Ninety-Nine Times, Then No More

June's PR team had been working overtime. By the time Chase and I arrived, the narrative was set: June Carrillo, the beloved indie darling, was the victim of a vicious smear campaign, likely orchestrated by a jealous party.

Our appearance together was a masterstroke. Chase Vargas, the powerful CEO, standing by his wife, Elena, who was also June's adoptive sister. It was the perfect, unspoken rebuttal to the rumors. It screamed solidarity.

June saw us, and her performance kicked into high gear. She rushed toward us, her face a mask of tear-streaked relief.

"Elena! Chase! I'm so glad you're here!" she cried, throwing her arms around me. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her nails digging into my arm. "I knew you wouldn't believe those horrible lies."

I stood rigidly in her embrace, my smile frozen on my face. I was a puppet, and she and Chase were the puppet masters. I played my part, murmuring something about sisterly love and the cruelty of the media.

The crowd surged forward, a chaotic mix of fans and reporters. People were pushing, shouting. A security line buckled. I saw a heavy stage light precariously balanced on a stand start to wobble. It was directly above us.

I tried to step back, to pull away from June, but she held me fast. "Stay close, sister," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss in my ear. "It's dangerous."

She knew. She saw the light, too. And she wasn't letting me go.

In the next moment, everything happened at once. The light stand toppled. June didn't try to pull me out of the way. Instead, she shoved me forward, directly into its path, and then threw herself to the side with a theatrical scream.

It was a perfect plan. Except, as the stand fell, the heavy light fixture broke loose and swung sideways. It missed me completely and crashed into June's shoulder as she scrambled away. She screamed again, this time in genuine, if minor, pain.

Chase, who had been watching the whole thing unfold, didn't hesitate. He lunged into the crowd, his eyes only for June. He scooped her up in his arms, his face frantic with worry. "June! Are you okay? Talk to me!"

He didn't even glance at me.

I had been shoved so hard that I stumbled backward and fell. I landed hard, my face hitting the cold concrete floor. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound.

As I lay there, dazed, I felt a searing, blinding pain in my side. I looked down. A piece of rebar from the broken security barrier, sharp and rusted, had been jutting up from the floor. My fall had driven it deep into my abdomen.

The crowd, like a tide, followed Chase and June as he carried her toward the exit. People were screaming, running. Someone stepped on my hand. Another kicked my leg. I was invisible, a piece of trash left behind in the chaos.

Warm, sticky blood started to soak through my dress. The pain was immense, a fire spreading through my entire body. I tried to call out his name.

"Chase..."

It was a whisper, lost in the noise.

He was already at the door, pushing his way through. He didn't turn around. He didn't look back. He just disappeared, with her in his arms.

I lay there, watching him go. The last shred of hope in my heart withered and died.

This was it. The final act.

I had been keeping a silent count in my head for five years. Every deliberate cruelty, every casual betrayal. The ninety-nine times he had broken my heart. And now, this. Leaving me to die on a cold, dirty floor while he saved the woman who had tried to kill me.

This was number one hundred.

The number I had promised myself would be the end.

My vision started to blur. The sounds of the crowd faded into a dull roar. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a kind-faced security guard kneeling beside me, his phone to his ear, his voice urgent.

"We need an ambulance. Now. A woman is bleeding out."

Then, everything went black.

I spent hours in surgery. When I woke up, the first thing I heard was the hushed, indignant voices of two nurses.

"Can you believe it? The pop star, June Carrillo, gets a whole VIP suite for a bruised shoulder. They've had every specialist in the city look at her."

"Meanwhile, this one, Mrs. Vargas, almost died. The rebar missed her main artery by a millimeter. And her husband? Hasn't shown up once. We tried calling him, his assistant, everyone. No one answered."

The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.

Alone. I had a husband, a father, a sister. But in the end, I was completely alone.

The pain in my side was a dull, constant throb. But it was nothing compared to the emptiness inside me.

I closed my eyes and drifted back into the darkness.