After My Groom Chose the Student Over Me

My body was failing me.

I could feel it in the tremors that ran through my hands each morning, in the hollowness of my cheeks that grew more pronounced by the day. The mirror reflected a stranger—sunken eyes, pallid skin, hair that had lost its luster. I barely recognized myself anymore.

"Look at you," Whitney sneered, inspecting me like a piece of merchandise. "You're falling apart, Sofia."

She was right. The constant stress, the sleepless nights, the gnawing anxiety—they were eating me alive from the inside out.

"Can't even hold yourself together," Jericho added, his voice dripping with disdain. "How pathetic."

I tried to steady my breathing, to find some small corner of myself that remained untouched by their cruelty. But it was getting harder each day.

"Eat," Jericho commanded, pushing a plate toward me. The food looked appetizing—my favorite pasta dish—but my stomach clenched at the sight of it.

"I'm not hungry," I whispered.

Whitney's laugh was sharp and cold. "Not hungry? Or just afraid we've poisoned it?"

The thought had crossed my mind. After what they'd done to me—drugging me, filming me, selling me to the highest bidder—what was a little poison?

"Maybe you should try eating," Jericho suggested, his voice suddenly gentle. "You're looking rather thin these days."

The concern in his tone was more terrifying than his anger. It meant he had something worse planned.

---

"Do you like this one?" Whitney asked, parading around in a new dress.

They were in the living room of the cabin—my prison—while I sat in the corner, invisible as always.

"It's perfect," Jericho replied, his eyes roaming over her body. "You look stunning."

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor, trying to block out their voices. But they wouldn't let me.

"Sofia," Jericho called, his voice cutting through my attempt at escape. "Come here."

Slowly, I rose and approached them, my legs trembling beneath me.

"What do you think?" he asked, gesturing to Whitney's dress. "Be honest now."

The dress was beautiful—a deep blue that matched her eyes, elegant yet revealing. I remembered when Jericho would look at me that way, his gaze appreciative and warm.

"It's nice," I managed, my voice barely audible.

"Nice?" Whitney repeated, her tone mocking. "Such a pathetic response."

Jericho pulled her close, his lips brushing her neck. "She's just jealous," he murmured against her skin.

I turned away, bile rising in my throat. The casual intimacy between them was a knife twisting in my chest.

"Watch them," Whitney commanded, her voice sharp. "We want you to see what you'll never have again."

So I watched, forced to bear witness to their affection while my heart shattered piece by piece.

---

Hope was a luxury I could no longer afford.

Each day blurred into the next, a endless cycle of humiliation and pain. The camera in the corner of the cabin blinked steadily, watching my every move, documenting my slow descent into despair.

"I don't think she'll last much longer," I heard Whitney say through the speaker one morning.

"Does it matter?" Jericho replied. "She's served her purpose."

Their voices drifted in and out as I sat motionless on the bed, staring at nothing.

"The money's almost gone," Whitney continued. "We need to find another source."

Money? What money? I strained to hear more, but their voices faded.

Later that day, as I mechanically performed the chores they'd assigned me, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Hollow eyes stared back at me, empty and resigned.

"You'll never leave this place," I whispered to myself. "This is your life now."

The words settled into my bones like ice. I believed them.

---

The sound of tires on gravel jolted me from my stupor.

Who would come to this remote cabin? Jericho and Whitney had been gone for hours, leaving me alone with the camera's unblinking eye.

The door burst open without warning.

A tall figure filled the doorway, his presence commanding and familiar in a way I couldn't place.

"Sofia," he called, his voice deep and urgent. "Where are you?"

I stepped forward cautiously, my heart pounding. "Here," I called weakly.

He turned, his eyes finding mine instantly. Something in his expression shifted—relief, anger, determination.

"Ronin?" I whispered, recognition dawning slowly. My brother—the one I hadn't seen in years.

"Thank God," he breathed, crossing the room in three long strides. "Are you hurt? Can you walk?"

Before I could answer, the door opened again. Jericho and Whitney stood frozen in the doorway, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm.

"What the hell is this?" Jericho demanded, his voice rising. "Who are you?"

Ronin straightened slowly, his eyes never leaving Jericho's face. The air in the room seemed to change, charged with something I hadn't felt in months—power.

"Ronin Henderson," he replied calmly. "Sofia's brother."

Whitney's face paled. "Henderson? As in—"

"As in the Henderson family," Ronin confirmed, his voice cutting through the room like steel. "And you've been playing with fire."