From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 117

**Chapter 3**

The memories of my second year with Rhys remain vivid in my mind, like snapshots of a time that feels both distant and achingly close.

A devastating flu swept through Westlake, claiming lives with a chilling 3% death rate. I was among the unfortunate, my immune system faltering under the relentless assault of the virus. The doctors deemed it necessary to quarantine me, a decision that felt like being trapped in a glass box, watching the world continue without me.

As the fever raged inside me, my vision blurred, and I could barely discern the familiar features of Rhys as they swam in and out of focus. It was as if I were lost in a dream, teetering on the edge of consciousness. With a raspy voice, I reached out, grasping for his hand, desperate for connection.

“Rhys, I miss you so much,” I croaked, the words barely escaping my lips.

“Am I never going to see you again?” I asked, a wave of despair crashing over me.

My days blurred into a haze, and I was only aware for fleeting moments, like a flickering candle in a storm. Rhys, who had always been the strong one, who had never shed a tear in my presence, now fell apart before me. He sobbed openly, his grief raw and unrestrained, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

Despite his rough edges and the hustler’s life he led, Rhys had somehow found a way to volunteer at the school, navigating through the chaos of quarantine protocols. He moved from Building A to Building C, tirelessly searching for my name on the quarantine list, driven by an urgency that left me both grateful and worried.

“Rhys, you idiot! Why would you risk your life for someone like me?” I scolded him, my voice thick with concern.

But he brushed off my worries, a determined glint in his eye as he slipped a delicate silver bracelet onto my wrist. “Camden, happy birthday,” he said, a smile breaking through his tears.

I remembered how, in those days of struggle, we would gaze longingly at a silver ring in a small accessory shop, dreaming of a time when we could afford such luxuries. I had thought I wouldn’t live to see another spring, but there, in that sterile ward, cherry blossoms danced outside the window, their petals drifting like whispers of hope.

Later, I learned the bracelet had been crafted from Rhys’s childhood protection bracelet, a token of his past that he had melted down just for me. “Camden, I’m tough. I can handle whatever life throws my way. You just focus on living peacefully and happily,” he had said, his words a balm to my fraying spirit.

That bracelet became a symbol of our bond, a mark of the young Rhys who had branded me with his unwavering affection. I believed with all my heart that through that silver circle, we could weave our lives together, creating a tapestry of peace and happiness.

Yet, as I tugged at the bracelet, feeling its weight against my skin, I realized it was becoming a burden. I bit my lip, pulling and twisting it until my wrist burned red with the effort.

“Camden, what are you doing?!” Rhys shouted, his voice a mix of anger and panic, his bloodshot eyes wide with concern.

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