Chapter 21
Samantha's POV
I was eight when I learned to be quiet during my father's rages. Mom had a system—if his footsteps were heavy when he came home, we'd hide in the bathroom until the worst had passed. If he called her name with that particular edge to his voice, I knew to disappear into my bedroom closet.
"It's not your fault," Mom would whisper afterward, ice pack pressed to her cheekbone, makeup already in hand to cover the evidence before morning. "Daddy just gets angry sometimes."
But it was my fault, in a way. If I'd been quieter, better, less demanding, maybe he wouldn't have gotten so angry. Maybe Mom wouldn't have needed so many ice packs.
By twelve, I'd perfected the art of invisibility. I kept my grades perfect because bad report cards made him angry. I kept the house spotless because mess made him angry.
Mom just got quieter, smaller, more ghost than person.
When I was sixteen, the crash happened. Dad driving drunk, Mom in the passenger seat. Neither survived. I remember feeling nothing when the police officer told me—just a vast, echoing emptiness where fear had lived for so long.
Margaret Grey became my foster mother. She wasn't cruel like my father, but she wasn't kind either. Her house was small, in the blue-collar part of town, and she made it clear that taking me in was a burden she'd accepted out of Christian duty, not desire.
"You're lucky to have a roof over your head," she'd say whenever I asked for anything—new clothes, school supplies, permission to join a club. "Most orphans aren't so fortunate."
Her son, Jack, was worse. Eighteen and angry at the world, he resented sharing his space with me. He never hit me—Margaret wouldn't have tolerated that—but he had other ways of making my life miserable. Small cruelties, missing belongings, whispered threats when his mother wasn't around.
But Margaret did one thing right, though not for the right reasons. She transferred me to a high school closer to her house—to make her life more convenient, not mine. But that's where I met Lucas Miller.
Her hand-me-down clothes were always too big—outdated, plus-sized things she'd worn in her younger days. I refused to wear them. I stuck with my own well-worn but fitted clothes instead. Looking poor in high school wasn't a big deal as long as you still looked good. Some guys even found it endearing, their protective instincts kicking in at the sight of a pretty girl who clearly needed saving.
Lucas was everything Jack wasn't—handsome, confident, kind. When he smiled at me, it felt like stepping into sunlight after years in shadow.
There was only one problem: Ellie Green. Lucas's best friend since childhood, always at his side, always watching me with those knowing eyes. I could tell she didn't approve of me, could sense her judging every word I said, every move I made.
And why would she approve? Ellie Green, with her perfect life and perfect family and perfect future all laid out before her. What could she possibly know about fighting for survival?
When summer came, I made my decision. I told Margaret I was being bullied at school, begged her to let me transfer to Westridge High. I cried, pleaded, even threatened to run away. Eventually, she relented.
"You'll be paying for your own uniforms," she warned. "And don't come crying to me when those rich kids eat you alive."
The plan was simple: disappear from Lucas's life without explanation, then reappear at his College in the fall. The absence would make him realize how much he missed me. The surprise reunion would cement his feelings.
It worked better than I could have imagined. Lucas was overjoyed to see me, immediately introducing me to his friends, including me in everything.
Perfect.
"Sam? Did you hear me?"
Lucas's voice pulled me back to the present. He was looking at me expectantly.
"Sorry, what?" I asked, blinking away the memories.
"I asked if you wanted to go to the movies Friday night," he repeated, a hint of irritation in his voice.
"Oh. Yeah, sure," I said, forcing a smile. "That sounds great."
College had been another hurdle. I'd been accepted to Cedar View University, but without a scholarship. When I told Margaret, she'd laughed.
"You think I can afford that? You'll have to take out loans like everyone else. Or find yourself a rich husband to pay for it."
Her words had stung, but they weren't wrong. Lucas was going to CVU on a basketball scholarship. His family was wealthy—old money, the kind that came with connections and opportunities. If we stayed together, those opportunities would become mine too.
But then Ellie had followed us to CVU, like a shadow I couldn't shake. And Lucas's mother, Caroline, made it clear from our first meeting that she thought Lucas could do better. "Such a brave girl," she'd said to me once, her smile not reaching her eyes, "putting yourself through school with no family support."
The message was clear: I wasn't good enough for her son.
As Lucas continued talking about the movie, my mind wandered. Last week, I'd overheard some dance association members talking about the upcoming anniversary performance. Ellie's name had come up—apparently she'd been selected for a special solo piece, despite being only a freshman.
The injustice of it burned in my chest. How many talented dancers had been passed over? How many students who had worked for years for such an opportunity? But no—Ellie Green gets the spotlight, probably because her family made a generous donation to the school.
"Hey, I just remembered," I interrupted Lucas mid-sentence. "I heard Ellie's going to be in the anniversary performance. Dancing or something."
Lucas's expression shifted subtly. "Where did you hear that?"
"Around," I shrugged. "Apparently it's a big deal. Special choreography, spotlight moment, the works."
I watched as Lucas processed this information, his brow furrowing slightly. "She didn't mention it."
"Why would she?" I asked innocently. "You're not exactly on speaking terms."
Lucas fell silent, and I pressed my advantage. "I was thinking of going to watch. You know, support the school and all that. Want to come with me?"
"Yeah," Lucas said after a moment, his eyes distant. "Yeah, I think I will."
I smiled, satisfaction curling through me. Perfect. I remembered something else then—something Lucas had mentioned weeks ago, when we'd first started dating.
"Ellie has this weird allergy to silver. Like, it gives her these crazy rashes. We always had to be careful with jewelry and stuff."
Silver. Like the candelabra I'd spotted in the theater department's prop storage. The same candelabra that had somehow fallen from the third-floor window as Ellie walked below.
The heavy silver piece had nearly hit her head. Part of me had been disappointed when it missed, but then I'd seen her reaction—the way she'd clutched her shoulder in pain where it had grazed her, the panic in her eyes.
That silver allergy was no joke.
Of course, she wouldn't be able to perform. Most people wouldn't notice or care if they replaced one freshman with another dancer. But what if I spread some rumors? I was good at that—had always been good at that.
A whisper here about how she'd gotten the spot because of family connections, a comment there about how she'd backed out because the choreography was too challenging. By the time I was done, her reputation would take a bigger hit than her shoulder had from that candelabra.