Page 51 of Traitor

I inhale slowly, letting the realization settle into my soul. "So what the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

Dr. Monroe leans back slightly, watching me with the kind of patience I both appreciate and resent. "You don't have to do anything. Healing isn't about forcing yourself to forget. It's about accepting the full truth. Bones hurt you in a way no one else ever could. But before that, he gave you something no one else ever had."

I shake my head, a dry laugh escaping me. "That's not comforting."

She smiles faintly. "It's not supposed to be. It's just the truth."

I exhale, feeling the weight of it onto my chest. Heavy. Unavoidable.

I don't know how to reconcile it yet. I don't know if I ever will.

But now, I understand.

I don't scream for him because I still love him. I scream for him because, for eight months, he made me believe I was worth saving.

And that is something I deserved. I deserved saving. But in the end, he didn't save me when it mattered. So he can go fuck himself.

I may still scream his name in my nightmares, but I don't call for him in my dreams anymore.

Three years since the betrayal

I always liked art. Even when I was younger, before the MC world became my entire existence, I used to sketch on napkins, in notebooks, on the backs of receipts. But I never had the time, the money, or the stability to actually pursue it.

Now, I do.

I put that FBI new-life money to good use. I take online courses in graphic design, forcing myself to focus on something that doesn't hurt to think about. It starts slow, learning about typography, color theory, brand identity. But soon, I'm good.

Better than good.

By the second year after my nightmare, I start freelancing. Clients find me through freelance websites, drawn to my bold, distinctive designs. I don't just make logos. I craft entire identities, branding for people who want to build something from the ground up, people who want to make their mark.

Even if I have a new name now, I’m careful not to use it online. I follow the instructions that the U.S. Marshalls gave me right from the start. I choose a username I like and I never share pictures of myself on social media or anywhere else.

By the third year after my nightmare, I already have a steady stream of clients. They tell me my work feels alive. That I create brands that mean something. And I think maybe it's because I know what it's like to want to start over. To build something from nothing.

So, I take the leap.

I open my own boutique creative agency. It’s small. But it’s mine.

Phoenix Branding.

A rebirth. A transformation. A life of my own making.

Four years since the betrayal

There's only one thing left to fix.

I sit in the tattoo chair, my arm resting on the padded surface, staring at the word that almost destroyed me.

TRAITOR.

I don't want to erase it.

I want to change it.

I chose to keep it all these years as a reminder of what I survived. But now I want it to show my rebirth.

The artist hovers over me, needle in hand, waiting for my nod. When I give it, the buzzing fills the air, and I watch as the ink bleeds into my skin, covering the letters without erasing them. The floral pattern blooms across my forearm, soft petals and curling vines, twisting around the letters until they disappear into something new.

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