They Chose Her Over My Life

Mason yanked me down the stairs, his grip so forceful I stumbled and crumpled to the floor. "Faith has graduated! You don't get to ignore her anymore!"

I landed hard, a sharp, grinding pain shooting through my knee.

Garrett frowned. "Willow, I was the one who decided to change the wedding plan. It has nothing to do with Faith. If you're upset, take it out on me. Don't make her sad."

Curled on the floor, I couldn't tell what hurt more—my knee or my heart.

"Don't be mad at Willow," Faith said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a tissue. "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have used her wedding for my project. If I'd just chosen a different topic, none of this would have happened."

Through my tear-blurred vision, I caught the tiny, cold smirk on her lips.

"What are you talking about? This is for your career. The wedding she planned was too small-scale anyway. It has nothing to do with you," Mason said dismissively.

He glared down at me, his face a mask of impatience. "You love throwing tantrums, don't you? Fine. You can stay here and have one all by yourself."

Mason hauled me to my feet and shoved me into the basement home theater beside the stairs.

Panic flared in my chest. I fumbled for the doorknob, but before my fingers could close around it, I heard the heavy click of the lock on the other side.

He had locked me in.

"Stay in there," Mason's voice came, cold and muffled. "You can come out when you've learned to behave."

"No! Please, let me out!" I shrieked, pounding on the door. "I'm allergic to peanuts! I need my EpiPen!"

But his voice was already fading as he called out to Faith.

"I made a reservation at that new Michelin-star place. It's almost time, we should go!" he said cheerfully.

"But Willow…"

"She'll be fine. A few hours in there will teach her a lesson," Mason replied.

"Yeah, her temper is awful," my father chimed in. "Locking her in is a good idea. I'll bring her back some of her favorite dessert later."

"Let's go, Garrett," my mother added. "She'll be fine for a few hours."

In an instant, pure terror consumed me. I pounded on the heavy, soundproof door with all my might, screaming, "I'm not angry anymore! I'll apologize to Faith! I'll do anything! Just let me out! I can't breathe! I'll die in here!"

My voice grew hoarse, turning into a desperate, ragged plea, but the house had fallen silent.

I collapsed to the floor. The itching spread from my back to my face, and a terrifying tightness began to close around my throat.

My parents had watched me drink that milkshake. They knew I was allergic. And still, they had forgotten me.

They remembered Faith's favorite high-end restaurant, but they forgot I had downed a lethal dose of peanuts just minutes before.

Desperation forced me back to my feet. I twisted the doorknob with all my strength, but it was locked solid from the outside.

I frantically searched my pockets, but my phone must have fallen out when Mason grabbed me.

A red, angry rash was now covering my entire body. My face was swelling, blurring my vision. Worse, each breath was a desperate, painful struggle.

If I didn't get out, I was going to die in this theater.

As I groped around for something—anything—to pry the lock open, my fingers brushed against my phone, tossed in a dark corner.

A wave of relief washed over me as I scrambled for it with trembling hands.

But of course, neither my parents, my brother, nor Garrett answered my calls.

Then, a text from Mason popped up.

"Don't even think about trying to join us. You'll just ruin Faith's celebration."

Tears I could no longer feel streamed from my swollen eyes. How could I have ever expected anything from them?

Finally, my trembling fingers dialed 911.

Every second stretched into an eternity. My airway was constricting, and each gasp for air was a monumental effort. I could barely hold on, managing only to croak my address to the operator.

When the door to the home theater was finally smashed open, my world went black.