Love Taken for Granted

My halfsister, Wanda, committed a hitandrun while drunk driving. To shield her from punishment, my fiancé—an esteemed lawyer and the man I once trusted above all—made me take the fall.

He didn't even flinch as he condemned me. "For someone as vile as her, taking Wanda's place in prison is a blessing," he had said with a frown of cold disdain.

For five years, I endured the suffocating walls of a prison cell, bearing a crime I didn't commit. My anger kept me alive, my resolve hardening with every passing day.

When I was finally free, fate brought us facetoface again. But I didn't so much as glance in his direction, let alone take a single step closer to him. He wasn't worth it.

Yet, on the day I stood radiant in a wedding dress, ready to start a new chapter with someone else, he shattered the moment. The man who once betrayed me burst into the ceremony, his usually composed demeanor replaced by desperation. His redrimmed eyes betrayed sleepless nights and his voice trembled as he knelt before me.

"Please," he begged, his hands trembling. "Love me one more time."

The day I stepped out of prison, snow blanketed Arlington—a rare and surreal sight. Flurries drifted lazily, the icy wind biting into my exposed skin. My thin prisonissued clothes clung to me, useless against the cold. I hugged my arms tightly around myself, my breath visible in the frosty air.

Through the haze of snow, I saw Sean's car idling by the roadside, its sleek black exterior pristine against the white backdrop. The tinted window rolled down, revealing the face that had once made my heart race but now only left me hollow.

"Get in," he said, his voice low and clipped, offering neither warmth nor reproach.

I climbed in without a word, the leather seat cold against my skin. My silence wasn't a choice—it was survival. I had nowhere else to go.

The car moved smoothly through the snowdusted streets, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of snow under the tires. My gaze remained fixed on the window, watching as the city blurred past. Each turn felt unfamiliar, like I was a stranger in a place I used to call home.

Home. The word felt like an echo from a distant life. My parents had ended theirs in despair, leaping from the rooftop of the company they had poured everything into. The villa I grew up in had long since been sold. Sean had bought it back, though I doubted it was out of sentiment.

When we arrived, the sight of the house knocked the air out of my lungs. The manicured lawn, the towering oak tree by the gate—it was all the same, yet it felt foreign. I stood frozen in place, my body refusing to move.

"Natalie, you're finally home!" Wanda's chirpy voice rang out, shattering the silence. She stood in the doorway, her smile wide and welcoming, as if we were a family reunited after years apart.

Her figure approached quickly, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands. The aroma hit me first—rich and savory, yet cloying in its familiarity.

"Do you want to try it? I made it just for you," she said, thrusting the bowl toward me.

Before I could respond, the heat wafting from the bowl made my nose sting. I recoiled slightly. "It's too hot," I said hurriedly, waving a hand. "Just put it down—"

My words were cut off by Wanda's sudden cry. "Ouch!"

The bowl tilted precariously and the scalding liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. Pain seared through my skin, a vivid red mark blooming instantly. Tears blurred my vision as I gasped, clutching my hand.

Through the haze of pain, Sean appeared. His long strides ate up the distance between us in moments. For a fleeting second, I thought he might be concerned, but the storm in his eyes quickly dispelled that hope.

"I thought prison would teach you to behave," he said, his tone sharp and cutting. "But you're still as vicious as ever."

I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but Wanda beat me to it.

"Sean," she whimpered, extending a trembling hand toward him. "It hurts..."

Her pale face was the picture of fragility, her bitten lip trembling as if the world had wronged her.

Sean's familiar sandalwood scent enveloped me as he stepped closer. Instinctively, I backed away, the memory of his touch—once comforting, now suffocating—tightening around me.

Lowering my gaze, I forced out the words, my voice trembling. "Darling, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

Sean's brows knitted slightly, his thumb absently rubbing his palm—a subtle tell of his displeasure.

"What did you just call me?" His voice was low, dangerous.

My heart sank. I couldn't bring myself to call him that again, not after everything. He wouldn't want me to, anyway.

"Mr. Connor," I corrected myself softly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I apologize, Mr. Connor. I'll be more obedient."

The air turned heavy, suffocating in its tension. Sean's eyes bore into me, searching for something, though I didn't know what.

"Mr. Connor," he repeated with a cold laugh, the sound cutting through me like a blade. "How fitting."

I didn't respond, keeping my head bowed.

After a moment, he exhaled sharply, the sound filled with something unreadable. "Get some rest," he said finally. "You've suffered enough and this is your first day outside prison."

As he spoke, he reached out, his hand hovering above my head as if to pat it—a gesture that once brought comfort but now only froze me in place. I tensed but didn't move.

Sean withdrew his hand without a word. I turned and walked toward the room I used to call mine, my steps slow and unsteady.

Just as I reached the doorway, his voice stopped me cold.

"Natalie," he said, his tone unreadable.

I turned, my heart thudding in my chest and waited for the words that would follow.

"I still remember my promise. As soon as Wanda recovers from her depression, I'll marry you."

Sean's voice was steady, almost clinical, as if the promise was a matter of duty rather than love. He paused for a moment, his dark eyes meeting mine briefly before looking away. "She's your little sister, so be more understanding of her."

I didn't respond. Instead, I lowered my gaze to the intricate Persian rug beneath my feet, tracing its swirling patterns with my eyes. The words should have made my heart race with joy, as they once would have. Instead, I felt nothing. My love for Sean had died the day he betrayed me, its ashes cold and irretrievable.

Once, I had been cherished. My parents adored me, showering me with attention as the heiress of the Johnson Family—respected, admired and envied throughout Arlington. My word was law in our household. Yet, for Sean, I had thrown it all away.

I still remembered the first time I saw him. He was just a boy then, standing awkwardly in our grand foyer. His school uniform was too big, the fabric faded from countless washes. He had shifted uncomfortably under the weight of my father's kind words, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. But it was his eyes that caught me—clear, determined and defiant despite his obvious discomfort.

From that moment, Sean became the center of my world. I ignored the whispers about his background, the disapproving looks from my friends and the silent disapproval of my extended family. For him, I learned to bake desserts and pack lunchboxes, small gestures that made my sheltered heart flutter. I ran errands, enduring his quiet indifference, convinced that my persistence would one day win him over.

But my devotion became my undoing.

By the time Sean graduated university, he had risen to prominence as one of Arlington's top lawyers. His name was synonymous with success, his face gracing magazine covers as the city's undefeated legal prodigy. At the same time, the Johnson Family began to crumble under the weight of financial scandals and relentless competitors.

The day Sean celebrated his 100th case win, my parents—unable to bear the mounting pressure—finalized my paperwork to study abroad. That same night, they jumped from the rooftop of their office building, hand in hand.

I should have left Arlington then, but fate had other plans. Wanda, my foster sister, had gotten into trouble. She had driven drunk and hit someone, leaving the victim's family inconsolable. Sean had stepped in, but even his formidable skills couldn't secure her freedom. A fiveyear prison sentence loomed.

I was at the airport, one foot on the threshold of a new life, when Sean stopped me. His expression was unreadable as he informed me of his plan.

The memory of that night still burned.

He had locked me in his house, his once softspoken demeanor replaced by icy resolve. I screamed, raged and begged for an explanation.

"Sean, where is your conscience? My family raised you, gave you everything! How could you repay me like this?"

He stood calmly as I hurled accusations, his face impassive. "It's only five years, Natalie," he said evenly, as though that justified everything. "Wanda once saved my life. I can't abandon her."

Something inside me snapped. I charged forward, slapping him with all my strength. The sound of it echoed in the room, the bright red imprint of my hand standing stark against his pale skin.

"The person who saved you that day in the sea wasn't Wanda—it was me!" I cried, my voice breaking.

His hand rose to his cheek, his expression darkening as he stared at me, his gaze now cold and distant. "Enough!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. "Haven't you caused enough trouble, Natalie? Now you're even trying to steal Wanda's credit?"

He took a step closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. His eyes, once a source of comfort, now felt suffocating. "You're lying," he spat. "You've been afraid of water since you were a child. How could you have saved me?"

I trembled, my hands balled into fists at my sides. "Sean, you—"

But he didn't let me finish. "No matter what, you'll take the fall for Wanda," he said with finality. His voice was devoid of warmth, as though he were delivering a verdict in court.

"She only went to that bar because of you! She was harassed and nearly assaulted there!"

With that, he turned and slammed the door shut, leaving me alone with my despair.

The next day, I was sent to prison.

I didn't know what to expect inside those walls, but the cruelty of the inmates shattered any illusions I might have held. On my very first day, they dragged me into a corner, yanking out chunks of my hair and slapping me until my face was slick with blood.

I tried to fight back, my pride refusing to let me crumble, but my resistance only fueled their rage. Each blow was a reminder of my powerlessness, each insult a dagger to my soul. Eventually, I learned to endure in silence.

For five years, I lived in fear, my body and spirit battered. The Natalie Johnson who had once ruled her world with a confident smile had been stripped away, leaving behind someone I barely recognized.

I wanted to ask Sean to save me.

In desperation, I begged the prison guards to pass along a message, hoping they'd tell him about my suffering—about the relentless torment I endured day after day. I even convinced myself that if Sean knew, he might pity me enough to arrange a transfer to another facility, far away from these monsters.

But Sean never came. He never visited. He never even sent word.

What I got instead was worse than I had ever imagined. That day, they beat me to the brink of death. My body felt like it had been broken into pieces, my skin hot and sticky with blood. Struggling to breathe, I managed to croak a question to one of them.

"Why?" My voice was barely audible, trembling and thick with despair.

The woman loomed over me, her face twisted in malice. She spat in my face, her breath foul and rancid. "Why?" she mocked, her laugh a grating sound that grated against my ears. Her yellowed teeth gleamed as she leaned closer. "Because Mr. Connor personally told us to take good care of you."

Her words struck me harder than any of her kicks ever could.

And then, without warning, another blow landed—a sharp, brutal kick to my stomach. The world spun as fists and feet rained down, each strike dulling the pain until my body felt numb.

In that moment, something inside me shattered. Sean hated me. Truly, deeply despised me. And yet, I had once loved him so much that I'd abandoned my own dreams for him.

I used to want to become a designer, to create beauty and make my mark on the world. But for Sean, I gave it all up. I settled for being his secretary, hovering by his side, always ready to meet his needs.

Sean had suffered from stomach issues since childhood, a lingering effect of the poverty that had once defined his life. I had never even touched a kitchen knife before meeting him, but I painstakingly taught myself how to cook, learning to make soups that soothed his stomach.

It worked—under my care, his flareups became rare. Even my father used to tease me, saying, "You love Sean more than you love me!"

He wasn't wrong.

I clung to Sean like a shadow, hoping, praying that one day he would turn around and finally see me. But all my devotion, all my sacrifices, amounted to nothing. Instead of love, Sean gave me betrayal. Instead of gratitude, he handed me over to hell itself.

Day after day in prison, I endured beatings and humiliation. I learned to kneel, to beg for mercy. I forgot who I was—the proud heiress of the Johnson Family. I learned to slap myself before anyone else could, barking like a dog just to amuse them.

I thought I would never see Sean again.

But five years later, he came to pick me up.

Inside my room, I moved toward the window, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. My gaze fell on the yard below and my chest tightened painfully.

The old red maple tree that had stood proudly in the center of the yard was gone. In its place was a barren stump, jagged and uneven, its edges raw and splintered as if it had been cut down in haste.

Surrounding it was a sprawling field of flowers, their vibrant colors stark against the muted tones of the winter landscape.

Tears stung my eyes, hot and unrelenting as they rolled down my cheeks. The sight of the flowers—their beauty mocking me—was a knife twisting in my heart.

That red maple had been more than just a tree. My parents had planted it with their own hands the year they were married. As a child, I would sit beneath its shade, listening to Sean's voice as he told me stories, his tone soft and steady. That tree had been a witness to my happiest moments.

Now, it was gone.

And in its place were flowers.

As if Sean had forgotten. Forgotten that I'm deathly allergic to pollen.

My knees buckled and I sank to the floor, trembling. The memories came flooding back, a torrent of moments that made my chest ache with a pain so sharp it felt physical.

I wiped my face with trembling hands and opened a drawer, the wood groaning in protest. Inside was an old diary, its edges worn from years of handling.

Flipping to the last page, I stared at a number scrawled in faded ink. My breath hitched as I traced the familiar digits with my fingertips.

It belonged to an old friend, a neighbor from my childhood. He had moved abroad years ago, his family's business expanding far beyond Arlington. The night before he left, he'd handed me this number.

"If you ever need me," he had said, his voice gentle but firm, "just call."

I had tucked it away and forgotten it, distracted by Sean's presence in my life.

Now, I dialed it with trembling fingers, my heart pounding in my chest.

The phone rang once, twice. My grip tightened on the receiver as a deep, cold voice finally answered.

"Hello?"

I swallowed hard, my voice shaky as I replied, "Do you still remember me? It's Natalie Johnson."

The person on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. I could hear faint sounds in the background—a clock ticking, the shuffle of papers, the subtle rustle of someone shifting in their seat. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a hint of uncertainty, as if he were trying to piece together who I had become.

"I do remember you," he said, his voice steady but cautious. "May I ask—"

"Can you help me leave the country?" I interrupted, my words rushing out before I lost my nerve. My voice broke slightly, the desperation in it impossible to hide. Right now, I had no one else.

He paused again, the silence stretching between us like a taut string. Then he said, "I can, but... you have to do me a favor too."

My grip on the phone tightened. "What favor?"

I was baffled. The Natalie of today was a shadow of her former self—a onceproud heiress now reduced to a former convict, a woman whose very existence seemed less than ordinary. What could I possibly offer someone like him?

"I'm not young anymore," he began, his voice calm and measured, "and my parents have been pressuring me to settle down. You remember that our families once arranged our engagement, right?"

"Yes," I replied softly, the memory faint but familiar.

"Then fulfill the promise and marry me," he said. His voice was crisp, leaving no room for interpretation.

My breath hitched. There was no laughter, no hesitation. He wasn't joking.

I hesitated, staring at the jagged edges of the tree stump outside the window, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. After a long pause, I whispered, "Alright, I agree."

The moment I hung up, the door to my room swung open with a loud creak. Sean stepped in, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

"There's a banquet tonight," he said, his tone commanding. "You're coming with me."

I opened my mouth to refuse, but his cold, dismissive gaze froze the words in my throat.

"You don't have the right to say no," he added sharply before turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

The banquet hall was a glittering spectacle, its towering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the crowd. The polished marble floors gleamed beneath the soft light and the scent of expensive perfume mingled with the faint aroma of fine wine.

I stood in the farthest corner of the room, my shoulders hunched as I tried to make myself invisible amidst the opulence. The lively chatter of the crowd was deafening, a sharp contrast to the growing unease gnawing at me.

The grand space was suffocating. Every glance cast my way felt like a dagger, every murmured conversation seemed laced with mockery.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Wanda caught sight of me. Her eyes glimmered with a predatory light as her lips curled into a sweet but venomous smile. With a subtle tilt of her head, she summoned her entourage, who began to close in on me like vultures circling their prey.

They carried glasses of wine, their laughter sharp and cutting.

Wanda sauntered forward, her slender figure commanding attention as she raised her voice just enough for the crowd to hear. "Natalie used to love drinking. So, let's consider this her welcomeback banquet."

Her words sent a ripple of laughter through the room.

"Natalie, let's celebrate the occasion," she continued, her smile widening as she looked at me. "Drink up, won't you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as the crowd pressed in closer. The overwhelming scent of highproof liquor stung my nostrils and my stomach churned violently.

Wanda stood at the center of it all, her expression as sweet as honey, but her eyes cold and calculating. Her power over the crowd was absolute—they eagerly echoed her words, eager to please the woman Sean so obviously adored.

They didn't know.

They didn't know the life I had endured in prison, where every meal was a test of survival. I had swallowed moldy bread and rancid gruel just to keep my body moving. My stomach was a fragile, hollow shell now, barely able to handle a proper meal, let alone this much alcohol.

But I couldn't refuse. I knew Wanda too well. She would smile sweetly and play the victim at the slightest provocation. And Sean? He didn't even need to speak. A single shift in his expression was enough to turn the entire room against me.

Steeling myself, I reached for the glass nearest to me, the cold surface slick against my trembling fingers. I raised it to my lips and tipped it back, letting the liquid scorch my throat as it went down.

It felt like swallowing fire. The burn tore through me, igniting a searing pain in my stomach.

The crowd cheered.

"Another one!" someone jeered.

I downed the second glass, then the third, each one a knife slicing through my insides. The alcohol blurred my vision and sent waves of nausea crashing over me, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.

By the time I finished the fifth glass, my legs felt like jelly and cold sweat clung to my skin.

Wanda stepped forward then, her high heels clicking against the marble floor with a deliberate rhythm. She stopped just inches from me, her head tilted as she regarded me with mock concern.

"I'm the one who should be toasting you the most," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How about we have three more drinks?"

Her manicured hand reached for the table, picking up the bottle of the strongest liquor in the room. With a smug smile, she poured it into my empty glass, the liquid splashing noisily against the rim.

I lifted my gaze, my vision swimming as I looked toward Sean. He stood in the middle of the crowd, his figure tall and composed, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the chandeliers.

He didn't look at me. Instead, he idly fiddled with his phone.

Sean's stance said it all. He didn't just tolerate Wanda's cruelty; he silently endorsed it.

My body had reached its limit. The alcohol churned violently in my stomach, burning like molten lava. My head throbbed and my vision swam, the room tilting as if it were on a sinking ship.

I tried to steady myself, but the strength drained from my legs. My fingers trembled as I reached out, grasping at air, but there was nothing to hold onto. The last thing I saw was Wanda's triumphant smirk as darkness swallowed me whole.

When I regained consciousness, the sterile, biting scent of disinfectant hit me first, stinging my nose and throat. My eyelids fluttered open and I found myself staring at the blank ceiling of a hospital room. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, unwelcoming glow.

My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. A dull ache spread from my stomach, radiating outward with every shallow breath. The starched bedsheets beneath me were coarse against my skin, a cruel reminder that I was still alive.

Beyond the thin screen divider, familiar voices filtered through.

"How is she?"

It was Sean's voice. That unmistakable coldness still lingered in his tone, but there was something faint beneath it—something almost like concern, though not quite.

The doctor's voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency. "Miss Natalie's stomach can't handle alcohol. She's extremely lucky to have been brought in on time. If this happens again, it could be lifethreatening."

A heavy pause followed.

"How could she not be able to drink?" Sean's disbelief was palpable. "She used to handle alcohol really well."

"Her current condition suggests severe damage to her gastric mucosa," the doctor explained. "It's likely the result of longterm irregular eating habits and stress. In short, she must avoid anything too irritating from now on."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then Sean's voice returned, colder and sharper. "It must be because the prison food didn't suit her. She's always been picky and spoiled. She ruined her own stomach."

The words struck me harder than I expected, a dull ache blooming in my chest. My lips curled into a bitter smile. What did he know?

In prison, I had fought for scraps—dry bread that crumbled like dust, spoiled meat that reeked of decay. I had starved until my ribs jutted out and shivered through winters with no coat to keep me warm.

Sean never knew. He never cared. Or worse—he had known and allowed it to happen.

The doctor left shortly after and Sean stepped into the room. His polished shoes clicked softly against the tile floor, the sound measured and deliberate.

"Three years apart and you still managed to cause such a spectacle at a banquet," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over me, his presence oppressive. "You turned what was supposed to be a simple welcomeback party into a disaster."

I lowered my gaze to the crisp white bedsheet, my fingers twisting its edge. "I'm sorry for ruining everyone's fun," I murmured weakly.

"If you can't handle alcohol, you should've said so earlier," he snapped. His words felt like ice shards. "If you drank yourself to death, wouldn't that be an even bigger joke?"

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to remain silent. A former Johnson Family heiress who had given up everything for him—wasn't that already the biggest joke of all?

"Alright," I said softly, my voice barely audible.

The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us.

After a long pause, Sean's tone shifted, taking on an unfamiliar gentleness. "Since you came back, you've become much quieter. You used to talk nonstop at gatherings. When you were with me, you were even more of a chatterbox."

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression had softened ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of warmth flickering in his eyes.

"Talking less means being less of a nuisance," I replied flatly, keeping my gaze fixed on the bedsheet.

Sean ignored the bitterness in my tone. His lips quirked upward, almost wistfully. "I remember once when I went away for a competition. Two months later, when I returned, I saw you standing outside my dorm with a huge bouquet of flowers. You stood out so much..."

His voice trailed off, his mind seemingly lost in the memory. For a brief moment, he looked almost human—like the boy I used to love, the one who had once made my heart race.

"I was young and foolish back then," I said, cutting him off. My voice cracked as I forced the words out. "I caused a lot of trouble for you. It won't happen again."

My hands clenched the sheet tightly, my nails digging into the fabric as I fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill.

The faint smile on Sean's face vanished instantly, replaced by his usual cold mask.

"After being apart for three years, do you really have nothing to say to me?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

I froze, his question hitting me like a sudden gust of wind, leaving me breathless.

What could I say? Should I tell him how Wanda's people had tormented me in prison, with his silent approval? Or how I had clawed my way through every moment of despair, only to find myself here again—trapped in his orbit?

Should I tell him that I was tired? Tired of everything. Tired of him.

Or should I tell him the truth? That soon, I would be marrying someone else.

There was no point in telling Sean about my life in prison. His reaction would be the same as always—a dismissive wave of his hand and a scoffed, "Stop making up stories to fool me."

I had learned my lesson the hard way. Hope was a dangerous thing. The more I clung to it, the deeper the wound when it was torn away. So, I swallowed my words and simply shook my head.

Sean's sharp gaze lingered on me, his eyes scanning my face and arms as if searching for something. His brows furrowed, the tension in his expression bordering on irritation.

"What's with all these injuries on you?" he asked at last. His voice wasn't filled with concern, though—it was accusatory, sharp like a blade.

Expressionless, I replied, "I was beaten in prison. Got hurt." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Sean's jaw tightened and he immediately shot back, "What nonsense are you talking about? How could anyone beat you in prison?"

I couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. It was hollow, scraping against the silence like sandpaper. Curling my lips into a mocking smirk, I fired back, "Then maybe you should ask your dear Wanda."

His face darkened, his expression hardening into a cold mask. "You're still trying to accuse Wanda? Stop messing around, will you?" His words sliced through the air, leaving no room for argument.

Before I could respond, he cut me off entirely. "I've already chosen the hotel for our wedding," he announced, his tone brisk as if ticking off an item on his todo list. "Focus on recovering for now. I will marry you as promised."

The absurdity of his words made me want to laugh again. Instead, I closed my eyes, turning my head toward the window. Outside, the sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain. It felt fitting—a reflection of the storm inside me.

Once upon a time, Sean would have trusted every word I said without question. But now, the moment anything involved Wanda, I was nothing but a liar in his eyes.

There was no point in explaining anymore.

The air between us turned ice cold. Sean stood there for a moment longer, tension radiating off him. When I didn't respond, he let out a sharp, exasperated snort before spinning on his heel and storming out. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing in the room like a final judgment.

I lay still, staring at the ceiling as my chest tightened. I willed the tears not to come.

With trembling hands, I unlocked my phone and saw the notification: my passport was ready. Without hesitation, I booked a plane ticket.

'It's fine, Sean,' I thought silently. 'Soon, we'll never see each other again.'