Before Winter can react, Sylvia shoves her hard, sending her stumbling to the ground.
Her palms scrape against the rough pavement, pain shooting through her hands.
Laughter erupts from both Sylvia and Chad as Winter tries to steady herself, her vision blurring with humiliation.
“Look at you,” Sylvia sneers, standing over her like a victor.
“When will you get it into your skull that you and your mom don’t belong here? You should be living in a lower-class city and not enjoying the fruit of other people’s labor.”
Chad smirks from the driver’s seat, his handsome face ugly with contempt.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he assures Sylvia with a glint in his eye.
“If she refuses to get it, we will force it into her dumb skull.”
Winter doesn’t respond.
She is too focused on the sharp pain building behind her eyes, spreading like cracks in glass.
It’s happening again—the onset of one of her migraines, which have plagued her for as long as she can remember.
Her father had told her they started when she was five, after an accident she couldn’t recall.
Now, triggered by the stress and Sylvia’s cruelty, the familiar pain throbs in her head with increasing intensity.
Satisfied with her handiwork, Sylvia turns and climbs back into the car with theatrical grace.
Chad revs the engine, grinning as he throws one last look at Winter before driving away, leaving her on the ground, humiliated and in pain.
Winter knows the real reason behind Chad’s cruelty—she had rejected his advances a month ago when he’d cornered her after class, and he hadn’t taken it well.
His ego couldn’t handle rejection from someone he considered beneath him.
For a moment, Winter wants to stay there and let the world fade around her, to simply give up.
But she forces herself to stand, ignoring the ache in her head and the tears welling in her eyes, blurring her vision.
She won’t break—not yet.
Not when her mother still needs her.
By the time she reaches her small apartment, climbing the three flights of stairs with leaden legs, she is exhausted, both emotionally and physically.
Her migraine is intensifying, each pulse of pain making her nauseous.
She desperately needs rest, darkness, silence.
But as she steps inside, she finds her mother, Sarah, sitting at the kitchen table, her face tense with more than just fatigue.
There is something else there—anxiety, perhaps, or guilt.
“Mom? You’re home early,” Winter notes, dropping her backpack on the floor with a thud.
Her mother looks up, hands clasped tightly together on the worn table surface, knuckles white.
“Yes, Winter,” she says, her voice strained.
“We need to talk.”
Noticing the seriousness in her mother’s tone, the way she can’t quite meet Winter’s eyes, Winter tenses.
Her migraine is forgotten for a moment as she walks over and sits in the chair next to her mother.
“What is it, Mom?” she asks, her stomach knotting with dread.
“Is this about my school fees again? Because I can get a part-time job, I can—”
Sarah shakes her head, hesitating as she struggles to find the right words.
Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Winter, you might not have known this, but I’ve been seeing someone,” she begins, still not meeting her daughter’s gaze.
“And we’re getting married.”
“Wait what?” Winter whispers, staring at her mother in shock and confusion, her mind struggling to process the words.
“How is that possible? Dad only passed away two years ago. Isn’t it illegal to remarry within five years of a spouse’s death?”
The law is clear—no widowed person is permitted to remarry within the first five years after their spouse’s death.
This had been one of the many new regulations introduced by the SWG, supposedly to ensure “emotional stability,” but many know it is just another way to control the population.
Winter had never given much thought to these laws—until now.
Sarah sighs at her daughter’s reaction, her expression tense.
Lines of worry crease her forehead, aging her beyond her years.
She’d been bracing herself for this conversation since her fiancé had proposed, rehearsing the words in her mind during sleepless nights, but it still doesn’t make it any easier.
“Yes, Winter, the law does exist,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But…” She hesitates, wringing her hands as she carefully chooses her next words.
“My fiancé, he is… Well he’s well-connected. He managed to get a waiver.”
“A waiver?” Winter echoes, her worry deepening into something closer to alarm.
“How does someone get a waiver for something like that?”
“There is a legal process, but if you have connections within the government, it can be processed much faster,” Sarah explains, avoiding her daughter’s searching gaze.
Winter is stunned.
Only upper-class citizens or those within the government can attain such a favor.
She needs to know more about this man her mother plans to marry—this stranger who apparently wields enough influence to bend the SWG’s iron-clad rules.
“Who is he, Mom?”
Taking a deep breath, Sarah prepares for the reaction she knows is coming.
Her shoulders tense as if bracing for impact.
“His name is Marcus Bond. He’s a business consultant for major companies in Transville.”
Winter feels as if a wave of dizziness has hit her.
The name Marcus Bond triggers something in her—a sense of unease she can’t shake, like fingernails scraping against the back of her skull.
The pain behind her eyes intensifies, and for a moment, the room seems to darken at the edges.
It is the same sensation she always feels when danger is near, or when something familiar gives her an inexplicable sense of dread.
Her father had called it her “inner compass,” though it feels more like a curse than a gift.
Not noticing her daughter’s reaction, Sarah continues, her voice taking on a softer, almost wistful quality.
“I met him two years ago, right before your father died.”
Winter’s gaze snaps back to her mother.
“Did you just say you met him before Dad died?” she asks, her voice low and strained.
“Mom… were you… were you cheating on Dad?!”