Chapter 4 Chapter 4

Sierra's POV:

I woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic, hollow beeping of machines, my limbs heavy and stiff.

I tried to move my legs.

I sent the command, but the signal went nowhere. Nothing happened.

A cold wave of panic tightened its grip on my throat.

Matteo sat in the chair by the bed, his head in his hands.

His usually immaculate suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled.

The moment my breath hitched, his head snapped up.

"Sierra," he breathed, surging forward to grab my hand.

"Thank God."

"My back," I rasped.

"It's... it's a severe fracture," he said, his voice trembling.

"The doctors say, with extensive therapy, you might walk again."

Might.

My dance. My freedom.

Gone.

"I want the police," I whispered.

Matteo went still.

He pulled his hand back as if burned.

"Sierra, listen to me," he said, his voice hardening into something cold and authoritative, yet laced with a pained tremor. "We can't involve the police."

"She pushed me, Matteo," I said, hot tears escaping. "She tried to kill me."

"She was having an episode," he said quickly, defensively. "She thought you were an attacker. She doesn't even remember doing it. Sierra, if it were anyone else, anyone, I'd have them skinned alive for touching you. You know I would. But it's Bianca. She's fragile. If the police come, they'll arrest her. She wouldn't survive prison. Please don't be unreasonable."

I stared at him in disbelief.

He was placing her hypothetical survival over my actual broken back.

"I'm pressing charges," I said, my voice rising hysterically.

"No," he said.

It wasn't a request.

It was an order.

"It's already handled," he continued. "The hallway security footage is gone. It was an accident. You fell. That's what happened. Omertà, Sierra. We don't bring outsiders into our business."

Erased.

He'd erased the truth.

He'd erased my pain.

He'd erased me.

"You chose her," I said.

"I'm protecting the family," he said, standing up.

"I'm protecting you from scandal. Rest now."

He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice breaking.

"She's in the next room, sedated," he said, still not meeting my eyes.

"She needs someone there when she wakes up. She's scared."

And then he walked out, leaving his paralyzed wife in a hospital bed to go hold the hand of the woman who'd put her there.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in five years, I didn't pray for him to come back.

I prayed for the strength to become a ghost.