Не можех да крещя. Гласните ми струни бяха парализирани от ужасен ужас, докато иглата се насочваше към венозния ми маркуч. Но преди смъртоносната доза да проникне в кожата ми, размазаната бяла движеща се енергия разби стерилна тишина.
Д-р Маркъс Рийд не се поколеба. Той скочи покрай леглото, забивайки жестока лопатка в стената. Той разби корпуса за аварийно анулиране и издърпа тежката червена писалка надолу. За миг цялата интензивна терапия потъна в непреодолима, тъмна тъмнина. Ритмичният шум на устройствата за поддържане на живота спря. Резервните генератори останаха ужасно тихи.
«Не издавайте звук», дишаше Маркъс, като откъсна венозния маркуч от ръката ми. Погълнах вкуса на медта от собствената си кръв, когато той издърпа разбитото ми тяло в ръцете си, като почти се отклони от пътя на Ричард в тъмното.
Семейството на Ванс мислеше, че може да ме погребе тихо. Те не осъзнаха, че току-що са се събудили в абсолютния си кошмар…
“If you ever put your hands on Selina again, I swear to God I will end you.”
Those were the last words I heard from my husband before the meticulously crafted illusion of my life shattered into a million jagged pieces. I didn’t feel the pain immediately. I only felt a sudden, icy pressure just below my ribs, followed by a sickeningly heavy sound that seemed to echo in the cavernous silence of our Chicago penthouse.
We had been married for three years. My name is Mabel Vance. Up until that crisp Tuesday afternoon, I had foolishly believed my marriage to Flynn could be salvaged from the wreckage of his troubled past. He was the CEO of Vance Global, a titan of industry. I was the dutiful wife, the smiling socialite managing our gold-leafed existence, preparing for the company’s massive May Day Centennial Gala scheduled for the first of the month.
The rot in our marriage had a name, a face, and an endless supply of designer tears: Selina Cole.
That afternoon, she had burst into our home weeping, clutching a superficial scratch on her arm, claiming I had attacked her downtown. It was an absolute, absurd lie. I was in my silk pajamas. I hadn’t left the house. But Flynn didn’t look at me. He didn’t ask for my side of the story. He looked at the silver paring knife resting on the marble island’s fruit platter, and his eyes—the eyes I had woken up next to for a thousand days—went completely dead.
The first plunge stole the breath from my lungs. A sharp, burning coldness erupted in my abdomen. My knees buckled, sending me crashing onto the Persian rug. The second strike came a fraction of a second later, driving the breath from my throat in a silent gasp.
I lay there, suffocating like a fish on dry land, the metallic scent of my own blood flooding my senses. I waited for him to drop the knife in horror, to snap out of whatever fugue state had possessed him. He didn’t. He stepped over my bleeding body, knelt beside Selina, and gently draped his tailored suit jacket over her trembling shoulders.
“It’s okay now,” he murmured, stroking her hair.
Selina looked over his shoulder. Her tear-filled eyes locked onto mine. And then, as Flynn held her, her lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk.
A primal, dormant instinct awakened in my fading consciousness. I wasn’t just going to fade away on this rug as a victim of their twisted romance. I let my eyes roll back, letting my body go entirely limp. Play dead, my mind screamed through the agonizing haze. Play dead.
My left arm was tucked beneath my body, hidden from their view. With agonizing slowness, ignoring the fire tearing through my side, I curled my heavy fingers inward. I tapped the face of my smartwatch twice, navigating the interface by pure muscle memory.
Voice Memos. Record.
A tiny haptic buzz against my wrist confirmed it was rolling.
“Is she…” Selina’s voice was no longer trembling. It was sharp. Cold. Calculated.
“She’s gone,” Flynn said, his voice hollow, robotic. “I… I did it, Selina. Just like you said. We’re free.”
“You did perfectly, darling,” Selina whispered, her tone chillingly calm. “The idiot believed every word. Let’s get out of here. The cleaning crew my father hired will be here in ten minutes to stage the break-in.”
I listened to their footsteps retreat across the hardwood. I listened to the heavy oak door click shut, sealing my tomb. Only then did I allow the encroaching darkness to pull me under.
Three days later, I woke up in the intensive care unit of St. Jude’s Memorial.
The rhythmic, piercing beep of the heart monitor anchored me to reality. The smell of bleach and sterile iodine burned my nose. A tall man in a white coat stood over me. His name tag read Dr. Marcus Reed, Chief of Trauma. His eyes were the color of slate, grave and unforgiving.
“You survived, Mrs. Vance,” he said softly, checking my vitals. “But there is something you need to know. You were eight weeks pregnant when you were brought in.”
My heart stopped. The monitor hitched.
“It was twins,” Marcus continued, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. “Both fetal heartbeats were lost due to severe maternal hemorrhaging.”
A scream built in my throat, a sound of such profound, apocalyptic grief that it threatened to tear my freshly stapled chest open. Flynn hadn’t just tried to murder his wife. He had slaughtered our unborn children to protect a woman with a papercut.
Before I could vocalize my agony, the heavy door to my room creaked open.
“Well, well. Look who decided to wake up,” a voice drifted into the sterile room.
It was Dr. Richard Vance, Flynn’s cousin and the associate director of the hospital. He stepped in, his eyes devoid of emotion, holding a syringe filled with a thick, clear liquid.
“Richard, it’s not your shift,” Marcus said, his posture instantly stiffening, stepping between us.
“Change of plans, Marcus,” Richard said smoothly, raising the syringe, his thumb resting on the plunger. “The Vance family needs to ensure Mabel’s unfortunate medical complications… run their natural course.”
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