I felt a heavy weight pressing down on my head. What just happened? I asked myself, my body trembling. The last memory I had was of Elias grabbing my hands and running, and it flashed through my mind like a lightning strike. "Elias! Elias? Where is Elias?" I asked loudly, my voice cracking. Then, I caught sight of him. He was lying near the third road, bleeding profusely. "Elias!" I screamed, crawling desperately toward him.
The ground felt like it was shifting under me. My knees scraped against the rough asphalt of the third road, but I didn't feel the pain. All I could see was the red—too much red—soaking into his shirt. Just minutes ago, his hand had been locked in mine, warm and steady. He had been pulling me through the dark alleys of Yellow Duke, telling me not to look back. Now, he was still, and the world was too quiet.
Elias was my boyfriend. We had been together for three years, and in all that time, he was the only thing that made sense to me. He was a calm soul—too calm, perhaps, for a place like this. Yellow Duke is not a peaceful city to live in; it's a place that eats people like Elias alive. Especially the specific town where Elias and I had been staying, a place full of shadows and secrets. I always wondered why someone as gentle as him lived in a place as rough as this, but I never pushed him for answers. I was just happy to be loved.
I am an orphan. I grew up with nothing, moving from one cold room to another until I met him. Elias's parents, however, were rich billionaires I knew nothing about. He never told me about the mansions, the private jets, or the power. Most importantly, he never told me they had rejected him because he was dating a girl like me. To him, I was his world; to them, I was just a stain on their golden reputation.
Now, back to the scene. Elias was already dead by the time I reached him. The life had already left those eyes I loved so much. I learned later that the villains had beaten him to death while he was trying to retrieve a disc he was carrying—a secret I hadn't known about. What was on that disc? Why was it worth a life? I didn't care about the politics or the money; I only cared that his heart wasn't beating anymore. I cradled his body, getting his blood all over my clothes, and I cried. I cried until my lungs burned and my eyes went blurry. I didn't even notice the flashing lights or the people gathering.
The police found us like that. But they didn't just help; they brought cameras. They filmed us, and soon, I was all over the news: a 23-year-old orphan girl caught holding the body of a dead billionaire's son. The headlines were cruel. They called me a gold-digger, a murderer, a girl who had lured a rich boy into the slums to be killed.
I was all alone; Elias was the only person I had in this world. Now, I was locked in a cold cell, facing questions I couldn't answer. I never knew I was into such deep trouble. I thought the nightmare ended with his death, but it was only the beginning. The next day, a couple came and bailed me out of jail. I expected them to spit on me or scream. Everyone believed I had killed Elias, except for this couple. They were Elias's parents, the famous Graystones. They knew I didn't do it—not because they liked me, but because they knew exactly who had really been after that disc.
So, I was released. But as the heavy iron doors of the jail closed behind me, I realized I wasn't going free. I was falling into another "pit-world" filled with hurt and bitterness.
Day by day, I grew more tired. The shock was wearing off, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that made it hard to breathe. They took me to the city—to the home of Elias's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Graystone. This wasn't a house; it was a fortress of glass and cold stone. I didn't feel like a lucky person at all. I felt like a prisoner being moved to a high-security wing.
The house was full of people who looked like they belonged in a magazine, yet they felt like statues. They had a daughter, Jane, who was roughly my age, but she looked at me like I was something she had stepped on in the street. Then there was the father. Mr. Graystone was a 43-year-old man who looked much younger than his years. He had a sharp, handsome face and a way of looking at you that made you feel like he could see your every thought.
They took me into their home, and I was surprised to realize they knew every single detail about me. They knew where I was born, where I went to school, and every moment I had spent with their son. It was terrifying. They had watched us from afar, waiting for the right moment to step in.
As I sat in the room they gave me—a room larger than any apartment I had ever lived in—I realized I was surrounded by the memory of Elias. Everything here reminded me of what he had given up to be with me. But the kindness they showed by bailing me out was a mask. Underneath the expensive clothes and the polite smiles, the Graystones were grieving, and they needed someone to pay for that grief.
I stood by the window, looking out at the city lights of the "rich" side of town. I was 23, an orphan, and completely trapped in a world of billionaires who hated me. I thought about the disc, I thought about the "villains" in the alley, and I thought about Elias's calm soul. I was tired, so very tired, but I knew I couldn't give up. Not yet. I had to find out what Elias died for, even if it meant living in this pit of bitterness for the rest of my life.