Claude was the one who collected our bodies. Who gave us proper burials.
Later, when he tried to get justice for us, Brent framed him too. Eight years in prison.
I'd always known how Claude felt about me. But I'd been blinded by Brent's false love, and I'd thrown away someone who was real.
Less than half an hour later, Claude and his crew had Brent surrounded.
Someone shouted—loud enough for the whole street to hear:
"The hell? You think you can touch a girl I've got my eye on? Boys, teach this bastard a lesson!"
Brent's face went white. He shoved the girl aside and tried to run, but Claude's guys dragged him into an alley with no cameras.
Then came the sounds—Brent's pathetic struggles, his agonized howls as fists connected with flesh.
When the timing felt right, I rushed over to play my part: the devoted fiancée saving her man.
Claude knew I was getting married. He'd kept his distance out of respect.
And I'd never once mentioned him to Brent. Not a word about my childhood friend.
"Stop! Stop hitting him!"
I screamed as I ran, throwing myself between Brent and the fists.
Claude spotted me and let out a low whistle, playing along perfectly. His voice dripped with mock amusement: