Sophia's Point Of View
The sound of glass shattering against the wall echoed through the room, but it did nothing to soothe the raging storm inside me. My breath was heavy, chest rising and falling as I glared at the shards of my now-ruined phone scattered across the floor.
This couldn't be happening.
It was supposed to be her.
Morana was supposed to be the one trending, humiliated, and dragged through the mud. Not me.
My hands curled into fists as anger clawed its way up my throat. The nurses at the hospital had already begun looking at me differently—whispering behind my back, throwing me pitying glances like I was some kind of pathetic joke. I could still feel their eyes on me, burning into my skin.
I wasn't supposed to be the laughingstock.
I was supposed to be the victim.
The door suddenly burst open, and my mother, Isabella, rushed in, her face twisted with concern.
