Chapter 5

"Aria." Damien's voice could have frozen fire. "Vivienne wants to speak with you."

Vivienne's face was a mask of gentle, martyred concern. "I came to tell you that I forgive you. I know you didn't mean to hurt me."

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere dark inside me.

The sound made them both flinch.

"You want me to apologize," I said, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. "For something I didn't do."

"Stop lying!" Damien moved closer, his fists clenched at his sides. "Everyone at the party saw you! There were dozens of witnesses!"

"Paid witnesses?" I met his eyes, searching for any trace of the man I'd loved. "Like the ones who said I pushed her down the stairs last year?"

"How dare you—"

"Damien, please." Vivienne's hand on his arm was delicate, perfectly timed. "Don't upset yourself. I'm fine, truly. She can't hurt me anymore."

But her eyes told a different story.

They gleamed with victory, with satisfaction, with the pure joy of watching me break.

"Fine." I pushed myself up, every muscle screaming in protest. "You want an apology?"

The catheter tube pulled as I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

My bare feet hit the cold hospital floor.

"What are you doing?" Damien demanded.

"Giving you what you want."

My knees hit the floor with a crack that echoed through the room.

The pain in my abdomen was blinding, the surgical incision pulling and burning.

"I'm sorry," I said, each word tasting like poison. "I'm sorry for everything you think I did."

Vivienne's smile widened as she stepped closer, positioning herself directly in front of me.

"That's better," she said sweetly. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Then her knee pressed into my abdomen.

Right where the incision was.

Right where they'd cut me open to remove my dead baby and destroyed womb.

White-hot agony ripped through me.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but feel my body being torn apart all over again.

"Oh!" Vivienne jumped back with perfect theatrical timing. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see—oh my God, is that a catheter bag?"

Her laugh was delicate, musical, designed to sound embarrassed.

But I heard the cruelty underneath.

"How embarrassing for you," she continued, loud enough for the nurses passing in the hallway to hear. "You poor thing."

Damien's lip curled as he looked down at me. "Always playing the victim. You're really good at that."

I stayed on my knees, unable to move, watching blood seep through my hospital gown.

"We'll expect regular updates on your apology tour," Vivienne said, taking Damien's arm. "Lucas has quite a list of people you need to make amends with."

They left me there.

Kneeling on the floor.

Bleeding.

Broken.

A nurse found me ten minutes later and helped me back to bed, her face professionally blank as she changed my dressing and adjusted my catheter.

She didn't ask what happened.

Maybe she didn't care.

Maybe she'd seen enough tragedy in these halls to become numb.

As she left, I stared at the ceiling and felt something inside me change.

The soft part—the part that still hoped, that still believed, that still loved—finally died.

It didn't die with drama or tears.

It died quietly, like a candle going out.

And in its place, something cold and hard settled into my chest.

I was done.

Done begging.

Done hoping.

Done loving people who saw me as nothing but a convenient target.

Seven days later, when they finally discharged me with nowhere to go and no one to call, I checked into a cheap motel with the last of my savings.

I didn't know that Damien and Lucas had already set their trap.

I didn't know that the worst was yet to come.

I didn't know that in exactly sixteen hours, police would be knocking on my door with handcuffs and accusations.

I just knew that I had to survive.

One more day.

One more hour.

One more breath.

Even if I didn't know why anymore.