Chapter 2

The world was a haze of white walls and the smell of antiseptic. Pain, sharp and insistent, radiated from my ribs and my head. I was in a hospital. Again.

Through the fog, I heard voices just outside my door.

"The doctor said it's just a few cracked ribs and a concussion. She'll be fine," Fitzgerald's voice was tight with annoyance. "Honestly, she's just making a scene."

"She needs to learn her lesson, Fitz," Caleb's voice was colder. "This is what happens when she doesn't listen."

My eyes fluttered open as a doctor entered the room. He was an older man with kind eyes that were now filled with a deep, troubled pity.

"Ms. Reid," he said softly. "I'm Dr. Evans."

He looked toward the door, where Caleb and Fitzgerald were now standing. "Can I have a word with her family? Alone?"

Caleb's jaw tightened. "We are her family. Whatever you have to say, you can say it to us."

Dr. Evans hesitated, then sighed. "Very well. Your injuries from the fall are minor. But... my examination revealed something else. Something far more serious."

He held up a set of scans to the light. "Ms. Reid, you have advanced lung cancer. It's metastasized. It's terminal."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unreal.

Terminal.

I felt a strange detachment, a cold calm settling over me. It was as if he were talking about someone else.

Caleb scoffed. "Cancer? Don't be ridiculous. She's just trying to get attention. Another one of her games."

Fitzgerald nodded in agreement. "She's always been dramatic."

A tiny, foolish part of my heart had hoped. Hoped that this news, this undeniable tragedy, would break through their righteous fury. That I would see a flicker of the brother, the fiancé, I used to know.

I watched their faces, searching for any sign of remorse, of love.

There was nothing. Just cold dismissal.

Just then, Caleb's phone rang. He answered it, his tone instantly shifting from harsh to tender.

"Hailie? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He listened for a moment. "I'm on my way. Don't worry, I'll be right there."

He hung up and turned to Fitzgerald. "Hailie's scared. She needs me."

He started for the door without a backward glance at me.

"Wait," Dr. Evans said, stepping forward. "Mr. Skinner, this is serious. We need to discuss treatment options, palliative care..."

"Just give her some painkillers," Caleb said over his shoulder. "Fitz, you stay here. Make sure she doesn't cause any more trouble."

And then he was gone.

Fitzgerald stood by the door, his arms crossed, his expression impatient.

Dr. Evans turned back to me, his face full of a helpless sorrow. "Ms. Reid, we can start chemotherapy to manage the pain, maybe buy you a little more time..."

"Time for what?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

"To tell them," he urged gently. "You need to tell them yourself. Make them understand."

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. "Understand what? They wouldn't care if I was dying on the floor in front of them."

My last ember of hope had been extinguished by Caleb's hurried departure to comfort the girl who had taken my life.

"They'll never believe me," I said, my voice flat. "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dr. Evans looked like he wanted to argue, but he saw the finality in my eyes. He left me with a prescription for painkillers and a look of profound sympathy.

The days that followed were a blur of pain. The ache in my bones sharpened, and breathing became a monumental effort. The pills barely touched the edges of the agony.

A week later, Fitzgerald called. He didn't ask how I was.

"Caleb says you've had your week. Get out of the hospital and come back to the villa. There's work to be done."

The message was clear. My penance wasn't over. My suffering was an inconvenience to them.

Fine.

A dark, new resolve hardened inside me. If they wanted me back, I would go back. I would let them see the consequences of their "lesson."

I checked myself out of the hospital, against the doctor's frantic protests. I filled the prescription for a month's worth of the strongest opioids they would give me and took a cab back to the gilded cage Caleb called home.

The butler, a man loyal only to Caleb, stopped me at the door.

"Mr. Skinner's orders. You are to be disinfected before entering. You've been in a hospital. We can't risk bringing in germs."

Two maids, their faces impassive, led me to a large bathroom by the garage. They filled a tub with a harsh, chemical-smelling liquid.

"Get in," one of them ordered.

I was too weak to fight. I lowered myself into the stinging solution. The chemicals hit the unhealed cuts on my arms and legs, a fresh wave of fire. The water around me began to bloom red as my wounds reopened.

The maids gasped, their professional masks cracking for a moment in horror.

Just then, Caleb and Fitzgerald strode in. Caleb's eyes landed on the blood in the water, and for a split second, I saw something flicker in his face. Shock? Concern?

But then Fitzgerald put a hand on his arm.

"Don't forget the plan, Caleb," he murmured, his voice low. "Don't let her fool you."

Caleb's face hardened again, the brief moment of humanity gone. He turned his back on me.

"Make sure she's clean," he ordered the maids, his voice devoid of all emotion. "Then take her to her room."

I watched the man I was supposed to marry leave me bleeding in a tub of disinfectant, his back turned on me.

A small, broken laugh escaped my lips.

He was worried about germs. How ironic.