I grab the closest chair and hurl it across the room. Metal screeches against metal as it hits the wall, the impact dentingthe pristine surface. The leather seat rips. One of the wheels snaps off and rolls across the floor.
It’s not enough.
I sweep my arm across the conference table. Papers go flying. The projector smashes to the ground, glass and plastic shattering. Pens and folders scatter across the carpet like debris from an explosion.
My chest is heaving.
“Nothing to each other.”
I grab another chair and slam it down to the floor. The metal frame bends. All this destruction should satisfy me. Should release the pressure built up behind my sternum.
But it doesn’t. Because she’s already gone.
And I’m here, surrounded by wreckage, with ink-stained hands and a mate who thinks I’m her enemy.
I sink against the table, my head falling back. The ceiling blurs above me.
Six years of control, shattered in a matter of weeks.
And I still can’t have her.
Chapter Seven
Violet
My watch beeps its morning reminder: MEDICATION TIME.
The pill bottle rattles against my palm as I shake out two white tablets. The same ones I’ve taken every day for as long as I can remember.
I stare at them. Two innocent-looking pills that control my entire life. I toss them into my mouth and swallow them dry, the bitter taste coating my tongue before I can grab a glass and chase them with water.
Within seconds, the reaction hits. Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, my upper lip, the back of my neck. My stomach lurches violently, and I barely make it to the toilet before dropping to my knees. I grip the porcelain bowl, my knuckles white, waiting for the wave to pass.
It’s getting worse. Every day, my body fights the pills harder before surrendering. Every day, the nausea is more intense. The cold sweats last longer. My body rebels like it’s rejecting poison instead of taking medicine.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself, pressing my forehead against my arm. “Just get through it.”
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Finally, the worst of it subsides to that familiar, queasy feeling that sits heavy in my stomach. I push myself up on unsteady legs and move to the sink, where I splash cold water on my face.
My reflection stares back at me, pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless nights. The scratches on my cheek from my mother’s claws are still visible: four angry, red lines that will probably scar. I’ve covered them up with makeup at the office, but I’ve noticed the looks thrown my way.
I reach for my toothbrush sluggishly. Everything feels heavy today. My arms. My legs. Even breathing takes effort.
I brush my teeth mechanically, the mint doing nothing to cut through the bitter aftertaste of the pills. After I rinse and look up again, I glimpse a shift in my reflection.
My eyes flash gold.
I freeze, water dripping from my chin, and stare at my own face.
Golden eyes gleam back at me for one impossible moment. Bright and wild and nothing like the hazel I’ve seen my entire life.
I blink hard.
When I open my eyes again, they’re normal. Just hazel with those green flecks. Nothing unusual.
“You’re seeing things,” I mutter, holding on to the edge of the sink. But my hands won’t stop shaking. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then another.
