The key turned in the lock at 2:17 a.m.—three slow clicks that froze my blood. I knew that sound. Aunt Carol only came to my room this late when she was drunk and angry. \n\nI barely made it to the window before the door slammed open. ‘Ungrateful little witch!’ she screamed, hurling my backpack across the room. I scrambled onto the fire escape, barefoot, heart hammering. One rung cracked under me, but I didn’t stop until I hit the alley. \n\nI walked twelve miles that night, shivering in a thin hoodie, until a black SUV pulled over. The window rolled down, and a voice—calm, familiar—said, ‘Lexie? Jesus Christ, what happened?’ \n\nIt was Ethan. Dad’s best friend. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral. \n\nNow I’m sitting in his guest room, wrapped in silk pajamas that cost more than my entire wardrobe. He’s downstairs making tea. I hear his footsteps. The door creaks open. \n\n‘You don’t have to tell me tonight,’ he says softly. ‘But you’re safe now.’ \n\nHis eyes linger on the bruise blooming on my collarbone. Something flickers in them—rage, maybe, or sorrow. Or both. \n\nI whisper, ‘What happens tomorrow?’ \n\nAnd that’s when he says the words that change everything: ‘Tomorrow, you come live with me.’