Chapter 5

Ila POV:

Jaxon didn't return. Not that night, not the next day. A nurse brought me meals that grew cold on the tray. The pain in my shoulder was a constant, throbbing reminder of his betrayal. Hunger was a dull ache beneath it, but I was too weary to eat. I drifted in and out of a restless, pain-filled sleep, my brow furrowed even in my dreams.

I woke with a start, a sharp, searing pain in my other arm yanking me from a nightmare. I looked down. My uninjured arm, the one I had squeezed my ring into, was now wrapped in a thick, blood-soaked bandage. A new, agonizing fire burned beneath the gauze.

The nurse from before bustled in, checking my IV. "Ah, you're awake. The skin graft surgery went well."

"Skin graft?" I croaked, my mind struggling to catch up. "What are you talking about?"

Her expression was a mixture of pity and professional detachment. "For the other patient. Miss Myers. She had a nasty fall, and the scrape on her leg... well, Mr. Kent was very insistent that there be no scar. He authorized the use of your tissue for the graft. A perfect match, of course." She sighed, shaking her head. "Some people have all the luck, don't they? One gets the best care money can buy, the other... well."

She trailed off, but she didn't need to finish. I understood. Jaxon had harvested my own skin to heal the woman who had tried to kill me. He had taken a piece of my body and given it to her, as if I were nothing more than a collection of spare parts.

A wave of nausea and vertigo washed over me. I clamped my hand over my mouth, my face a ghastly shade of white. He was carving me up, piece by piece, and feeding me to my replacement.

"I want to be transferred," I said, the words barely a whisper. "To another hospital."

Just as the words left my lips, Jaxon appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a bouquet of my favorite peonies and a thermal container of the chicken soup my grandmother used to make. He looked rested, clean-shaven, and utterly oblivious to the fresh hell he had just put me through.

"Ila, darling," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Look what I have for you. I had a chef work all night to replicate your grandmother's recipe."

He sat on the edge of my bed, spooning a piece of perfectly ripe melon and holding it to my lips. His movements were so familiar, so tender, it felt like a scene from another life. He even blew on the soup, his brow furrowed in concentration, just as he always had.

But my heart was a frozen lake. I saw through the performance. This wasn't love. This was maintenance. He was tending to his broken possession, ensuring it didn't cause him any more trouble.

Over the next few days, I watched him. I watched him bring Kamila the best parts of the bird's nest soup he'd had flown in from Hong Kong, while I got the broth. I watched him kneel by her bed, his hand pressed gently to her stomach, his face lit with wonder as he waited to feel the baby kick. I watched him, through my half-closed eyelids, sneak into her room late at night after he thought I was asleep.

I heard him on the phone, introducing her to a business associate as "my wife, Kamila."

And I did nothing. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just watched, and I waited. The woman he thought I was would have been hysterical, would have thrown things, would have demanded answers. But that woman was dead. The person who is truly determined to leave doesn't waste time on goodbyes.

When he was out of the room, I used a burner phone Dario' s people had smuggled to me.

"How much longer?" I whispered.

"Two days," the voice on the other end replied. "Your new passport and identity are almost ready. We have a flight booked out of a private airfield."

A smile, the first genuine smile in what felt like a lifetime, touched my lips. It was a strange, foreign feeling.

Jaxon walked in at that exact moment, his own smile faltering as he saw mine. "What are you so happy about?" he asked, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

"Just thinking of something funny," I said, my face reverting to its placid, blind mask.

He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head at the last second, his lips grazing my cheek. A flash of irritation crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

"The doctors say you're well enough to go home," he said, his tone brisk. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, a cold, dry gesture. "Let's go home, Ila."

On the drive back to the villa-our castle, our prison-he kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I felt his eyes on me, searching, questioning. He knew something was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Jaxon, watch out!" Kamila shrieked from the passenger seat.

I looked up. A large truck, its headlights off, was hurtling towards us from a side road, barreling straight for my side of the car. There was no time to react.

The world exploded in a symphony of screeching tires, shattering glass, and the brutal, deafening crunch of metal. The car was thrown into the air, flipping over and over, before a final, violent impact sent us into darkness.

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