Chapter3

17 days ago, in a windowless mortuary storage room,

I learned my entire life was a carefully orchestrated lie.

My family had funded my torture.

My husband had overseen it.

They called it "exposure therapy" to cure my delusions, and I had smiled through the blood in my mouth

and agreed to be Sabine’s surrogate.

I surrendered because stage-four gastric cancer meant I only had seventeen days left to live anyway.

Tonight, the agonizing, tearing pain in my abdomen told me the timeline had drastically changed.

My organs were shutting down. I didn't have days anymore. I had hours. Five, maybe less.

The heavy ballroom doors opened. Evander shoved me onto the brightly lit stage of the Beaumont Hotel.

Camera flashes blinded me instantly. A dozen microphones were thrust into my face.

This was the final phase of my rehabilitation. A public confession.

Sabine stood in the center, draped in flawless white silk.

"Maris," Sabine spoke into the microphone.

Her voice trembled with perfectly practiced grace.

"I know returning to our family has been hard for you.

But let's end the hostility tonight. Let everyone see we are true sisters."

My mom, Lenora, seized my wrist.

Her manicured nails dug right into my pulse. She shoved a stiff index card into my palm.

"Read the apology," she hissed quietly. "Smile."

I looked down at the typed words.

It was a complete admission of guilt—stating I was a jealous, delusional monster who bullied Sabine.

A month ago, my hands would have shaken.

I would have felt the burning sting of injustice.

Today, my bruised fingers simply relaxed.

The card fluttered to the polished floorboards.

"Hostility?" my voice echoed through the speakers, quiet but clear.

"You took my identity. You live in my bedroom.

And now I'm supposed to applaud you on stage?"

The rapid-fire camera shutters stopped.

The ballroom went dead silent.

Mom’s nails dug deeper into my arm, drawing blood.

Sabine didn’t shrink back. She stepped right into my space.

"Why do you always do this?" Sabine cried softly.

Tears pooled beautifully in her eyes, but her gaze was dead and hard.

"You work night shifts at a mortuary just to embarrass us.

And now you're trying to ruin my life, just like you tried to ruin Cassian's."

"Cassian is my fiancé," I said. My voice was eerily flat.

Sabine let out a broken, pitying laugh.

She looked at me like I was a stray dog.

She didn't argue.

She just slowly pushed up the sleeve of her silk dress.

A heavy, diamond-encrusted men’s Patek Philippe watch hung loosely around her delicate wrist.

My chest hollowed out.

I recognized the tiny scratch on the gold dial.

Three years ago, I worked back-to-back graveyard shifts.

I scrubbed stainless steel mortuary tables until my knuckles cracked and bled just to buy him that watch.

I thought he locked it in his vault to keep it safe.

"Cassian gave it to me,"

Sabine whispered softly, only loud enough for the mic to catch.

"He said he couldn't wear it. He said it always carried the faint stench of cheap bleach and dead bodies. Just like you."

The entire ballroom leaned in, holding its breath.

Sabine reached into her clutch.

She pulled out a burgundy leather booklet.

A state marriage registry.

"We've been legally married for two years," Sabine wept, wiping a perfect tear. "He only visited your apartment out of pity, Maris. The doctors told him you would resort to self-harm , if he cut you off. You were always the mistress."

My legs didn't tremble. I didn't cry.

I used to pack his hot dinners.

I thought I was taking care of a busy man building our future.

But he was just managing an unstable trial subject.

Cassian stepped onto the stage.

He smoothly adjusted his expensive cufflinks.

He didn't look guilty. He looked slightly inconvenienced.

"The public spectacle wasn't necessary, Maris,"

Cassian said. His tone was perfectly level.

"Sabine needed legal protection to navigate this society.

She fit the role of my wife.

I still paid your utility bills, didn't I? You know I always managed your affairs. That's what actually matters."

He never loved me. He just managed me.

"You ugly witch! Stop yelling at my mom!"

A small body darted up the stage stairs.

He dropped his head and rammed right into my knees.

I lost my balance and crashed hard onto the floorboards.

I looked up. Rowan. My five-year-old son.

Instinct took over. I reached out a trembling hand to grab him.

Before I could touch him, a hand grabbed the back of my dress.

Evander violently yanked me backward.

His fingers clamped onto my shoulder, digging into the bone.

"Sabine isn't like you," my brother hissed directly into my ear. "I won't let you infect her child."

"He is my son," I whispered. My throat physically hurt.

Evander’s face stayed totally blank. "He thinks you're a monster, Maris.

And if you don't pick up that card and apologize to the press right now, your exposure therapy will resume tonight."

He leaned closer. "I will lock you right back in that mortuary freezer.

And this time, I won't let you out until you crawl on your knees and beg Sabine for forgiveness in front of Rowan.

Do you want him to see his birth mother screaming like a psychiatric patient?"

A hot, violent cramp tore through my stomach. The tumor ruptured.

I coughed. A massive mouthful of dark, thick blood splattered right onto the stage, staining the hem of Sabine’s white dress.

Evander took a quick step back in disgust.

"Stop acting," Evander snapped.

He sounded genuinely annoyed.

"Coughing up blood won't get you sympathy.

If you had just learned to be compliant, we wouldn't have to discipline you."

My chest heaved. I tasted copper and ash.

My vision began to blur at the edges.

My heartbeat slowed down, thudding weakly against my ribs like a broken clock.

Five hours. Maybe less.

The coldness of death was already creeping up my fingertips.

I looked at Evander’s disgusted face.

I looked at Cassian standing protectively in front of Sabine.

I looked at Rowan hiding behind her skirt.

A month ago, I would have cried.

I would have screamed at them for being monsters.

But you can't threaten a woman who is already dying.

You can't discipline a ghost.

I closed my eyes. I let my head fall back against the cold floorboards.

I gave them a calm, empty smile.

Right then, a heavy pair of hands grabbed a fistful of my hair from behind and yanked me violently backward.