Cassidy ran until her lungs burned.
Her feet carried her across the pristine lawn, past the tennis courts, through the rose garden, and toward the pond. The night air slapped her face, cold and sharp. Good. Let it hurt. Let something physical distract from the nuclear explosion in her chest.
Fucking Vivienne.
Of course it was Vivienne. Perfect, poised, always-gets-what-she-wants Vivienne. The Valentine heiress with her perfect grades and perfect hair and perfect fucking life.
And Isaiah. Goddamn Isaiah Angelo. The boy who looked at her like she wasn't broken. The boy who taught her math on graph paper and played tennis with her even though he sucked. The boy who sat in her bed and held her when she couldn't breathe.
The boy who kissed her sister.
Cassidy reached the wooden dock and collapsed onto it, her knees hitting the weathered planks with a painful thud. She welcomed the sensation. Better than the alternative—the hollow ache spreading through her ribcage like poison.
