Diana hailed a taxi and collapsed into the back seat, slamming the door harder than she meant to.
Her body still buzzed from last night—the kind of buzz that wasn't just alcohol. It was the kind that came from touch. From surrendering herself to someone she didn't even know. The kind that left her aching in the morning in places she didn't even realize could ache.
But even worse than the ache… was the guilt. The shame. The chaos in her chest.
God.
His hands on her hips. His mouth on her neck. The heat, the way he whispered things that made her toes curl and her brain short-circuit. The way he looked at her like he could see through all the good-girl lies and straight into the mess she was underneath.
She pressed her thighs together, shame rushing through her like a second wave of heat.
"Stop it," she muttered to herself, leaning her forehead against the cool glass window. "Just stop."
It was one night. One stupid, reckless night with a stranger.
A stranger who might've killed two people right in front of her.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She clenched her fists in her lap. No more thinking about it. No more thinking about him. About Andrea. About Sara.
Especially not Sara.
The taxi smelled like cheap air freshener and the faint trace of cigarette smoke. A song was playing in the cab and she was trying to tune out the spinning in her head when her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She frowned. Her fingers hovered over the screen. Should she answer?
Curiosity won.
"Hello?"
"Is this Diana?" a soft, worn-out voice asked.
She froze.
"…Mom?"
"Yes." Her mother sounded cautious, like she wasn't sure Diana would pick up. "It's me."
Diana sat up straighter, heart lurching. They hadn't talked in months. Not since she stopped sending her money. Not since she stopped begging for her love.
"I need to ask you something," her mother continued, and Diana's heart dropped at the tone in her voice. "Why is your sister with your boyfriend?"
Her chest tightened. "What?"
"They posted a picture," her mother said. "Sara and Andrea. Holding hands. Smiling. Is it true?"
Diana's throat burned. She didn't want to answer. Didn't want to say it out loud, like somehow it would make it more real.
But she whispered anyway, "Yeah. It's true."
There was a pause on the line. For a split second, Diana thought maybe—just maybe—her mother would say something comforting. Something motherly. Maybe even cry for her.
But no.
She sighed, long and tired. "Then maybe you just weren't enough."
Diana's mouth fell open. "What?"
"If you were, Andrea wouldn't have left you," her mother continued, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Maybe Sara gives him something you don't."
Diana felt like she'd been slapped.
"Are you really blaming me right now?" Her voice cracked. "You're defending them?"
"She's your sister," her mother snapped. "And she deserves to be happy too."
Diana's chest caved in.
"She's seventeen," she said, nearly shouting. "He's twenty-three. That's not love. That's sick."
"You've always been dramatic," her mother said coldly. "Don't go disturbing them. If being with Andrea makes your sister happy, then maybe you should be happy for her too."
Diana blinked in disbelief. "What does that even mean?"
But her mother had already hung up.
She stared at the phone, frozen in place, the sting of her mother's words slicing straight through her chest.
Why did she even answer?
She'd spent her whole life trying to please her. Trying to be perfect. She cleaned the house. Skipped parties. Kept her grades up. Helped pay rent when Dad drank away their savings. Got a job the second she turned sixteen.
None of it mattered.
Because to her mother, Diana was the mistake.
The pregnancy that ruined her life. The reason she married a man who drank, gambled, and wasted away any future they might've had. The reason she had to quit school. The reason she never smiled.
She hated Diana for it.
She always had.
After years of pretending, her mother finally got tired. Tired of the fights, the debt, the endless cycle of shouting and slammed doors. So, she threw him out. Divorced him. Wiped her hands clean and walked away.
But guess who he moved in with?
Diana.
Because despite everything—despite him wasting their lives on liquor, women, and poker chips—she was still the one who let him sleep on her couch. Still the one paying the bills while he sat around, chain-smoking and blaming the world.
Because that's just what she did.
She picked up the messes other people made.
Her hands were trembling as she opened Instagram.
Big mistake.
There it was. The post. Fresh, only an hour old.
A picture of Andrea and Sara at a café. He had his arm around her. She had her head on his shoulder like she belonged there.
Like Diana never existed.
The caption?
"She gets me in ways Diana never could. Real love isn't about the past, it's about who's beside you now. 💙 #Grateful #RealQueen #NoDrama"
She could barely breathe.
Her seventeen-year-old sister. A child. Smiling like she just won the goddamn lottery.
And Andrea—grinning like he'd found the love of his life, completely ignoring the fact that just days ago, he was still sleeping in Diana's bed.
Her hands itched to throw the phone out the taxi window.
Instead, she stared out at the passing streets. The shops. The stoplights. The people.
None of them knew what she'd been through. That she was just another girl—dumped, betrayed, discarded by her own family.
And in that silence, one thought cut through everything:
She was done.
Done being the girl who always apologized. The girl who waited. The girl who gave more than she ever got.
Done being the good girl.
Let them see what a bad one looked like.