Chapter 2

Elara POV:

The back door of my small studio apartment flew open, slamming against the wall with a force that rattled the cheap prints on the wall.

Brooks stood there, silhouetted against the harsh hallway light, his face a mask of cold fury. Rain slicked his dark hair and soaked the shoulders of his thousand-dollar coat. He looked like a vengeful god, and his storm was directed entirely at me.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Before I could answer, he crossed the room in two long strides and his hand clamped around my arm, his grip like steel. "I've been calling you for hours."

"My phone died," I whispered, the truth sounding like a lie even to my own ears.

"Don't lie to me," he snarled, dragging me towards the door. "Candice had a reaction. A severe one. The doctors needed a direct transfusion to stabilize her before the main procedure, and her blood type is rare."

My blood type. The same as his. The same as hers. What a cruel little coincidence.

"Brooks, I don't know anything about that," I pleaded, stumbling to keep up with his relentless pace.

He ignored me, his jaw tight. "She could have died, Elara. All because you decided to go wandering off." He shoved me into the back of his waiting town car, the leather cold against my skin. "Did you do something to her? Did you put something in her food?"

The accusation hung in the air, so ludicrous, so venomous, it stole my breath. "What? No! Brooks, I would never-"

"Save it," he cut me off, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "You've been jealous of her since she arrived. I see the way you look at her." He ran a hand through his wet hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "I know this is hard for you, but Candice is sick. She needs me. I made a promise to her a long time ago, a promise to always protect her."

His words confirmed everything. I wasn' t a partner. I was an inconvenience. A problem to be managed while he tended to his real love.

He dragged me into the pristine, white lobby of the private hospital wing he' d reserved for her. The nurses averted their eyes, accustomed to the whims of the powerful men who paid their salaries.

"Get her prepped," Brooks ordered the head nurse, his voice leaving no room for argument. "She's donating."

"Sir, we can't force a transfusion-" the nurse began, her expression troubled.

"You can, and you will," Brooks snapped, his eyes blazing. "Or I will buy this hospital and fire every single one of you. Do you understand me?"

The nurse flinched and nodded, her professionalism crumbling under his raw power.

They sat me in a chair. A technician approached with a needle. I didn't resist. What was the point? My body, my heart, it was never really mine anyway.

The needle slid into my arm. I watched, detached, as my own blood, dark and rich, began to flow through a clear tube. It was on its way to save the woman my love would die for.

Brooks stood by the window, his back to me, his phone pressed to his ear. He wasn't watching my life drain away. He was getting updates on hers.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. The room tilted, the bright lights blurring at the edges. The pain in my chest was no longer a metaphor. It was a physical, crushing weight, an agony so profound it made the needle in my arm feel like a pinprick. My heart, my miraculous, broken heart, was screaming in protest.

Just as my vision started to go dark, another doctor hurried into the room, a chart in his hand.

"Mr. Fields," he said, his voice urgent. "We've got the toxicology report back for Ms. Robinson."

Brooks finally turned from the window, his attention captured. "And?"

"It wasn't an allergic reaction. It was poisoning. Oleander, to be specific. We found traces of it on the flowers delivered to her room this afternoon." The doctor paused, flipping a page. "They were sent from a floral shop downtown. The card says they were from you."

Brooks froze. I saw the dawning horror in his eyes as he finally, finally looked at me. He remembered. The flowers he' d distractedly asked me to order for her yesterday. I had read the card back to him over the phone for his approval. He knew I hadn't written it.

Shame, hot and sharp, flickered across his face. He took a hesitant step toward me. "Elara..."

His voice, for the first time, held a note of uncertainty, of guilt.

But it was too late.

A faint cry came from down the hall. "Brooks?"

Candice.

His head snapped toward the sound, his body tensing like a wire. The guilt vanished, replaced instantly by that all-consuming concern. He didn't hesitate. He didn't give me a second glance.

He turned and strode toward her voice, leaving me in the sterile white room with a hole in my arm and a much, much larger one in my soul.

I watched him go, the last flicker of hope inside me extinguished.

I pulled the needle from my arm, pressing a piece of gauze to the wound. I stood up on shaky legs and walked out of the room, out of the hospital, and back to the penthouse that had been my gilded cage.

The first thing I did was pack a box. All the dresses. The jewelry. The shoes. Every beautiful, expensive thing he had ever given me. Each one a reminder that I was just a doll he was dressing up to look like another woman.

I called a donation service. The man who came to pick it all up whistled. "Lady, you sure you want to give all this away? This stuff is worth a fortune."

"They're just things," I said, my voice hollow. "They were never mine to begin with."

As the truck pulled away, carrying the last vestiges of the life I' d been living, my burner phone buzzed. It was an untraceable number I' d given to only one person.

Dr. Albright.

"Ms. Vance," his voice was grim. "There's been a complication. We have to move the procedure up. To tonight."