A few yards away, a group of passing teenagers, carrying surfboards and blasting music from a portable speaker, paused.

One of the girls nudged her friend, pointing openly at the extensive, violent trauma mapping my spine. They began to whisper, their eyes wide with morbid curiosity and adolescent judgment.

Before I could even lift my head from my towel to register their stares, a shadow fell over me.

Chloe stepped directly into their line of sight, physically blocking their view of my body.

Chloe wasn’t the vain, cruel, superficial girl from the pool party anymore. She’d abandoned the toxic, high-society friends who’d only valued aesthetics.

She’d spent the last two years in intense therapy, unraveling her survivor’s guilt, and dedicating her life to becoming my fiercest, most uncompromising protector.