Murder , Money, Matrimony
Spice sat in the soft leather chair, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap. She had rehearsed this part—how she would tell her therapist about that night without letting the truth slip.
“He… he tried to seduce me after the game,” she said, voice steady, even cheerful. “I wasn’t about that. I just laughed it off. I mean, I handled it.”
Her therapist raised an eyebrow, pen hovering over her notepad. “Handled it how?”
Spice smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know… politely. Told him no. Walked away. I’ve always had boundaries. I’m not that kind of girl.”
The lie hung in the air, smooth and believable.
In reality, it had been terrifying. He had cornered her, whispered things that made her stomach twist with fear and shame. She hadn’t been laughing. She hadn’t felt in control. She had frozen. She had pretended to go along, too scared to make a scene, too scared to fight back.
But she couldn’t say that. Saying she had felt trapped, scared, or violated would make her seem weak—someone broken that she wasn’t willing to show, not even here. Not to the therapist who was supposed to be helping her.
So she dressed it up. She framed it like it was flirtatious, like she had the power to reject him with ease. She omitted the fear. She ignored the manipulation. She laughed when she remembered it, even though inside, her chest tightened and her hands trembled slightly.
“I just walked away,” she repeated, this time a little too firmly, like she was trying to convince both the therapist and herself.
The therapist nodded slowly, taking notes. “It sounds like you felt in control of the situation,” she said softly, unaware of how carefully Spice had constructed her story.
Spice nodded, letting herself breathe a little easier. No one had to know the truth. Not yet. She was still the same girl her friends thought she was—untouchable, composed, and in command of her life.
But deep down, Spice carried the memory like a weight she couldn’t set down. And that lie—polished, practiced, protective—was just another layer she would have to keep up, day after day, until she could figure out how to survive it all.


























































































