Twisted Fates

New York

The days blurred into a haze of nothingness. I stopped going to class, ignoring emails from professors and texts from classmates. My phone buzzed incessantly with messages—my mom, Athena, Ethan—but I couldn't bear to answer.

Ethan: Sofia, please talk to me.
Ethan: I didn't mean to hurt you. Can we just meet and figure this out?
Ethan: I miss you.

Every text felt like a knife to the heart, a reminder of just how much I'd lost. Athena tried too, but her messages were sparse, almost hesitant, as if she knew nothing she said could undo what she'd done.

Athena: Sof, I'm sorry.
Athena: I miss you. Please, can we talk?

Instead, I buried myself under blankets, eating ice cream straight from the tub while "Gossip Girl" played on a loop. It was ironic, really, watching these characters destroy their lives with betrayal and secrets while I lived my own version of it. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table—something I barely touched before all this, but now it dulled the ache in my chest, if only for a little while.

Then came the knock on my door.

I ignored it at first, assuming it was my landlord or another delivery I didn't remember ordering. But the knocking didn't stop.

"Sofia," came the voice I dreaded but also, somehow, expected.

Noah.

I didn't move, hoping he'd give up, but Noah Manning was never one to back down.

When I finally opened the door, he stood there, dressed casually in jeans and a jacket, his dark eyes scanning my disheveled appearance.

"What are you doing here?" I asked flatly.

His gaze didn't waver. "Your mom called me."

My stomach sank. "What? Why?"

"Because you haven't answered her calls in weeks," he said, stepping past me into the apartment. "And because she's worried about you. Honestly, she should be."

I glared at him, anger bubbling beneath my exhaustion. "You had no right to involve her."

"No, Sofia, you left me no choice." His tone was sharp but controlled, as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. "You've been spiraling. Someone had to do something."

I crossed my arms. "And what, you just decided to play hero?"

He scoffed. "Hardly. Your mom asked me to help, and since I'm flying back to New York anyway, I offered to make sure you get there too. You need a reset."

"Flying back to New York?" I repeated, my heart sinking.

He nodded. "You're coming with me. You're staying at my place until you figure this out."

"No," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."

Noah gave me a pointed look. "It's not up for debate."

"I'm not staying with you," I snapped. "I'll figure this out on my own."

"You've been doing a stellar job of that so far," he said dryly, gesturing at the mess around us.

Before I could retort, my mom's voice came through the phone he suddenly held up.

"Sofia, honey," she said, her tone firm but soft. "You're going. This isn't about what you want—it's about what you need. Noah's offering to help, and I trust him. You should too."

I stared at the phone in disbelief. "Mom, you can't just—"

"It's final," she interrupted. "Now pack your things. Noah will help."

The flight to New York was suffocating. Noah didn't say much, and I refused to speak unless absolutely necessary. I spent most of the time staring out the window, pretending I wasn't sitting next to the boy who had once meant everything to me—and who had shattered my heart when he dumped me at graduation.

When we landed, his apartment was exactly what I expected: sleek, modern, and annoyingly perfect. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city, and everything from the furniture to the decor screamed wealth and sophistication.

"This is your new place?" I asked, my voice laced with disbelief.

He shrugged, setting my suitcase down by the guest room. "It's home."

"It's a palace," I muttered, stepping inside reluctantly.

Noah ignored the comment, his expression unreadable as he gestured toward the room. "You'll stay here. The kitchen's stocked, and there's a gym downstairs if you need it."

"Great," I said dryly, stepping past him to shut the door.

The first few days were unbearable. Noah worked during the day, leaving me alone in the massive apartment, but his presence loomed even when he wasn't there. At night, he hovered, asking questions I didn't want to answer, forcing me to face truths I wasn't ready for.

Then came the dinner.

"Noah, I'm not hungry," I said, standing by the window as he set the table.

"Sit," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, I did, pushing the food around my plate while he watched me with that intense, unreadable gaze.

"You're going to have to talk eventually," he said, breaking the silence.

I dropped my fork, my frustration boiling over. "Why do you even care? You left me. Remember? You're the one who dumped me, Noah."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn't respond. Then he slammed his hand on the table, making me jump.

"You don't get to rewrite history," he snapped.

My chest tightened, the weight of his words suffocating.

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "I hate you," I said, my voice trembling.

"Good," he shot back.

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor as I stormed to the guest room.

For two weeks, I barely left, avoiding him at all costs. But no matter how much I tried to block him out, his words echoed in my mind, forcing me to confront a past I wasn't ready to face.