Jordan Beau Jones Life

“Are you seriously putting eighty percent of your assets into a new trust for Savannah?” My husband Clay’s friend sounded utterly incredulous. “What about Elara? She gave you a son!” My husband, heir to a Texas oil empire, just lifted his glass. His voice was cold. “A woman from the right kind of family would never sign this agreement.” “Her lawyers would tear it to shreds.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “But Elara will.” “She’s just a poor girl from the Appalachian mountains. She’s obedient. And she loves me.” “She’ll sign anything for me.” … I stood frozen outside the study, my blood turning to ice. *She’ll sign anything for me.* The words were poisoned icicles in my heart. Inside, Clay’s friend was still pressing him, his voice tight with urgency. “Clay, even if you give Elara nothing, Mason is your son. You’re cutting him out, too. That’s brutal.” Another voice chimed in, mocking. “Speaking of Savannah, I heard that count she married in Europe can’t have kids. That boy of hers…” “Shut up.” Clay’s voice dropped, as sharp and cold as a frozen lake in a Texas winter. “Anyone who jokes about Savannah’s reputation again will find out what happens when I turn on a friend.” The room went silent. A moment later, the same friend changed the subject, his voice laced with confusion. “With terms like these, I can’t believe Elara will agree. She’s not stupid.” Clay gave a soft, arrogant laugh—the sound of a man who believed he controlled everything. “She will.” “Elara isn’t materialistic. In seven years of marriage, the only thing she’s ever wanted is my love and to be a real part of this family.” “She’s desperate to be the legitimate Mrs. Beaumont.” … I stood outside the door, the warm Texas wind unable to touch the chill in my bones. So he knew. He’d known all along. He knew how hard I had tried to fit in, how desperately I had longed for a single scrap of sincerity from him. For seven years. Even after giving him a son, I was still the girl from the Appalachians who didn’t belong. He had never truly seen me as his wife. Now, to make room for his first love, Savannah, he was finally willing to give me a “formal” identity: a paid household manager, bound by a legal document. In that instant, seven years of devotion burned to ash. I no longer wanted to be Mrs. Beaumont.I pushed open the study door. My hand was shaking, but my spine was straight. The conversation stopped cold. Clay’s friends watched me with probing eyes, but I ignored them. I walked right up to Clay, forcing down the storm of emotions inside me. “Clay, I’d like to host a small family dinner to welcome Nana.” I added, “She was just diagnosed with severe pulmonary fibrosis. The doctors said the dry Texas climate might help. This is the first time she’s ever been this far from home.” Clay was about to speak when his phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, his eyes softened with a tenderness I had never seen directed at me. Savannah’s tearful voice drifted from the receiver. “Clay, my horse got spooked at the polo club… I’m so scared. Can you come get me?” Clay stood up instantly, without a flicker of hesitation. “I’ll be right there.” On instinct, I grabbed his sleeve. “Nana has been looking forward to this…” He ripped his arm from my grasp, his voice dripping with condescending impatience. “Elara, do you really think some old woman from the mountains cares about a welcome dinner?” I froze. He leaned in close, his warm breath brushing my ear as he spoke words as cold and clear as ice. “You want to be a good Mrs. Beaumont? Then learn your place.” With that, he and his friends were gone. The study was terrifyingly quiet. I stood there for a long moment. Then, a laugh escaped my lips. Something inside my chest had just shattered for good. Fine.I went back to my......

“Are you seriously putting eighty percent of your assets into a new trust for Savannah?” My husband Clay’s friend sounded utterly incredulous. “What about Elara? She gave you a son!” My husband, heir to a Texas oil empire, just lifted his glass. His voice was cold. “A woman from the right kind of family would never sign this agreement.” “Her lawyers would tear it to shreds.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “But Elara will.” “She’s just a poor girl from the Appalachian mountains. She’s obedient. And she loves me.” “She’ll sign anything for me.” … I stood frozen outside the study, my blood turning to ice. *She’ll sign anything for me.* The words were poisoned icicles in my heart. Inside, Clay’s friend was still pressing him, his voice tight with urgency. “Clay, even if you give Elara nothing, Mason is your son. You’re cutting him out, too. That’s brutal.” Another voice chimed in, mocking. “Speaking of Savannah, I heard that count she married in Europe can’t have kids. That boy of hers…” “Shut up.” Clay’s voice dropped, as sharp and cold as a frozen lake in a Texas winter. “Anyone who jokes about Savannah’s reputation again will find out what happens when I turn on a friend.” The room went silent. A moment later, the same friend changed the subject, his voice laced with confusion. “With terms like these, I can’t believe Elara will agree. She’s not stupid.” Clay gave a soft, arrogant laugh—the sound of a man who believed he controlled everything. “She will.” “Elara isn’t materialistic. In seven years of marriage, the only thing she’s ever wanted is my love and to be a real part of this family.” “She’s desperate to be the legitimate Mrs. Beaumont.” … I stood outside the door, the warm Texas wind unable to touch the chill in my bones. So he knew. He’d known all along. He knew how hard I had tried to fit in, how desperately I had longed for a single scrap of sincerity from him. For seven years. Even after giving him a son, I was still the girl from the Appalachians who didn’t belong. He had never truly seen me as his wife. Now, to make room for his first love, Savannah, he was finally willing to give me a “formal” identity: a paid household manager, bound by a legal document. In that instant, seven years of devotion burned to ash. I no longer wanted to be Mrs. Beaumont.I pushed open the study door. My hand was shaking, but my spine was straight. The conversation stopped cold. Clay’s friends watched me with probing eyes, but I ignored them. I walked right up to Clay, forcing down the storm of emotions inside me. “Clay, I’d like to host a small family dinner to welcome Nana.” I added, “She was just diagnosed with severe pulmonary fibrosis. The doctors said the dry Texas climate might help. This is the first time she’s ever been this far from home.” Clay was about to speak when his phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, his eyes softened with a tenderness I had never seen directed at me. Savannah’s tearful voice drifted from the receiver. “Clay, my horse got spooked at the polo club… I’m so scared. Can you come get me?” Clay stood up instantly, without a flicker of hesitation. “I’ll be right there.” On instinct, I grabbed his sleeve. “Nana has been looking forward to this…” He ripped his arm from my grasp, his voice dripping with condescending impatience. “Elara, do you really think some old woman from the mountains cares about a welcome dinner?” I froze. He leaned in close, his warm breath brushing my ear as he spoke words as cold and clear as ice. “You want to be a good Mrs. Beaumont? Then learn your place.” With that, he and his friends were gone. The study was terrifyingly quiet. I stood there for a long moment. Then, a laugh escaped my lips. Something inside my chest had just shattered for good. Fine.I went back to my......

“Are you seriously putting eighty percent of your assets into a new trust for Savannah?” My husband Clay’s friend sounded utterly incredulous. “What about Elara? She gave you a son!” My husband, heir to a Texas oil empire, just lifted his glass. His voice was cold. “A woman from the right kind of family would never sign this agreement.” “Her lawyers would tear it to shreds.” He paused, the corner of his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “But Elara will.” “She’s just a poor girl from the Appalachian mountains. She’s obedient. And she loves me.” “She’ll sign anything for me.” … I stood frozen outside the study, my blood turning to ice. *She’ll sign anything for me.* The words were poisoned icicles in my heart. Inside, Clay’s friend was still pressing him, his voice tight with urgency. “Clay, even if you give Elara nothing, Mason is your son. You’re cutting him out, too. That’s brutal.” Another voice chimed in, mocking. “Speaking of Savannah, I heard that count she married in Europe can’t have kids. That boy of hers…” “Shut up.” Clay’s voice dropped, as sharp and cold as a frozen lake in a Texas winter. “Anyone who jokes about Savannah’s reputation again will find out what happens when I turn on a friend.” The room went silent. A moment later, the same friend changed the subject, his voice laced with confusion. “With terms like these, I can’t believe Elara will agree. She’s not stupid.” Clay gave a soft, arrogant laugh—the sound of a man who believed he controlled everything. “She will.” “Elara isn’t materialistic. In seven years of marriage, the only thing she’s ever wanted is my love and to be a real part of this family.” “She’s desperate to be the legitimate Mrs. Beaumont.” … I stood outside the door, the warm Texas wind unable to touch the chill in my bones. So he knew. He’d known all along. He knew how hard I had tried to fit in, how desperately I had longed for a single scrap of sincerity from him. For seven years. Even after giving him a son, I was still the girl from the Appalachians who didn’t belong. He had never truly seen me as his wife. Now, to make room for his first love, Savannah, he was finally willing to give me a “formal” identity: a paid household manager, bound by a legal document. In that instant, seven years of devotion burned to ash. I no longer wanted to be Mrs. Beaumont.I pushed open the study door. My hand was shaking, but my spine was straight. The conversation stopped cold. Clay’s friends watched me with probing eyes, but I ignored them. I walked right up to Clay, forcing down the storm of emotions inside me. “Clay, I’d like to host a small family dinner to welcome Nana.” I added, “She was just diagnosed with severe pulmonary fibrosis. The doctors said the dry Texas climate might help. This is the first time she’s ever been this far from home.” Clay was about to speak when his phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, his eyes softened with a tenderness I had never seen directed at me. Savannah’s tearful voice drifted from the receiver. “Clay, my horse got spooked at the polo club… I’m so scared. Can you come get me?” Clay stood up instantly, without a flicker of hesitation. “I’ll be right there.” On instinct, I grabbed his sleeve. “Nana has been looking forward to this…” He ripped his arm from my grasp, his voice dripping with condescending impatience. “Elara, do you really think some old woman from the mountains cares about a welcome dinner?” I froze. He leaned in close, his warm breath brushing my ear as he spoke words as cold and clear as ice. “You want to be a good Mrs. Beaumont? Then learn your place.” With that, he and his friends were gone. The study was terrifyingly quiet. I stood there for a long moment. Then, a laugh escaped my lips. Something inside my chest had just shattered for good. Fine.I went back to my......

In my last life, I took a bottle of sulfuric acid to the face for Jackson Cole. Half my face was gone. So was my dream of going to Harvard. He told me he'd marry me after graduation. But one night, outside a bar, I heard him tell his friends: "That wrecked face of hers makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs. The acid came flying at him again. This time, I stepped back. Three steps. As the sizzling sound of burning skin filled the air, I was already sitting in the exam room. ...... The first Saturday in June. The sun was vicious, beating down until the asphalt felt soft under my shoes. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the cloying sweetness of lilacs from the flowerbeds by the school gate. I stood at the entrance to Westbrook High, gripping my SAT admission ticket so hard my knuckles were white. Not because I was nervous. Because I remembered exactly what was about to happen. Under the oak tree to the left of the gate, Jackson Cole was joking with a few other guys from our class. White t-shirt, khaki shorts, a pair of old canvas sneakers washed so often they'd faded to a pale gray. He tilted his head and said something to the boy beside him, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts handsome and punchable. I knew that angle of his jaw all too well. In my last life, I had replayed it over and over, first from a hospital bed, then in the reflection of a cheap apartment mirror, and again with every half-hearted text he ever sent me. It was like picking at a scab, just to feel it bleed again. "Scarlett, what are you staring at?" Gina poked my shoulder, holding two bottles of sparkling water. She offered one to me. The cold plastic met my palm, condensation instantly slicking my fingers. I didn't take it. Because I saw Dylan Reeves. He rounded the newsstand on the right side of the gate, carrying a blue plastic bucket. It was open, and the liquid inside sloshed as he walked. His eyes were locked on Jackson, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. A vein pulsed at his temple. At this point in my last life, I hadn't known what was in that bucket. I had only seen someone charging at Jackson, and my body moved on pure instinct— When the sulfuric acid hit my face, I didn't even have time to register the pain. First came the heat. A blistering shock, like a skillet of hot oil had been thrown on me. Then the stinging. Then the burn. Then a terror that went far beyond pain. I heard my own skin sizzling. Like bacon hitting a hot griddle. Later, the doctor told my mother: third-degree chemical burns to the left side of her face, widespread necrosis from the corner of her eye to her jaw, multiple skin grafts required. My mother fainted on the spot. Jackson stood outside the hospital room, completely untouched. Not a single drop of acid had hit him. He held my hand, his eyes bloodshot. "Scarlett, I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." "I'll marry you when we graduate." I believed him. Caught between that ruined face and his promise, I chose the promise. I gave up the SATs. Gave up being third in my class. Gave up my early admission application to Harvard. The next year, I repeated my senior year, sitting in class with half my face a mess of scars, enduring the sideways glances and whispers. I ended up at an ordinary state college. Jackson went to the local community college. I waited for him for four years.Until that night, in the fire escape off the bar's back hallway, when I heard him tell his friends... "That wrecked face of Scarlett's makes me sick." "If she hadn't taken that hit for me, I wouldn't have bothered with her for a second." "Claire and I had it all planned out. We were supposed to go to UCSB together." His friends burst out laughing. One of them said, "Th......

In my last life, I took a bottle of sulfuric acid to the face for Jackson Cole. Half my face was gone. So was my dream of going to Harvard. He told me he'd marry me after graduation. But one night, outside a bar, I heard him tell his friends: "That wrecked face of hers makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs. The acid came flying at him again. This time, I stepped back. Three steps. As the sizzling sound of burning skin filled the air, I was already sitting in the exam room. ...... The first Saturday in June. The sun was vicious, beating down until the asphalt felt soft under my shoes. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the cloying sweetness of lilacs from the flowerbeds by the school gate. I stood at the entrance to Westbrook High, gripping my SAT admission ticket so hard my knuckles were white. Not because I was nervous. Because I remembered exactly what was about to happen. Under the oak tree to the left of the gate, Jackson Cole was joking with a few other guys from our class. White t-shirt, khaki shorts, a pair of old canvas sneakers washed so often they'd faded to a pale gray. He tilted his head and said something to the boy beside him, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts handsome and punchable. I knew that angle of his jaw all too well. In my last life, I had replayed it over and over, first from a hospital bed, then in the reflection of a cheap apartment mirror, and again with every half-hearted text he ever sent me. It was like picking at a scab, just to feel it bleed again. "Scarlett, what are you staring at?" Gina poked my shoulder, holding two bottles of sparkling water. She offered one to me. The cold plastic met my palm, condensation instantly slicking my fingers. I didn't take it. Because I saw Dylan Reeves. He rounded the newsstand on the right side of the gate, carrying a blue plastic bucket. It was open, and the liquid inside sloshed as he walked. His eyes were locked on Jackson, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. A vein pulsed at his temple. At this point in my last life, I hadn't known what was in that bucket. I had only seen someone charging at Jackson, and my body moved on pure instinct— When the sulfuric acid hit my face, I didn't even have time to register the pain. First came the heat. A blistering shock, like a skillet of hot oil had been thrown on me. Then the stinging. Then the burn. Then a terror that went far beyond pain. I heard my own skin sizzling. Like bacon hitting a hot griddle. Later, the doctor told my mother: third-degree chemical burns to the left side of her face, widespread necrosis from the corner of her eye to her jaw, multiple skin grafts required. My mother fainted on the spot. Jackson stood outside the hospital room, completely untouched. Not a single drop of acid had hit him. He held my hand, his eyes bloodshot. "Scarlett, I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." "I'll marry you when we graduate." I believed him. Caught between that ruined face and his promise, I chose the promise. I gave up the SATs. Gave up being third in my class. Gave up my early admission application to Harvard. The next year, I repeated my senior year, sitting in class with half my face a mess of scars, enduring the sideways glances and whispers. I ended up at an ordinary state college. Jackson went to the local community college. I waited for him for four years.Until that night, in the fire escape off the bar's back hallway, when I heard him tell his friends... "That wrecked face of Scarlett's makes me sick." "If she hadn't taken that hit for me, I wouldn't have bothered with her for a second." "Claire and I had it all planned out. We were supposed to go to UCSB together." His friends burst out laughing. One of them said, "Th......

In my last life, I took a bottle of sulfuric acid to the face for Jackson Cole. Half my face was gone. So was my dream of going to Harvard. He told me he'd marry me after graduation. But one night, outside a bar, I heard him tell his friends: "That wrecked face of hers makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs. The acid came flying at him again. This time, I stepped back. Three steps. As the sizzling sound of burning skin filled the air, I was already sitting in the exam room. ...... The first Saturday in June. The sun was vicious, beating down until the asphalt felt soft under my shoes. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the cloying sweetness of lilacs from the flowerbeds by the school gate. I stood at the entrance to Westbrook High, gripping my SAT admission ticket so hard my knuckles were white. Not because I was nervous. Because I remembered exactly what was about to happen. Under the oak tree to the left of the gate, Jackson Cole was joking with a few other guys from our class. White t-shirt, khaki shorts, a pair of old canvas sneakers washed so often they'd faded to a pale gray. He tilted his head and said something to the boy beside him, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts handsome and punchable. I knew that angle of his jaw all too well. In my last life, I had replayed it over and over, first from a hospital bed, then in the reflection of a cheap apartment mirror, and again with every half-hearted text he ever sent me. It was like picking at a scab, just to feel it bleed again. "Scarlett, what are you staring at?" Gina poked my shoulder, holding two bottles of sparkling water. She offered one to me. The cold plastic met my palm, condensation instantly slicking my fingers. I didn't take it. Because I saw Dylan Reeves. He rounded the newsstand on the right side of the gate, carrying a blue plastic bucket. It was open, and the liquid inside sloshed as he walked. His eyes were locked on Jackson, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. A vein pulsed at his temple. At this point in my last life, I hadn't known what was in that bucket. I had only seen someone charging at Jackson, and my body moved on pure instinct— When the sulfuric acid hit my face, I didn't even have time to register the pain. First came the heat. A blistering shock, like a skillet of hot oil had been thrown on me. Then the stinging. Then the burn. Then a terror that went far beyond pain. I heard my own skin sizzling. Like bacon hitting a hot griddle. Later, the doctor told my mother: third-degree chemical burns to the left side of her face, widespread necrosis from the corner of her eye to her jaw, multiple skin grafts required. My mother fainted on the spot. Jackson stood outside the hospital room, completely untouched. Not a single drop of acid had hit him. He held my hand, his eyes bloodshot. "Scarlett, I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." "I'll marry you when we graduate." I believed him. Caught between that ruined face and his promise, I chose the promise. I gave up the SATs. Gave up being third in my class. Gave up my early admission application to Harvard. The next year, I repeated my senior year, sitting in class with half my face a mess of scars, enduring the sideways glances and whispers. I ended up at an ordinary state college. Jackson went to the local community college. I waited for him for four years.Until that night, in the fire escape off the bar's back hallway, when I heard him tell his friends... "That wrecked face of Scarlett's makes me sick." "If she hadn't taken that hit for me, I wouldn't have bothered with her for a second." "Claire and I had it all planned out. We were supposed to go to UCSB together." His friends burst out laughing. One of them said, "Th......

In my last life, I took a bottle of sulfuric acid to the face for Jackson Cole. Half my face was gone. So was my dream of going to Harvard. He told me he'd marry me after graduation. But one night, outside a bar, I heard him tell his friends: "That wrecked face of hers makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs. The acid came flying at him again. This time, I stepped back. Three steps. As the sizzling sound of burning skin filled the air, I was already sitting in the exam room. ...... The first Saturday in June. The sun was vicious, beating down until the asphalt felt soft under my shoes. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the cloying sweetness of lilacs from the flowerbeds by the school gate. I stood at the entrance to Westbrook High, gripping my SAT admission ticket so hard my knuckles were white. Not because I was nervous. Because I remembered exactly what was about to happen. Under the oak tree to the left of the gate, Jackson Cole was joking with a few other guys from our class. White t-shirt, khaki shorts, a pair of old canvas sneakers washed so often they'd faded to a pale gray. He tilted his head and said something to the boy beside him, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts handsome and punchable. I knew that angle of his jaw all too well. In my last life, I had replayed it over and over, first from a hospital bed, then in the reflection of a cheap apartment mirror, and again with every half-hearted text he ever sent me. It was like picking at a scab, just to feel it bleed again. "Scarlett, what are you staring at?" Gina poked my shoulder, holding two bottles of sparkling water. She offered one to me. The cold plastic met my palm, condensation instantly slicking my fingers. I didn't take it. Because I saw Dylan Reeves. He rounded the newsstand on the right side of the gate, carrying a blue plastic bucket. It was open, and the liquid inside sloshed as he walked. His eyes were locked on Jackson, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. A vein pulsed at his temple. At this point in my last life, I hadn't known what was in that bucket. I had only seen someone charging at Jackson, and my body moved on pure instinct— When the sulfuric acid hit my face, I didn't even have time to register the pain. First came the heat. A blistering shock, like a skillet of hot oil had been thrown on me. Then the stinging. Then the burn. Then a terror that went far beyond pain. I heard my own skin sizzling. Like bacon hitting a hot griddle. Later, the doctor told my mother: third-degree chemical burns to the left side of her face, widespread necrosis from the corner of her eye to her jaw, multiple skin grafts required. My mother fainted on the spot. Jackson stood outside the hospital room, completely untouched. Not a single drop of acid had hit him. He held my hand, his eyes bloodshot. "Scarlett, I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." "I'll marry you when we graduate." I believed him. Caught between that ruined face and his promise, I chose the promise. I gave up the SATs. Gave up being third in my class. Gave up my early admission application to Harvard. The next year, I repeated my senior year, sitting in class with half my face a mess of scars, enduring the sideways glances and whispers. I ended up at an ordinary state college. Jackson went to the local community college. I waited for him for four years.Until that night, in the fire escape off the bar's back hallway, when I heard him tell his friends... "That wrecked face of Scarlett's makes me sick." "If she hadn't taken that hit for me, I wouldn't have bothered with her for a second." "Claire and I had it all planned out. We were supposed to go to UCSB together." His friends burst out laughing. One of them said, "Th......

In my last life, I took a bottle of sulfuric acid to the face for Jackson Cole. Half my face was gone. So was my dream of going to Harvard. He told me he'd marry me after graduation. But one night, outside a bar, I heard him tell his friends: "That wrecked face of hers makes me sick." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the morning of the SATs. The acid came flying at him again. This time, I stepped back. Three steps. As the sizzling sound of burning skin filled the air, I was already sitting in the exam room. ...... The first Saturday in June. The sun was vicious, beating down until the asphalt felt soft under my shoes. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the cloying sweetness of lilacs from the flowerbeds by the school gate. I stood at the entrance to Westbrook High, gripping my SAT admission ticket so hard my knuckles were white. Not because I was nervous. Because I remembered exactly what was about to happen. Under the oak tree to the left of the gate, Jackson Cole was joking with a few other guys from our class. White t-shirt, khaki shorts, a pair of old canvas sneakers washed so often they'd faded to a pale gray. He tilted his head and said something to the boy beside him, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was equal parts handsome and punchable. I knew that angle of his jaw all too well. In my last life, I had replayed it over and over, first from a hospital bed, then in the reflection of a cheap apartment mirror, and again with every half-hearted text he ever sent me. It was like picking at a scab, just to feel it bleed again. "Scarlett, what are you staring at?" Gina poked my shoulder, holding two bottles of sparkling water. She offered one to me. The cold plastic met my palm, condensation instantly slicking my fingers. I didn't take it. Because I saw Dylan Reeves. He rounded the newsstand on the right side of the gate, carrying a blue plastic bucket. It was open, and the liquid inside sloshed as he walked. His eyes were locked on Jackson, his lips pressed into a thin, white line. A vein pulsed at his temple. At this point in my last life, I hadn't known what was in that bucket. I had only seen someone charging at Jackson, and my body moved on pure instinct— When the sulfuric acid hit my face, I didn't even have time to register the pain. First came the heat. A blistering shock, like a skillet of hot oil had been thrown on me. Then the stinging. Then the burn. Then a terror that went far beyond pain. I heard my own skin sizzling. Like bacon hitting a hot griddle. Later, the doctor told my mother: third-degree chemical burns to the left side of her face, widespread necrosis from the corner of her eye to her jaw, multiple skin grafts required. My mother fainted on the spot. Jackson stood outside the hospital room, completely untouched. Not a single drop of acid had hit him. He held my hand, his eyes bloodshot. "Scarlett, I'll spend the rest of my life making this up to you." "I'll marry you when we graduate." I believed him. Caught between that ruined face and his promise, I chose the promise. I gave up the SATs. Gave up being third in my class. Gave up my early admission application to Harvard. The next year, I repeated my senior year, sitting in class with half my face a mess of scars, enduring the sideways glances and whispers. I ended up at an ordinary state college. Jackson went to the local community college. I waited for him for four years.Until that night, in the fire escape off the bar's back hallway, when I heard him tell his friends... "That wrecked face of Scarlett's makes me sick." "If she hadn't taken that hit for me, I wouldn't have bothered with her for a second." "Claire and I had it all planned out. We were supposed to go to UCSB together." His friends burst out laughing. One of them said, "Th......