The journey to Riverton started with the crisp, cool air of autumn filling the car. The sky was a pale, clear blue, and a gentle breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves. As we drove through the countryside, the vibrant greens of summer foliage gradually gave way to the warm hues of autumn. Leaves transformed into shades of orange, red, and gold, creating a picturesque mosaic that lined the winding roads.
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Our route took us past Riverton Bay, where the sun shimmered off the water’s surface, creating a glittering path that led us forward. The bay was dotted with small fishing boats, their colorful sails adding splashes of brightness to the serene landscape. The water lapped gently against the shore, a soothing sound that contrasted with the anticipation buzzing in the car.
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Next, we passed through Riverton Springs. The quaint town was alive with the sights and sounds of autumn. Pumpkins and gourds decorated porches, and the occasional scarecrow stood guard over well-tended gardens. The leaves here were at their peak of color, and as we drove along the main street, a few fluttered down like confetti, celebrating the season's beauty.
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Despite the weight of our mission, the road trip became an unexpected bonding experience. Stasi and I had only known each other for a few months, but this journey was bringing us closer together. We talked about our lives, our dreams, and our fears. Stasi shared stories about her adventurous spirit, and I found myself opening up about my struggles with fitting into Bloomfield's elite circles.
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A couple of hours into the drive, we stopped at a quaint little gas station. The old, rustic charm of the place was endearing, with a small shop attached that sold everything from snacks to souvenirs.
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“Snack break!” Stasi announced as we pulled up to the pump.
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Inside, we browsed the aisles, grabbing bags of chips, chocolate bars, and cold drinks. Stasi found a collection of cheesy keychains, and we both picked one as a memento of our trip. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant.
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Back in the car, we cranked up the music and sang along to our favorite songs. The windows were rolled down, letting in the crisp autumn air as we belted out the lyrics with abandon. It didn’t matter that our voices were off-key or that we forgot some of the words; what mattered was the joy and the connection we felt.
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For me, this was a new experience. Before moving to Bloomfield, I had never really had friends. My life had been a series of solitary pursuits, misunderstanding the meaning of girlhood and friendship. After my childhood friend unexpectedly committed suicide, I became the solitary type, finding solace in my own interests and quiet corners. The idea of camaraderie and shared secrets seemed like an alien concept.
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My previous belief was that strength came from within, that relying on others was a sign of weakness. I prided myself on my independence, convincing myself that needing someone meant exposing vulnerabilities. Friendships seemed like distractions, unnecessary dependencies that could betray you in times of need. It was a defense mechanism, a way to protect myself from potential pain and disappointment.
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But Stasi was teaching me otherwise. Our drive through the transforming autumn landscape was more than just a journey—it was a revelation. This road trip, with its laughter and shared moments, was showing me the true meaning of friendship. It was an intimate experience, one that I had never known before. Stasi’s presence was a reminder that strength also came from the bonds we form, from the support we give and receive.
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Each laugh, each off-key song we sang in the car, each shared story was breaking down the walls I had built around myself. For the first time, I understood what girlhood could be—an intricate dance of shared joys and sorrows, of mutual understanding and unconditional support. It was an enlightenment of sorts, revealing the beauty of having someone who truly understood you and stood by you, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
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This road trip was more than just a quest to uncover our fathers’ secrets. It was my initiation into the depths of true friendship, a glimpse into the bonds that could turn strangers into sisters. As the vibrant hues of autumn guided us toward Riverton City, I realized that this was girlhood at its peak—a profound experience that I would cherish forever.
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Finally, after four hours on the road, we reached the bustling heart of Riverton City. The transition from serene countryside to vibrant cityscape was stark. Skyscrapers loomed over us, and the streets buzzed with activity. Despite the serious reason for our trip, we couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement as we navigated the busy streets.
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Riverton City was a place of contrasts—where historic buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with modern architecture, and the old blended seamlessly with the new. The city's energy was infectious, and though our mission was serious, the journey had brought us closer together, reminding us of the strength of our newfound friendship and the importance of having someone to rely on. As we stepped into the unknown, we knew that whatever we uncovered, we would face it together.
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As we stepped out of the car and into the bustling heart of Riverton City, the contrast from our serene drive was stark. The city’s vibrant energy pulsed around us, a cacophony of sounds and sights that added to the thrill of our mission. The air was filled with the aromas of street food vendors, and the chatter of people hurrying along the sidewalks created a symphony of urban life.
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Our first stop was the address Stasi had found—a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of Riverton. The building looked abandoned, its windows covered in grime and graffiti. We exchanged a nervous glance before pushing the heavy door open, the rusty hinges groaning in protest.
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Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit, the only light coming from a flickering bulb overhead. Dust motes danced in the beam of light, and the air was thick with the scent of mildew. We stepped cautiously, our footsteps echoing in the empty space.
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“Are you sure this is the right place?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the creaking floorboards.
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Stasi nodded, her expression determined. “This is the address I found in my dad’s car’s GPS. I’m certain he was talking to your father on the phone after their meeting here.”
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We made our way to a small office in the corner of the warehouse. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, we found a desk covered in papers. Stasi began sorting through them, her brow furrowed in concentration.
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“Look at this,” she said, holding up a picture, her eyes widened in shock. “I didn’t know my dad was friends with Vance Ferucchi when he was a teenager. The Ferucchi’s were the royal family that used to rule the Chain Islands.” Stasi informed me.
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My blood ran cold, chills running through my veins as the words escape her mouth and my mind, linking the revelation to the dinner my parents threw and Freja’s comment about the Ferucchi’s and my father. Hastily, I make my way over Stasi as she held out the picture to me.
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I could feel the intensity and gravity of the revelation. “Stasi,” my voice shaky, trembling in disbelief. “That’s not Vance Ferucchi. That’s my dad when he was a teenager. He had many pictures from those years, that is definitely him.”
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The revelation leaving utter shock on Stasi’s face, neither of us wanting to believe it. Could it be? Could he really be the eldest son of the Ferucchi’s? Stasi put the picture in her mini handbag.
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“That is the eldest son of the Ferucchi’s, which means, your dad, Victor, is…”
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Just as we were beginning to process the implications, we heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged through us, and we barely had time to hide behind a stack of crates before the door creaked open.
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A man entered the office, his face shadowed by the dim light. Our hearts pounded in our chests as we huddled behind the crates, holding our breaths. The man rummaged through the desk, seemingly oblivious to our presence. The sounds of a truck and the metal rolling door grew louder, and then, the screams of women pierced the air, sending chills down our spines.
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I glanced at Stasi, her eyes wide with fear and determination. We needed to find out what was happening, but we waited until the man left the office, before we dipped out, mindful about the creaking of the wooden floorboards. Finally reaching the aluminium widow that overlooked the warehouse from the office, we peeked to have a closer look at the transpiring events outside.
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“Stay close,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
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We peeked around a corner and saw a group of men unloading what looked like human cargo. They held huge firearms and pointed them at their victims, the women shaking in fear.
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Before we could make our escape behind crates and machinery, a masked figure entered the warehouse. He moved with an air of authority, pointing out a few women as eligible.
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A wave of memories crashed over me, memories of my own past trauma. I had been a victim once, and the fear and helplessness I felt then threatened to overwhelm me now. But I pushed it to the back of my mind, focusing on the task at hand. I felt a strong sense of nobility, a duty to help these women, but I knew I could never fight armed men. The fear of Stasi and me becoming collateral if we were caught or worse, paralyzed me. I felt a sense of duty to get us out safely.
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We watched, horrified, as the men escorted the remaining women to the back. The implication of what was about to happen sent a shiver down my spine.
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Then, without warning, we witnessed a nightmare unfold before our eyes. The women who were not chosen were lined up against the wall. A signal from the masked figure, and the men opened fire, the sound of gunshots echoing through the warehouse. The remaining women screamed in terror, their faces contorted in fear and despair.
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My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I wanted to help, but the overwhelming fear of being caught or worse, kept me rooted to the spot. I felt a deep sense of cowardice, unable to do anything to stop the horror unfolding in front of us.
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I glanced over at Stasi, whose face flushed in terror. We were both in shock that this was happening in broad daylight. The masked figure turned the choses women, a strong warning in his voice.28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4ML2Gmjbk4
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“I own you; you will do as we say or face the same fate, don’t forget what you saw here today. Especially you,” he pointed to a brunette woman, shivering in terror, “think of defying me again, and I will go back to that dreadful village and take your sisters too. And that goes for the rest of you too!” his voice laced with a dark, joyful tone.
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The masked figure’s chilling words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the power he wielded. The sound of gunshots echoed in my ears, each one a haunting reminder of my inability to help.
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As we carefully navigated our way through the maze of crates and machinery, my heart felt like it would explode. Fear gripped every part of me, but the determination to get out alive overpowered it. Stasi and I moved in silence, the weight of what we had witnessed pressing heavily on us.
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Just as we were about to slip out the secluded back door, I caught a glimpse of one of the chosen women. Our eyes locked in a brief, intense moment. Her eyes were a mix of hope and desperation, silently pleading for help.
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Cowering away, I left the warehouse hot on Stasi’s heels, feeling helpless and just as guilty as the terrible men that held them captive.
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Meanwhile Clary suffered her own trauma, freshly instilled by her mother’s abuse.
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Clary's absence from school following the Valentine Formal was both a reprieve and a prison. The scandal had left its mark, but the real torment lay at home. Her mother’s voice still echoed in her mind, a relentless reminder of her disappointment.
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"How could you bring such shame to our family, Clary? How could you sneak out when I told you that such events is the brewery for inappropriate behaviour, Clary? Is this the kind of girl you want to be, Clary?" her mother had hissed, her eyes cold and unforgiving. "How dare you defy me? A lady of the George lineage should behave with grace and elegance!”
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Clary had barely managed to keep herself composed during the confrontation. She was never allowed to do anything, her mother’s expectations had always weighed heavily on her, but this time, the emotional abuse cut deeper. She was again confined to the dark closet, a punishment designed to break her spirit and demand obedience. The small, enclosed space amplified her anxiety, making every second feel like an eternity.
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She spent days in that suffocating darkness, her only company being her thoughts. The whispers of self-doubt and guilt grew louder, filling the void left by the absence of light. Clary’s mother would occasionally open the door, her silhouette framed by the harsh hallway light, to deliver another round of emotional manipulation.
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“You will remain here until you can be obedient! The High Society Gala is approaching, and you will not disappoint me again! I’m hosting the meeting and I will demand nothing short from perfection from you!”
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The words stung, each one a reminder of the crushing expectations she was forced to live up to. Clary knew she had no choice but to comply. The anxiety gnawed at her, knowing her mother would be leading the meeting the following day. Her mother’s high expectations felt like a noose around her neck, tightening with each passing moment.
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Clary longed for escape, jealous of her sister Charlotte’s freedom, as the weight of her mother’s control was too heavy to bear alone. She felt trapped, not just in the dark closet, but in a life dictated by someone else’s ambitions. The upcoming High Society Gala loomed over her like a storm, and she feared what would happen if she failed to meet her mother’s expectations once more.
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The dark closet had become a metaphor for Clary’s life—a small, confined space where she was forced to hide her true self. As the day of the meeting approached, she tried to muster the courage to face her fears. But deep down, she knew that the scars left by her mother’s emotional abuse would never truly heal.
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