says, his voice calm but firm. "She needs to remember who she is."
I glare at him. "Oh, great, you're on his side. Of course you are."
His expression remains unreadable. "This is what's best for you."
I laugh, short and bitter. "You mean it's what's best for you."
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn't argue.
Miras, however, does. "And what happens when she starts switching in the middle of something important?" He looks at Imani, frustration clear in his face. "What happens if she loses control while she's between states?"
Imani meets his gaze evenly. "That's why you're here."
Miras blinks. "Excuse me?"
Imani doesn't flinch. "If something happens, you're the only one she consistently listens to."
There's a beat of silence, something heavy passing between them.
Miras exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
Dewey lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "Man, you two should really get couples therapy."
I groan. "Dewey, not the time."
Aunt Nayley pinches the bridge of her nose. "I swear, you're all giving me a headache."
"Join the club," I mutter.
Imani, clearly done with all of us, turns back to his tablet. "I'll try to make this as smooth as possible, but you need to be prepared. Both of you." He looks between me and Miras. "This isn't going to be easy."
I grip the edge of the table. "Yeah, well. Neither is living with the two of you."
Miras lets out a breath, his gaze flicking toward me. There's something conflicted in his expression, like he hates this but doesn't know how to stop it.
I swallow hard.
Imani taps the last command into his tablet. "Brace yourself."
I close my eyes.
And then the world tilts.