Chapter 4

Francesca POV:

"Please, Antonio," I begged, my voice cracking, "don't make me stay in there. You know my allergies. The dust, the mold... it's a health hazard." My throat already felt tight, a familiar phantom itch starting at the back of my mouth.

He looked at me with cold indifference. "It's temporary, Francesca. Just a few weeks until the guest wing is ready for renovation. It's a small inconvenience for the good of the company." He spoke as if discussing a business deal, not my well-being.

"Inconvenience?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You call putting me in a place that could actively harm me an inconvenience?"

Two burly nurses, the same ones from the clinic, appeared at his side. Their presence was a silent threat.

I tried to back away, but they moved swiftly, grabbing my arms. Their grip was surprisingly firm, yet gentle enough not to leave bruises. They were practiced.

I struggled, but my movements were weak, ineffective. My body still ached from the electroshocks, from the daily cocktail of sedatives. I was a puppet, my strings cut.

They led me to the converted pantry, a small, dark room in the furthest corner of the house. The air hung heavy, thick with the smell of old wood, dampness, and something else-a faint, musty odor that sent a shiver of dread down my spine.

My throat tightened immediately. My sinuses began to burn. My eyes welled up, not with tears of sadness, but from a growing irritation. I felt it, the slow creep of constriction, the first warning signs of anaphylaxis.

The air grew heavier, each breath a conscious effort. My vision blurred around the edges, a dizzying haze. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating me.

I clawed at my throat, the phantom itch becoming real, a burning, relentless agony. My skin prickled, a wave of heat washing over me, followed by a sudden chill. My chest tightened, a vice-like grip squeezing the air from my lungs. I started to cough, a dry, harsh bark that tore at my raw throat.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the sedative-induced haze. I needed my EpiPen. It was in my bathroom, in the medicine cabinet. They had taken everything else.

I pounded on the locked door, my fists weak, my cries for help hoarse and barely audible. "Help! Please! I can't breathe!"

Through the small, grimy window, I saw Antonio and Harlow, laughing, toasting with champagne glasses on the patio. The irony was a cruel punch to the gut. They were celebrating, while I was dying.

Then I heard it. A rustling in the corner, a scuttling sound that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. Something large, dark, and furry darted across the floor. A rat.

My scream was primal, pure, unadulterated fear. "Get it away! Get it away from me!" I thrashed, my weakened body convulsing, trying to get away from the filthy creature.

The rat, startled, lunged. Its sharp teeth clamped onto my ankle, a searing pain that made me cry out. I kicked, desperate, trying to shake it off, but it held fast.

I felt a sickening pull as a piece of flesh ripped away. I screamed again, a guttural sound of agony and terror. The world spun, the edges of my vision dissolving into black.

I woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the gentle beeping of machines. My head throbbed, my throat raw. My ankle was throbbing, a dull, insistent ache. I was in a hospital bed, an IV drip in my arm.

Antonio entered, his face a mask of concern. "Francesca, darling, thank God you're awake." He reached for my hand, his grip surprisingly tender.

I tried to speak, but my throat was too raw, my voice a mere croak. My eyes, however, were wide, alert, wary.

He leaned in, his lips curving into a practiced, reassuring smile. "It was a terrible allergic reaction, darling. You must have accidentally inhaled some dust. And a nasty rat bite. But you're safe now." His fingers brushed against my cheek.

I recoiled, pulling my hand away. His touch felt like a violation. He was lying. I knew it. He always did. This was just another layer of his carefully constructed deception.

My voice was a raspy whisper. "What do you want, Antonio?" I forced the words out, my eyes burning with suspicion.

He sighed, a theatrically world-weary sound. "Honestly, Francesca, it's not always about what I want." A pause, a calculated beat. "Harlow, she's... struggling. The stress of everything. The baby. She's had a difficult few days."

I watched him, a cold dread coiling in my stomach. What fresh hell was he brewing now?

"She needs you, Francesca," he said, his voice dropping to a low, earnest tone. "She needs your guidance. Your experience. She's asked you to be her mentor. To help her navigate this new chapter. For the baby." His eyes, normally so cold, held a flicker of something almost... pleading.

I stared at him, unable to speak. Mentoring Harlow? The woman who had stolen my husband, erased my child, and nearly killed me? It was a monstrous request. An insult to my very soul.

"I can't," I choked out, shaking my head. "I won't. Not after what she did."

His face darkened. "Francesca, be reasonable. This is your chance to make amends. To show you're stable. That you're better." He leaned closer, his voice a low growl. "Or you go back to the institution. And this time, there's no coming back."

My breath hitched. The memory of the electroshocks, the forced sedatives, the chilling emptiness of that place, flooded my mind. I couldn't. I just couldn't.

I closed my eyes, the bitter taste of defeat filling my mouth. "Fine," I whispered, the word a surrender. "I'll do it." But even as I said it, a new plan, cold and sharp, began to form in the shattered corners of my mind. This wasn't surrender. This was strategy.

They transported me directly from the hospital to 'Elysium,' not the main kitchens, but the smaller, more exclusive test kitchen, a pristine, white-tiled space designed for culinary experimentation. It felt less like a kitchen and more like a gilded cage. My new prison.

My ankle throbbed, a constant reminder of the rat. The burning in my throat had subsided, but a dull ache remained, a testament to the allergic reaction. My body was still recovering, every movement a silent protest.

Yet, as I surveyed the gleaming stainless steel and rows of imported spices, a strange sense of resolve settled over me. This was my domain. My art. And here, in this sterile environment, I would find my strength. I would find my revenge.

I thought of Shannon. Her tiny hand in mine. Her sweet, innocent face. The tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not now. Not when there was work to be done.

A text message vibrated on the burner phone I'd managed to keep hidden. Irvin: Plan B in motion. Need to talk. Urgent.

My heart hammered. Plan B. What could be so urgent? I quickly typed a reply: Can't talk now. What's wrong?

His response came immediately. Antonio just finalized the divorce papers. You signed them months ago. It's official. You're no longer Mrs. Moore. You've lost everything.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Divorce papers? Signed months ago? My mind flashed back to the hospital, to Antonio holding out documents, his smooth lies of a "temporary separation agreement." My signature, scrawled in a haze of sedatives and despair.

"No!" I cried, the sound ripping from my throat. "He wouldn't! He couldn't!"

My hands flew to my head, clutching at my hair. The world spun, a vortex of betrayal and crushing lies. He had tricked me. He had stolen my identity, my future, everything. My child. My name. My marriage. All gone.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up, raw and ugly. "Is there any good news, Irvin? Any tiny shred of dignity left for me to cling to?"