Still, when Freya spotted me stepping out in a simple, elegant dress, her whole demeanor changed. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and she strutted over like she'd just claimed victory on a battlefield.
"Pearl," she sneered, her voice full of fake sweetness, "looks like you've been living a pretty pathetic life these last few years, huh? I heard the Gardners don't even care about you anymore. Everyone says all their attention is on that freak, Lance. And you? You're just some worthless reject they keep around out of pity."
I was about to respond, but before I could open my mouth, a cold voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Who are you calling a freak?"
Freya's smug expression vanished.
She turned and froze, face draining of color.
And I knew exactly why.
Because Lance was standing behind me, tall, terrifying, and completely unamused.
The same Lance who, in our past life, had dismantled her piece by piece. The one who broke her body, crushed her spirit, and left her in a wheelchair.
She never recovered from that.
And clearly, she hadn't forgotten a single second of it.
Lance fixed his icy gaze on Freya, and the confidence instantly left her voice.