Page 4 of Killing Me Softly

It wasrevenge.

Not just on the world that had kept her locked away in this colourless box, but onhim.

The one who’d put her here. And the one who’d walked away.

“I think we’re making some progress,” Laura said, closing her file with a soft, patronising thud. “You’re finally being truthful.”

“Are you letting me go?”

“First, we have to decide who you’ll be. Make a plan for you. Those things take time.”

“Yes, doctor.” She forced the smile that felt like splintered glass.

Laura smiled back, and she rose to her feet, legs trembling under her barely contained excitement. The guard escorted her back to her room. A soft pastel-pink prison, designed to mimic the comfort of a young woman’s bedroom. All the rooms were just boxes tacked together with sticky tape. Pictures lined the walls. Jewellery sparkled on a neatly arranged stand. Artwork hung as if someone cared about the beauty of her thoughts. But none of it was real. Every item, every decoration, was lip service to an illusion of care.

No one cared.

No one hadevercared.

The door clicked shut behind her with a hollow finality. She stood still, listening for the fading footsteps of the guard. When silence settled over the room like a shroud, she moved. Dropping to her knees, she reached under the bed, finding the strip of tape hidden beneath the frame. With a quiet rip, she pulled free the small contraband phone—a gift smuggled in by Dr Laura Pryce herself. A woman, at least. Someone whounderstood. Someone who knew what it was like to be trapped at the cusp of adulthood, overlooked and underestimated bymen.

Laura had been feeding her little morsels of hope for years. She didn’t just understand her needs. Shebelievedin her. Had carved out a future for her—not to heal, but to survive. Quietly. Unnoticed. She was the first adult who hadn’t tried to fix her. Only point her toward the world and hand her the blade.

None as precious asthis, though.

She stretched out on the bed, holding the phone above her like a forbidden treasure as she tapped into the videos.

And therehewas.

A boy, barely eight, with translucent blond hair catching the light like spun silk, dancing his fingers across the keys ofa vintage walnut piano. A prodigy. Perfect. Playing a timeless classic as if he knew how to evoke emotions through the medium of music. His delicate frame seemed almost too small to contain such mastery. He certainly looked as if he didn’t fit on the stool. But his fingers fluttered, teasing life from the keys, resonating a haunting beauty as timeless as the melody filling her room.

Her chest ached as the deep chords swelled, unravelling something fragile inside her. Maybe her soul? Her lost childhood? The love she didn’t know how to get? Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but rage sharpened the edges before they could fall. Howdarehe make her feel like this? As if he were tellingherstory. As ifhecould understand what it meant to be broken, forsaken,unloved.

The boy then jumped off the bench and his bright, angelic face was at odds with the smugness of his vulgar bow. As if he revelled in the praise, in knowing he could draw the world to its knees with nothing more than his fingers.

Rapturous applause swelled from behind the camera, then Roisin stepped into the frame. Her mother’s face, so achingly beautiful it was cruel, shone with love, pride, and possessiveness, and she cradled the boy’s cheeks with both hands, leaned down, and kissed the tip of his nose with an almost reverent tenderness.

“You are my precious boy,” Roisin said, voice like silk, soft but unbreakable. “The only thing I love.”

Those words landed like shards of glass in her mind, cutting into the same old scarred places.

The only thing I love.

A tremor passed through her body as the rage built. Hot, molten, and endless.Hehad Roisin’s love, her undivided adoration.Hewas everything Roisin had chosen. Had been her entire world, and there had never been room for anyone else. Forher.

And what was he doing with it? Flaunting it. Basking in it like it was his birthright. He hadn’t had tofightfor her love. Hadn’t been starved of it, forced to scrape by on empty smiles and scraps.

She tightened her grip around the phone, knuckles white as she fought the urge to throw it across the room. The soft chords of the piano replayed in her head, unwelcome and cloying. Hopeful. Yes. She was still hopeful. Hopeful he would learn what it felt like to be cheated out of love. To be hurt by the ones meant to care for him.

She closed her eyes and for a moment, the melody twisted. He could play all the haunting music he wanted. But the grand finale? That would be hers. She’d compose it note by note, in blood and silence.

A love song turned requiem.

Some lessons in love leave scars.

Didn’tsheknow all about that?

Chapter one

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