Left in the Cold

Sloane remained sitting on the harsh, jagged gravel of the road shoulder for a very long time. Dust from Jaxon’s spinning tires coated her pale skin, settling deep into the fibers of her clothes and sticking to her eyelashes. She did not move a single muscle until the aggressive, sickening spin of the world finally began to slow. The ringing in her ears, a high-pitched aftermath of her skull violently colliding with the hard slope of the dashboard, gradually faded into the hollow, rushing sound of the mountain wind.

She felt no sadness. She felt no crushing wave of disappointment. The girl who would have chased after those glowing red taillights, screaming and begging for her brother to come back and save her, had been beaten out of her over the last two years.

Her fingers, stiff and growing numb from the rapidly dropping temperature, fumbled as they dug into the front pockets of her oversized hoodie. She scraped her short nails against the cheap, pilling fabric, searching for anything useful to get her down the mountain. Her hand brushed against a small, crumpled wad.

She pulled it out, smoothing the paper over her scraped knee under the dim, unforgiving moonlight. One crisp twenty-dollar bill. Two worn five-dollar bills. Two heavy fifty-cent coins.

Thirty-one dollars.

Jaxon had mocked her. He had ordered her to call a cab back to the estate, yet he peeled out in a custom sports car without leaving her a single dime of his own money.

He seemed to have conveniently erased the memory of the day they banished her. Two years ago, when the Caldwell family shoved her into the back of a black transport vehicle headed for the Mt. Vesper Reform Academy, they systematically stripped her of every possession she owned. They stood in the grand, marble-floored foyer of their mansion and declared she needed to live without luxury if she ever wanted to correct her toxic behavior. They confiscated her bank cards, her cell phone, and her designer coats. They even demanded she hand over the cheap elastic hair tie wrapped around her wrist.

This money—this pathetic thirty-one dollars—didn't even belong to her. It had been left in the pocket by the original owner of the threadbare hoodie she currently wore to keep her internal organs from freezing.

Sloane clenched her fist. The rigid metal edges of the coins bit sharply into her palm. A sudden, vicious ache seized her chest. The frigid mountain air hit her face, and the bridge of her nose began to sting fiercely with the threat of unshed tears.

She refused to let them fall.

She shoved the money back into her pocket, burying it deep. She grabbed the frayed edges of the hoodie and pulled it tight against her frail, skeletal frame, yanking the heavy hood over her bruised forehead. She pushed herself up from the dirt, ignoring the raw, stinging scrape on her knee, and turned her back on the tire tracks Jaxon had left behind.

She began to walk.

One step. Then another.

The mountain road was a treacherous, winding ribbon of asphalt shrouded in pitch-black shadows. The wind howled through the dense, towering tree line, carrying a bitter chill that cut straight through her thin clothes and settled into her bones. Every time her worn-out shoe hit the hard ground, a jarring spike of pain shot up her spine, a brutal reminder of the violent car crash Jaxon had orchestrated just to prove a point.

Her stomach gnawed at her insides, twisting in tight, agonizing knots of prolonged starvation. It was a familiar agony, a constant, daily companion during her time at Mt. Vesper, but the sheer physical exertion of navigating the steep incline made the hunger pangs blinding.

Cars occasionally flew past in the opposite lane. Their blinding high beams washed over her hunched, lonely figure for a fraction of a second before plunging her back into darkness. None of them slowed down. None of them tapped their brakes to check on a girl walking alone in the dead of night.

Sloane kept her chin tucked tightly into her collar, her dull eyes locked on the faint white line marking the edge of the road. She just kept walking, letting the miles blur into an agonizing test of physical endurance, her small silhouette slowly vanishing into the unforgiving night.

*****

The temperature outside continued to plummet, plunging the city below into a crisp, biting evening.

Miles away, inside the Caldwell estate, the atmosphere was a stark, jarring contrast to the freezing mountain pass. The sprawling living room was bathed in warm, golden light radiating from crystal chandeliers. The massive stone fireplace crackled, pushing luxurious heat across the plush designer rugs.

Jaxon pushed through the heavy front doors, smelling of burnt rubber, adrenaline, and expensive cologne. He had dominated his race, crushed his rivals, and spent the hours afterward celebrating his victory with his crew.

He strode into the living room, a smug, satisfied grin plastered on his handsome face, but stopped dead in his tracks.

His family sat scattered across the massive sectional couches. The air in the room was thick, suffocating, and heavy with tension. No one was smiling.

Declan sat in the leather armchair, his sharp, analytical eyes locked onto Jaxon. He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, his brow deeply furrowed in disapproval. "We told you to pick up Sloane. Why are you just getting back? And why didn't you answer a single phone call?"

Jaxon blinked, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. He fished his phone out of his leather jacket pocket and tapped the screen. A dozen missed calls lit up the display.

He rolled his broad shoulders, dismissing the interrogation with a careless, arrogant shrug. "I told you guys I had a race today. If Blair hadn't asked me to go get her, I wouldn't have even bothered showing up."

He walked around the glass coffee table, stepping further into the light, and finally registered the expressions on his parents' faces. Vaughn looked furious. Corinne looked deeply distressed.

And then he saw Blair.

She was curled into the far corner of the couch, hugging a silk throw pillow against her chest. Her large eyes were rimmed in red, and her soft cheeks were tear-stained. She looked as though she had been crying for hours.

Jaxon’s jaw clenched tight. A fierce, protective fire ignited in his chest. "Blair, did Sloane mess with you again?" He threw his hands up in disgust, his voice rising. "She really hasn't changed a bit. I told you all. I knew two years in that place wouldn't fix her."

He yanked the sleeves of his jacket up, his blood boiling at the thought of Sloane bullying his sweet sister. He scanned the room, ready for a fight. "Where is she? Bring her out here. I'm going to teach her a lesson right now. She doesn't get to come back into this house and start her old crap on day one!"

He waited for Sloane to step out of the shadows and start screaming her usual venomous defenses.

Instead, dead silence met his aggressive outburst. Everyone just stared at him with varying degrees of shock.

Corinne leaned forward, her voice tight with confusion. "Wasn't Sloane supposed to come back with you? We thought you were screening our calls because she was throwing a tantrum in the car and wouldn't let you answer."

"She's not back yet?" Jaxon’s aggressive stance faltered. He looked genuinely surprised. "I told her to grab a cab."

Declan stood up. His imposing height dominated the room. He leveled a cold, piercing glare at his younger brother. The missing pieces snapped together in his methodical brain. "You left her on the side of the mountain road and went to your race, didn't you?"

Jaxon had always harbored a deep-seated fear of Declan’s quiet, ruthless authority. He shifted his weight, a flicker of genuine guilt finally breaching his arrogance under that relentless stare. He broke eye contact, muttering stubbornly to the floor. "It's not like she doesn't know the way back to the city. I had a massive bet riding on this race. I would have had to buy dinner for the whole crew if I lost."

A soft, trembling sniffle broke the heavy tension.

Blair lifted her head from the pillow. Her large, innocent eyes swam with fresh tears as she looked up at Declan. "Declan, please don't yell at him. The fact that Sloane isn't back yet... it must be because of me."

Her bottom lip quivered perfectly. A single, delicate tear escaped, tracking a flawless path down her cheek. "I should have just lied to everyone two years ago. I should have told you all that I fell down the stairs on my own. It wasn't her fault. None of this is her fault. This is all on me..."

She pushed the silk blanket aside, stood up on trembling legs, and walked over to Declan. She reached out, her small, manicured fingers tugging desperately at the fabric of his tailored sleeve. "Declan, let's go look for Sloane. I'll apologize to her. I'll get on my knees if I have to. I'm sure we can convince her to come home."

The sight of Blair crying—the fragile, sweet sister Jaxon had always sworn to protect with his life—acted like a reset button on his brain. Any fleeting guilt or worry he held for the sister he left stranded on a treacherous mountain instantly evaporated into thin air.

"You don't need to say sorry to her!" Jaxon snapped, stepping forward to physically shield Blair. "Blair, this is not your fault. Stop blaming yourself for her actions."

His brief moment of hesitation transformed into blinding rage directed entirely at Sloane.

"So she still hasn't learned a damn thing," Jaxon spat, pacing the floor like a caged animal. "She’s just playing twisted mind games to mess with your head, Blair. Making you feel guilty."

He pointed a sharp finger at the front door. "If you want to go look for her, Declan, go right ahead. I'm staying right here. I don't believe for a second that she’s actually missing or in danger. She’s just pulling a stunt for attention. She wants us to panic."

He scoffed, a harsh, mocking sound echoing in the large room. "Someone like her? A girl who is obsessed with luxury, money, and status? There is absolutely no way she would ever walk away from this family."

Just as the venom left his mouth, a maid stepped cautiously into the archway of the living room. She kept her gaze fixed respectfully on the floor. "Mr. Caldwell, Mrs. Caldwell... Ms. Vance has returned."

The words hung in the air.

Everyone turned.

A skinny, frail figure stepped out from behind the maid.

It had been two long, grueling years. Seeing Sloane standing in the flesh left Vaughn, Corinne, and Declan paralyzed in stunned silence.

The girl standing in the grand foyer was unrecognizable. She kept her head bowed down, her chin tucked into the collar of a cheap, oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her shoulders were hunched forward, defensive and incredibly small. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her waist, her knuckles white from the strain.

They tried to reconcile this broken, hollow shell of a person with the loud, bright, fiercely arrogant Sloane they had shipped away. The puzzle pieces refused to fit.

Jaxon was the first to break the silence. He barked out a laugh, his voice loud and dripping with smug vindication. "See? What did I just say? I knew she couldn't stay away from the money. We didn't even send a search party, and she still came running right back to the front door."

Vaughn snapped out of his shock. The stern patriarch reclaimed his authority, his face hardening as he glared at the pathetic sight of his daughter. "You are a young woman. What exactly do you think you are doing wandering the streets so late at night? Do you want the press to catch wind of this? Do you want to embarrass us on your first day back?"

His tone was a whip—harsh, unyielding, and laced with disgust.

The room braced itself. The Caldwells knew this dance. They expected Sloane’s head to snap up. They expected her eyes to blaze with defiance. They expected her to fire back with a barrage of excuses, pointing fingers at Jaxon, screaming about how unfair they were being.

They all had their counter-arguments chambered. They had lectures locked and loaded, ready to verbally crush her the second she opened her mouth.

But Sloane didn't move. She didn't look up. She kept her gaze firmly anchored to the expensive hardwood floor.

When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. It was calm. Hollow. Stripped of any trace of emotion, anger, or life.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

The living room plunged into a suffocating, deafening silence.

No one breathed. No one had prepared for that. The massive fight they were ready for evaporated into thin air, leaving them unmoored and unsettled.

In the quiet aftermath of that broken apology, Corinne suddenly noticed the physical reality of the girl standing before her. She stepped away from the couch, crossing the expansive room until she stood directly in front of Sloane.

"Sloane..." Corinne’s voice faltered. She reached out. "You've lost so much weight. Was life... was it hard at Mt. Vesper's?"

Corinne’s hand, warm, soft, and smelling of expensive designer lotion, wrapped gently around Sloane’s freezing, calloused fingers.

Sloane’s entire body went rigid.

She stood frozen. Her mind spun. She didn't know how many countless, agonizing nights she had laid awake on a thin, lumpy mattress, praying for someone—anyone—to care about her. Hoping someone would call, visit, or just ask how she was surviving. And she remembered exactly how many times that desperate hope had been violently crushed.

For two massive, unending years, they had dumped her in a living hell and never once looked over their shoulders.

She honestly believed she had grown numb to it. She thought she had fully accepted her reality. But the sudden, unexpected warmth of Corinne’s hand—the tiny, fleeting sliver of maternal concern—caused a tidal wave of suppressed sadness to rush over her, battering against her ribcage.

She stared at the floor. *Isn't it obvious?* she thought. *In a place where they strip you of your name, where your dignity is a joke, where the 'students' are treated worse than feral animals... of course it was hard. It was torture.*

The familiar, suffocating ache began to rise in her throat.

Just before it could break her composure, another hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

Blair forced herself between them. Her eyes gleamed with a manic, excited energy, laced with a heavy dose of thinly veiled jealousy. She squeezed Sloane’s wrist tight.

"Sloane! You really did lose a massive amount of weight!" Blair’s voice pitched up, overly bright and bubbly. "Oh my god, if you dressed up and put on makeup like you used to, you would look absolutely incredible! Like a runway model!"

Blair turned her attention to Corinne, pouting her pink lips. "Not like me. I keep telling everyone I want to lose weight, but nothing ever works. Mom always tells me I'm not fat, and then she keeps buying me all those amazing snacks and completely ruins my diet plans!"

Blair giggled, looking back at Sloane. "I seriously wish I could be just like you. I wish I could just slim down so easily."

In a matter of seconds, Blair weaponized Sloane’s starvation. She took two years of brutal deprivation, agonizing hunger pains, and physical abuse, and masterfully twisted it into a frivolous, desirable beauty trend.

Corinne’s face softened instantly. She swallowed Blair’s manipulation whole, completely ignoring the sickly, pale hue of Sloane’s face and the rough, dry texture of her skin.

Corinne let go of Sloane’s hand.

The brief, agonizing spark of warmth in Sloane’s chest snapped. It froze over, hardening back into solid ice.

With deliberate, mechanical slowness, Sloane physically pulled her arms back. She folded her empty hands back against her stomach, burying them deep into the fabric of her hoodie, locking herself away from the room.