Page 53 of Crown of the Mist

"We see her the way they did. Like she's..." Gray's voice cuts through the stillness, low and heavy with frustration. He stops, his jaw clenching audibly in the pause. "Like she's a thing to be used and discarded."

My chest tightens, a cold chill creeping up my spine. My heart pounds as the words echo in my head, louder than the faint hum of their conversation.

A thing to be used. Discarded.

Jason's voice sneers through my memory, sharp and cruel:"You're just like Phil said. You're not happy unless someone's got you pinned to the wall."

"She'll figure it out," Theo's voice follows, quieter but no less damning.

The air feels heavier, pressing down on me as I back away from the door, each step slow and careful. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation.

They think the same.

My hands tremble, gripping the fabric of Rhett's hoodie as if it can somehow shield me from the sharp sting of their words. The mist stirs around my feet, colder now, as if sensing my distress. I don't know if it's trying to comfort me or keep me from running, but I can't stay here.

I have to leave.

Before they throw me away, before they say the things I can't bear to hear out loud. Not from them. I have to leave, now.

Back in my room, I press my back against the door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. My thoughts spiral, Jason's accusations twisting together with Gray's words until I can't tell them apart.A thing to be used. Discarded.That's all I've ever been. That's all they see.

The mist coils tighter around me, its touchcolder now, more insistent. My breath hitches as I press my palms to my face, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill.

I knew I didn’t belong here—I didn’t expect them to prove it. I just wish I hadn’t let myself hope.

Now I know better.

The thought solidifies, sharp and resolute, cutting through the haze of my panic. I wipe at my cheeks and take a shaky breath, the beginnings of a plan forming in the back of my mind.

I won't let anyone do this to me. Not again.

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in like they know what I'm about to do. The moonlight slices through the curtains, too bright, too exposing. My chest tightens as I grab the box from the corner of the room—the one filled with the remnants of my life.

I set it on the bed, my hands shaking as I open it. The sight of its contents—pressed daisies, movie stubs, scrawled notes from years long gone—makes my stomach churn. These were pieces of something I thought I'd never lose. But now, all I see are reminders of how stupid I've been. How naïve.

My hand hovers over the pressed flowers, the edges brittle and delicate. Jason's voice echoesin my head again. Phil's sneer. My father's contempt. The sharp weight of Gray's words presses harder against my ribs: She's a thing to be used and discarded.

With a sharp inhale, I grab the daisy, the movie stubs, the notes, and rip them into pieces. The sound of tearing paper fills the silence of the room, each shred a catharsis that burns as much as it soothes. When I'm done, the bed is covered in fragments of memories, scattered like ashes.

But I don't cry.

My gaze shifts to the other side of the room, where the pretty, soft things the guys bought for me are neatly arranged. It's too much. I don't have nice things. That's not in the cards for me. It makes my chest ache, my stomach twist, because I let myself believe it, even for a moment.

Not anymore.

All I see is proof that I was stupid enough to think this was real. That they cared because I mattered, not because I'm some broken thing to be pitied. To be fixed.

My gaze drags over the stack of books Theo brought me, the silky pajamas Jace insisted on, the throw blanket Rhett draped over the chair with quiet care. And suddenly, all of it feels wrong. Heavy. Suffocating.

This is what I'm worth? The thought claws its way up before I can stop it. Maybe I should be surprised they thought it would cost this much for me to spread my legs.

The bile rises in my throat, sharp and sour, as Jason's voice cuts through my mind like a whip: You're not happy unless someone's got you pinned to the wall.

My fingers curl into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I force myself to look away from the things they gave me. It all feels poisoned now, warped by the words I overheard, by the shadow of my father's voice and Phil's threats. By Jason's cruelty.

They're all the same. Aren't they? Trying to buy pieces of me, pretending it's care when all they really want is to own what's left.

My chest heaves, my breath shaky as I shove the thought away. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.