Vivian shivered beneath the blanket clutched under her chin, her eyes fixed on the television. The news was relentless. Every station replayed the same footage, Anna's pale face in a hospital bed, her mother demanding justice. They spoke of Samuel Boron, heir to the Boron oil empire, now accused of sexual assault. The anchors' voices danced delicately around the facts, sowing doubt, despite the medical evidence.
Vivian's throat tightened. She hadn't visited Anna. Not once. Despite her mother's pleading, she stayed away. What kind of friend does that?
Her mother had asked her again and again: Did you see it happen? Were you there?
Vivian never answered. Couldn't.
Because she had been there.
She had seen it.
And she had done nothing.
A low ache bloomed in her stomach. Online, the vitriol was endless. Commenters eviscerated the unnamed "witness" , the girl who just watched. Vivian read every word, let them cut into her. She couldn't step outside, couldn't bear the thought of being recognized, judged.
Her phone rang. Again.
Anna's mother.
Vivian stared at the caller ID. Her thumb hovered over decline. But this time, she didn't press it. She let it ring. She didn't know what was worse, picking up, or ignoring it again.
The television droned on, a cruel loop of guilt and accusation. She thought of changing the channel, something numbing, mindless, but didn't. Turning away felt like a second betrayal.
She'd replayed that night a hundred times.
Anna hadn't even wanted to go into that room. Vivian had said it would be fine. She had smiled. She had promised.
But Anna had been right.
Everything had gone horribly wrong.
A sharp voice broke the silence.
"You can't keep watching that if you're not going to face it," said Mrs. Jen gently, as she scooped her keys off the counter. Her voice was even, but there was a tremor of urgency in it.
Vivian didn't look up. She was a hollowed-out version of herself, tired, ashamed, locked in her own head.
Mrs. Jen crossed the room and sat beside her daughter, reaching for her hand. Her touch was soft, grounding. "She's your best friend, isn't she?"
Vivian's eyes fluttered closed. Her face crumpled.
"She needs you," her mother continued. "Forget the judgment. Forget what people say. If you know what happened, then you have to speak. If you do nothing, that silence becomes part of the lie."
A single tear slipped down Vivian's cheek. Her voice, when it came, was almost inaudible. "I was scared, Mom."
"I know." Mrs. Jen squeezed her hand. "I'm not here to judge you."
Vivian collapsed into her mother's arms, her chest heaving. Mrs. Jen held her tightly, running a hand through her hair. She thought of all the years Anna and Vivian had been inseparable. The summer laughter and everything. The bond that now hung by a thin cord.
"You can do this, Vee," she murmured. "Your voice might be the only thing that makes justice possible."
There was evidence. A hallway camera had caught the girls walking in together. But the footage from inside the room, the only footage that mattered, didn't exist. Only one clip remained: Vivian, exiting alone.
Without her testimony, the case stood on fractured ground. Samuel Boron had wealth, power, and lawyers. Anna had a hospital bed and a broken truth.
Vivian pulled away slightly, her face streaked with tears. "It's not that simple. They'll twist everything. They could ruin us."
"I don't care how rich he is," Mrs. Jen said. "You know what's right. That's what matters."
Vivian nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll do it."
The words came out trembling but real. "Even if Anna never forgives me... I need to try."
Mrs. Jen's expression softened. "And if you do, I'll take care of everything else. Work, bills, leave that to me. You just focus on school. And healing."
Vivian wrapped her arms around her again. "I love you," she whispered. "Even when I forget to say it."
Mrs. Jen pressed a kiss to her daughter's forehead, swallowing the knot in her throat. "I know. I love you too."
For a moment, they sat in silence, the room heavy with memory.
Neither spoke of the day it all fell apart, when four men in cheap suits had pounded on their door just hours after Mr. Jen's death, demanding money. Vivian had watched one of them slap her mother to the ground when she begged for her husband's remains. The debt collectors had spat insults, refused to release the body. "He doesn't deserve peace after death," one had snarled.
They'd never spoken of it since. But it clung to them, unspoken.
Now, Jen wiped her face and stood. "I need to head out, can't miss the lunch crowd. New customers might show."
Vivian nodded absently, her eyes drifting back to the television, now playing a commercial.
"I'm going to the clinic," she said, as if saying it aloud would make it real. "Today. I'm going to tell the truth."
She pictured the reporters outside, the flash of cameras. The moment she would walk through those doors. The moment she would say it, finally, out loud: Samuel raped her. I saw it happen. I was there. I didn't stop it. But I won't stay silent anymore.
Mrs. Jen kissed her daughter's forehead once more. "I'm proud of you."
Vivian stood slowly, her limbs heavy but resolute. She walked toward the bathroom. She had one last thing to do.
She whispered to herself, "Now or never."
———
Vivian was just steps from the bus stop, clutching her bag, when a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled up beside her. Before she could react, the back door swung open. Two men in suits stepped out.
Then everything happened too fast.
One man grabbed her from behind, the other pressing a cloth over her face. She kicked, screamed, thrashed, muffled. The acrid smell of chemicals hit her nose, and her limbs began to fail. Her wrists were jerked back and cuffed with a metallic snap.
The world blurred.
The car sped off.
Her voice never made it past the cloth.
Kidnapped.
That word barely took shape in her mind before everything went dark.
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