Page 27 of Broken Hearts

Picking up the phone, I see a text, its tone unmistakable even in written form, which sends a chill down my spine.

Unknown Number: Come with your friend to the game today. Only one person could be behind these words, commanding and expectant. Cole. I let out a derisive scoff, wondering in what twisted reality he thinks I’d comply.

Me: No.

Cole: Angel…

But I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge it. I won’t let him pull me back into that dark orbit.

Putting the phone down, I try to organize the scattered papers on my desk. It seems like he has given up until the phone vibrates once more.

Cole: I’m done playing nice.

My fingers hover over the screen of my phone, poised to respond. Like you ever did, I type out, the words are too reflective of my bitterness. I pause, my thumb hovering over the delete key. Engaging with him, even in anger, is playing his game. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

Cole: You think it’ll burn nicely? You can watch the experiment live after the game if you don’t come.

My breath catches in my throat at the photo of my violin on what I assume is his bed. How did he get it? How did he know where to find it? So many questions that will never be answered.

Closing my eyes, I allow the sense of defeat to wash over me. Maybe it’s for the best, after all. Maybe I’ll be better if everything is gone.

Me: Burn it.

I lie back on the bed, the phone against my chest, and for the next few minutes, I’m grieving that stupid violin, but Max’s words resonate stronger than anything. Stronger than my pain and bleeding heart.

“Never hand him your power. Own it, and you control the fight.”

I should know better, though; he is no better than a dog with a bone, and then he sinks even lower.

Cole: You know what’s funny? The Westbrooks are the biggest donors of Crescent Academy. It would be sad for the soccer coach to be fired.

My heart drops, and I sit up on the bed. My father’s job, our financial stability, everything hangs in the balance. The thought of losing the one thing that’s keeping us afloat after my mother’s cancer treatments and my own costly aspirations is unbearable.

The realization that he would stoop to such depths to control me, to hurt me, ignites a fire within me. My response is almost automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to protect what’s most important.

Me: He made the school win the championship five years in a row.

It’s a feeble defense against his malicious intent, but I cling to it, desperate to believe that my father’s accomplishments would shield him from Cole’s wrath.

His reply is a cold reminder of the power he wields and the influence his family has over Crescent Academy.

Cole: He did, but is he worth three million a year?

The words are a gut punch, a clear message that my father, my family, is just another pawn in his twisted game.

In that moment, any remnants of the person I once thought I knew, the person I once loved, evaporates. A new level of hatred for Cole Westbrook takes root in my heart, a hatred that’s raw and all-consuming.

Me: I’ll be there.

This concession tastes like ash in my mouth.

Cole: Good Girl ;)

I flip my finger at my phone. I’m not going to be a passive participant in this vendetta anymore. He wants to go after my family?

Fine! It’s war you want? You’ll get it.

The crisp fall air is tinged with the excitement and buzz of the upcoming soccer game.

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