Bound By Sin

'FUCK!"

Genevieve's bedroom felt too small. The walls were closing in on her, the air thick with suffocating grief. Every breath she took felt like it wasn't enough, like it wasn't filling her lungs properly. The news of Isabella's death still echoed in her mind, a cruel reminder of the nightmare she was living. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white. The weight of it all—the guilt, the anger, the unbearable loss—was pressing down on her, threatening to crush her completely.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Without thinking, she stood up abruptly, her body trembling with a sudden surge of uncontrollable emotion. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the picture frame on her nightstand—the one of her and Isabella from their last beach trip. They were smiling, arms wrapped around each other, their faces bright with the carefree joy of best friends.

That joy was gone now. Gone forever.

With a ragged sob, Genevieve grabbed the frame and hurled it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, the picture falling to the floor in pieces. The sound of the breaking glass sent a surge of adrenaline through her, and something inside her snapped.

"FUCK!" she screamed, the word tearing from her throat like a primal scream, raw and broken.

She grabbed the closest thing she could find—a lamp—and threw it, the crash echoing through the room as it smashed into the wall. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface for days finally exploded, and she tore through her room like a hurricane, knocking books off her shelves, ripping the blankets from her bed, her hands shaking violently.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision as she screamed again, her voice cracking with grief. "Why? Why did you do this, Nicholas? Why did you kill her?!"

She threw a stack of papers off her desk, watching as they scattered across the floor in a chaotic mess. She didn't care anymore. She didn't care about anything. The only thing she felt was the unbearable pain in her chest, the loss of her best friend, the betrayal of the boy she had trusted.

Her hands grabbed at her dresser, pulling open drawers and yanking out clothes, throwing them onto the floor in a wild, frantic motion. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she collapsed to her knees, her fingers clutching the fabric of her shirts, her sobs shaking her entire body.

"Why, Nicholas?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she wiped at her tear-streaked face. "Why did you kill her? Why did you make me a part of this?"

She grabbed one of her pillows and screamed into it, muffling the sound of her anguish, her tears soaking the fabric. It wasn't enough. Nothing could be enough to express the raw pain that clawed at her insides, tearing her apart piece by piece.

She threw the pillow across the room, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She felt like she was drowning in her own emotions, the weight of everything pressing down on her until it felt like she couldn't breathe.

Downstairs, Victoria, Nathaniel, and Anastasia sat in the living room, the sound of Genevieve's screams and crashing objects carrying through the house. They could hear every sharp breath, every sob, every broken cry.

Victoria clutched her hands in her lap, her knuckles white as she stared down at the floor. Nathaniel sat beside her, silent, his face tight with worry and pain for his daughter. They exchanged no words, knowing there was nothing they could say that would make this better.

Anastasia sat curled up on the other end of the couch, her legs pulled up to her chest, her face pale. Her heart ached for her sister, for the loss that was tearing Genevieve apart, but she knew something her parents didn't. She knew what had happened to Isabella. She knew it was Nicholas.

But she couldn't say anything. She didn't know how to tell them. Didn't know if Genevieve had told them yet.

They all sat there, listening, knowing their daughter—her sister—was breaking apart upstairs, and there was nothing they could do but wait for the storm to pass.

Another loud crash came from Genevieve's room, and Victoria flinched, her hands tightening in her lap. "She's... she's hurting so much," Victoria whispered, her voice breaking. "She just lost her best friend..."

Nathaniel nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "I know... I know..."

Upstairs, Genevieve continued to sob, her hands clutching at her hair as she sat in the middle of the chaos she had created. The room was a mess—broken glass, clothes, papers, and shattered objects littered the floor. It mirrored the state of her heart, her mind.

She couldn't stop thinking about Isabella. About the last time they had spoken, about the fact that Genevieve had let this happen. If she had just told someone... if she had just gone to the police herself instead of trying to protect Nicholas, Isabella might still be alive.

Her best friend was dead because of her silence.

"I'm sorry, Isa," she whispered, her voice breaking as more tears spilled down her face. "I'm so sorry..."

The guilt was suffocating. It clawed at her insides, tearing her apart piece by piece. She could feel the weight of it crushing her, and all she wanted to do was scream, to tear the whole world apart, to make it stop.

She grabbed her phone from where it had fallen on the floor and stared at it through her tears. Part of her wanted to call Nicholas, to scream at him, to demand to know why he had done this. But another part of her knew she couldn't. He would lie to her, or worse—he would tell her the truth again, and she didn't think she could bear to hear it.

Instead, she threw the phone across the room, watching as it hit the wall with a loud thud and fell to the floor.

"Why did you do this?" she whispered again, her voice trembling. "Why did you have to take her from me?"

The silence in the room was deafening now, broken only by the sound of Genevieve's quiet sobs as she curled up on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of her grief. She pulled her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth slightly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Downstairs, Anastasia looked up, her voice quiet but certain. "It was Nicholas," she said, her voice trembling. "He's the one who did it."

Victoria and Nathaniel turned to her, their eyes wide with shock. "What do you mean?" Nathaniel asked, his voice tight. "What are you talking about?"

Anastasia swallowed hard, her hands trembling in her lap. "Nicholas... he killed Isabella. Genevieve... Genevieve knows."

Victoria's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. "No... no, that can't be true..."

But even as she said it, she knew it was. Deep down, she knew her daughter's pain ran deeper than just grief. There was something darker, something terrible, that had been eating away at her ever since she heard about Isabella's death.

Nathaniel stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Genevieve's muffled sobs, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his daughter was carrying a secret too dark for her to bear.

And upstairs, Genevieve lay in the shattered remains of her room, broken and lost, wondering how she was ever supposed to survive this.