Chapter 2

The days that followed were a blur of pain, medication, and physical therapy. They taught me how to transfer from the bed to a wheelchair, how to navigate a world that was no longer designed for me. Every movement was a struggle, a fresh reminder of what Mark had taken. He would visit, bringing flowers and magazines, his face a mask of loving concern.

One afternoon, he brought Emily with him.

She stood by the door, looking young and angelic, her eyes wide with what was supposed to be sympathy. "Sarah, I was so horrified when I heard," she said, her voice soft. "Mark told me everything. You're so brave."

Brave. The word hung in the sterile air like a bad smell. Mark had destroyed me to give her a scholarship. He had stolen my collection to fund his gallery, which would no doubt feature her as its rising star. And here she was, the vulture, picking at the scraps of my life.

Mark put his arm around her shoulders. "Emily's been a huge help, sweetheart. She's been helping me catalog your collection. She has a real eye, just like you."

The insult was so blatant, so cruel, it took my breath away. He was replacing me, in every possible way, and flaunting it in my face. I just stared at them, the fake smile plastered on my face feeling like it would crack my skin.

"That's... wonderful," I managed to say. "I'm glad it's in good hands."

His smile widened. "I knew you'd understand. You've always been so supportive."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw his eyes out. Instead, I gripped the armrests of my wheelchair so hard my knuckles turned white. The ticking in my chest seemed to grow louder, a furious, mechanical heartbeat.

When they finally left, I wheeled myself to the window and looked out at the city. It looked the same, but for me, everything had changed. The old Sarah was gone. The trusting, loving art curator who saw beauty everywhere was dead. She died on that marble floor. The woman in this wheelchair, the woman with a machine for a heart, was someone else. Someone colder. Someone harder.

I made a decision then. I would not let them win. I would not be their victim, their tragic story. I would get out of here. I would disappear. And one day, I would make them pay. That day, I made my final trip to the other side of the hospital and went through with the procedure. It was a quiet, clinical affair. Another part of me cut away and discarded. It was a final, brutal severing from the life I once had, from the man I once loved. It was a necessary amputation.

Mark was mostly absent during my long days of recovery. He was "busy," he said. Busy with the gallery. Busy with Emily's career. Busy spending my money and parading my stolen art as his own. The nurses would talk, their hushed whispers following me down the hallway. "Her fiancé is so dedicated," they'd say. "He's working so hard to keep her legacy alive." If only they knew.

The day I was discharged, he was there, all smiles and performative care. He had redecorated our apartment, he told me, to make it more accessible. He had hired a full-time nurse. He had taken care of everything.

He wheeled me into the living room. It was the same, yet different. My books were gone, replaced by art magazines with Emily's face on the cover. My personal sketches and notes were nowhere to be seen. It was my home, but it no longer felt like mine. It felt like his.

A week later, he came to me with a proposition.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice oozing with false sincerity. "I know this has been hard, but I have an opportunity for you. A way for you to get back into the art world."

I looked at him, my expression carefully neutral. I was wary. Every word out of his mouth was a potential trap.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A friend of mine, a filmmaker, is working on a documentary," he said, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling excitement. "It's an art film, really. About the human body, resilience, the intersection of flesh and machine. He heard about your story... your accident, the synthetic heart... and he was incredibly moved. He thinks you would be the perfect subject."

Something about his tone, the way he avoided my eyes, set off alarm bells. "A documentary? About me?"

"It would be a masterpiece, Sarah," he insisted. "A tribute to your strength. And... it pays very well. It would help with the mounting medical bills."

He was using my own vulnerability, my own broken body, as a commodity. He wanted to put me on display. A curiosity. A freak show. The full extent of his plan was still hidden, but I could feel the cold, slimy truth of it just beneath the surface.

He didn't wait for my answer. "I've already arranged a meeting. We're going tomorrow. His name is Mr. Dubois. He's a true visionary."

The next day, Mark drove me to a part of the city I didn't recognize. We pulled up to a nondescript warehouse in an industrial district. The building was grimy, the windows covered in black paint. This was no film studio. A short, greasy man with a thin mustache and beady eyes met us at the door. He wore a cheap suit that was too tight, and his smile revealed a row of yellowed teeth.

"Mark, my boy!" he boomed, clapping Mark on the shoulder. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my wheelchair, on the faint outline of the medical device under my shirt. His smile turned into a leer. "And this must be the lovely Sarah. A true work of art. A broken masterpiece. You are even more... compelling in person. I am Jean-Luc Dubois. It is a pleasure."

My stomach turned. This was not a visionary artist. This was a predator. And Mark had just led me right into his den.