Her father was governor then. Just stepping into the national spotlight. The photos were immaculate. White flowers. Cameras angled just right. Carter looked brave. She looked… serene. Untouchable.
I stared at the article until the words stopped meaning anything.
Married.
Publicly.
Permanently.
Proudly.
No trace of me.
No hint I'd ever existed.
She hadn't waited.
I read every line anyway. Like a punishment I deserved. They wrote about her strength. Her loyalty. How she stood by Carter after the accident. How she represented everything good, and steadfast, and American. Had she lied to me even before? When she said she had broken up with Carter?
They didn't write about the promises she made in the dark. They didn't write about the blood under her nails. About the forever we swore wasn't optional.
Not the soft kind.
Not the hopeful kind.
The kind forged in blood and fear and guilt.
Forever in pain. Forever in death.
We even had it tattooed together.
Hidden beneath the ribs, just under her breast. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't pretty. It was a vow made by two people who already knew there was no clean way out. Ink burned into flesh the same way the promise burned into us, quiet, permanent, impossible to undo.
We buried a body together. Swore that if one of us went down, the other would carry it. That no matter what happened, we would never disappear on each other.
She vanished anyway.
What the asphalt couldn't do. What the engine couldn't do. What my uncle couldn't do.
She did.
I learned how to breathe again after that. Just not how to forgive. I broke a rule for her back then. I showed mercy. Not to an enemy, worse. To someone I cared about. I allowed sympathy into decisions that should have stayed sharp. I believed that loyalty could exist without control, that love could survive without leverage.
That was my mistake.
Mercy brings exposure. It teaches people where you're soft. And once they know that, they cut there first. Women aren't dangerous because they lie. They're dangerous because they make you want to believe them.
I believed once. And it nearly got me erased. So, no—I won't make that mistake again. Ever.
I'd rather die than let anyone see that part of me twice. Rather bleed out alone on concrete than hand someone the blade and trust they won't use it. Rather end her myself than let her do again what she did before.
I survived by cutting mercy out of myself. If she ever stands in front of me again, I won't hesitate.
I won't ask why.
I won't remember what we were.
I'll do what should have been done the first time.
