Irreplaceable Rose

The next day around noon, I was on the phone with my mother's hospital wing when the sharp click of heels echoed through the foyer, mixed with George's low, easy laugh.

"Georgie, I brought you lunch," Sarah's syrupy-sweet voice chirped.

My grip on the phone tightened. He never laughed like that with me—so freely, so sweetly, like it was dipped in honey.

And he never allowed me to call him "Georgie." He said it was too intimate.

He was walking beside her, deliberately slowing his long stride to match her shorter one.

She tilted her head, said something playful.

He leaned in close, turning his face toward hers, listening with a soft smile playing on his lips.

The sight was a physical ache. He had never been that way with me. With me, he was always just George—distant, untouchable, someone I was constantly straining to reach.

The difference between being loved and being tolerated was painfully obvious.

"Oh, Catelyn, you're here too," Sarah said, her smile saccharine.

I forced a stiff smile in return. "Sarah."

She pulled an elegant box from her bag and held it out. "I heard George asked you to get close to Jordan. I picked out something special for you. "I know his type better than anyone. He'll definitely like this."

I opened the box. Inside was a set of black lace lingerie, so flimsy and revealing it was practically indecent.

It sat heavy in my hands, a wave of humiliation washing over me. Even George's expression darkened, a faint frown creasing his brow.

I thought maybe it was her words—"I know his type better than anyone"—that had annoyed him.

No man likes to hear another guy's preferences described so casually by the woman he loves.

My throat felt raw. "Thank you," I managed to force out.

But Sarah wasn't done. She curled her hand possessively around George's arm and cooed, "Catelyn, why don't you go try it on now? Let us see how it looks."

She smiled, all wide-eyed innocence. "That way I can give you some pointers. We want to make sure nothing goes wrong."

I stood frozen, clutching the box until my fingertips turned white.

George said nothing—his silence was a form of permission.

In the dressing room, the mirror reflected a stranger. The black lace barely contained my chest, the straps were whisper-thin, and the cutouts along the waist revealed the dark bruises his fingers had left there the night before.

Steeling myself, I pulled the door open—and walked straight into a room full of eyes.

The living room was packed. At least a dozen men and women, all the elite children of powerful families, were lounging around.

Their stares hit me—a mix of admiration, mockery, disdain, and raw hunger.

Sarah widened her eyes in feigned surprise, putting a hand to her mouth. "Oh my gosh, Catelyn, I am so sorry. It's my birthday tonight and my friends just insisted on coming over early. I had no idea you'd come out dressed like that. This is so awkward."

Her voice oozed fake apology, but her eyes sparkled with triumph.

My face burned. Instinctively, I tried to retreat back into the room.

But Sarah caught my wrist, pulling me forward into the full view of everyone. "Don't be shy. Let everyone see George's exquisite taste."

The room erupted in laughter. Someone wolf-whistled. Phone cameras were lifted, flashes popping.

"Damn, George, so this is the little minx you've been hiding? She's a stunner!"

"Tsk, that body, that skin… puts all those models to shame."

"I heard she used to be a wealthy socialite. Looks like she'll stoop to anything for money now."

The filth rained down on me, wave after wave.

"Didn't Catelyn use to study dance?" a guy with bleached-blond hair jeered. "How about a little performance for us?"

"Yeah, a striptease!" others catcalled, howling with laughter.

I swallowed back the tears and looked straight at George.

He was lounging against the sofa, with Sarah tucked contentedly under his arm and laughing heartily.

But his eyes were dark, his lips pressed into a thin line. The lighter in his hand clicked open and shut, trembling just slightly—the only sign that something was churning beneath the surface.

But he said nothing.

And in that silence, my heart plunged, sinking deeper and deeper into a cold, dark abyss.