Chapter 3 I'll disappear on the day of the surgery.

Elara

By the time I made it back, Caleb was already on the floor, his small face swollen to a deep, mottled purple.

My body moved before my brain could catch up. "Caleb!"

I dropped to my knees and cradled his face between my trembling hands. His skin was burning, his breathing shallow and rapid—anaphylaxis, his airway was closing.

I whipped around to face Damian. "What did you give him?!"

A vein pulsed at his temple, and that hand—the same one that had once snapped a man's neck without hesitation—was shaking uncontrollably.

"This morning... just a pastry this morning."

"What kind of pastry?! Did it have raisins?!"

He stared at me, frozen.

"He's allergic to raisins—you didn't know that?!" I screamed toward the doorway, "Get a doctor! Someone get a doctor, now!"

The nurse finally snapped out of her shock and bolted from the room. We were in the cardiology VIP wing—respiratory was in another building entirely. Even at a dead sprint, it would take several minutes for anyone to arrive.

I tore open Caleb's collar, rolled him onto his side, and dug frantically through my bag for the injector I always carried. Caleb had been allergic to everything since birth. When he was one, he'd eaten peanut butter by mistake and nearly died. After that, I never left home without an epinephrine pen.

I jabbed the needle into his thigh and watched his breathing slowly, agonizingly, begin to steady. By the time the doctor came rushing through the door, every ounce of strength had drained from my body.

In the emergency room, the doctor tucked his stethoscope back into his coat pocket. "You caught the reaction early, and your intervention was textbook. A few minutes later and we'd be having a very different conversation. He'll need to stay in pediatrics for observation—three days minimum."

Both Damian and I exhaled at the same time.

In the pediatric ward, Caleb slept on, his face still pale as paper. He was my son, after all—my flesh and blood.

I looked down at him, and something twisted painfully in my chest.

"His body needs rest," the doctor said. "During his hospitalization, his diet will require extremely careful monitoring."

Damian glanced at me. "You'll need to take care of him while you're supposed to be hospitalized yourself. That's... inconvenient. So."

He paused, as if choosing his words carefully.

"Your tests are postponed. One week."

I had nothing left to say to him.

That afternoon, I went home and made soup for Caleb. Despite everything he'd said to me that morning, I couldn't just abandon him. No mother could truly turn her back on her own child, no matter how much it hurt.

A few hours later, I returned to the hospital with an insulated thermos in hand. Caleb's bed was empty. I didn't need to guess where he'd gone.

On the top floor, Vivian's door stood slightly ajar.

Before I could even step inside, I saw it—the kind of scene that makes your blood turn to ice in your veins.

Damian stood with his back to the door, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Vivian sat in front of him, and from where I stood, the angle made it unmistakable—they were kissing.

My fingers tightened around the thermos until my knuckles went white.

Caleb's voice rang out cheerfully from somewhere inside the room. "This is perfect! Aunt Vivian can finally be my real mom!"

"Now we can all live together and be happy! Finally away from that old hag."

I stood there, frozen, my vision blurring at the edges.

In that moment, I understood. My existence was a mistake. But soon enough, they'd have what they wanted—a real family. Without me.

I set the thermos down outside the door and walked stiffly toward the elevator.

Back at the estate, I sat alone in the dark for what felt like hours.

When my phone finally rang, it was Marry.

"Elara, you still breathing?" Her voice was sharp and bright. "Don't you dare tell me you're staying home to play housewife. Get out here. Now."

I said nothing.

"Honey?"

"...Come get me."

Forty minutes later, Marry pulled up outside. She rolled down the window, revealing a face that was all sharp angles and bold color. When she saw me, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched upward. "Jesus. You look worse than my grandmother, and she's been dead for three months."

I climbed into the car without a word. Marry didn't push—she just drove us straight to a club downtown.

In our booth, she slid a drink across the table toward me. "Talk."

I downed half the glass in one burning gulp and let everything spill out.

The more I talked, the wider Marry's eyes got, until finally she shot to her feet, fury radiating off her in waves. "That bastard really thinks he's God, doesn't he? Deciding who lives and who dies?!"

People at nearby tables turned to stare. She glared right back. "What are you looking at?!"

She whirled back to face me, chest heaving. "When you nearly bled out giving birth to Caleb, where the hell was Damian? When Caleb was hospitalized at one year old and you didn't sleep for three straight days, where was he? And now he wants your heart?"

"Why doesn't he rip out his own goddamn heart and give it to her?!"

I took another drink, feeling the alcohol burn all the way down.

"Elara." Marry grabbed my hand, her grip almost painful. "Are you seriously going to give that woman your heart?"

"No." My voice came out flat, emotionless. "I already booked a flight. Next month."

"What about the surgery..."

"Same day."

I lifted my eyes to meet hers.

"He thinks I'll be lying on an operating table that day. What he doesn't know is that I'll be gone."

Marry's expression shifted, and suddenly she was grinning, slapping my shoulder hard enough to sting. "There she is! That's the Elara I know!"

She poured me another drink.

Two glasses down, and the heat was spreading through both of us, loosening something that had been wound too tight for too long.

"Come on!" Marry suddenly hauled me up from the booth. "We're done talking about that garbage tonight. You're getting up there!"

"Up where?"

She jerked her chin toward the stage, where women moved sinuously around chrome poles, and her smile turned wicked. "Up there. Let them see who Elara really is."

Before I could protest, Marry was dragging me toward the stage, half-pulling, half-shoving me forward.

The alcohol burned hot in my veins, and maybe it was everything that had been crushing me lately, but something inside me snapped. My head went light, and before I knew it, I was climbing onto the platform.

The music was loud and primal. I moved without thinking, letting my body wrap around the pole, letting everything I'd been holding back pour out through movement.

All the rage, the humiliation, the grief I'd been choking down—it all erupted from somewhere deep in my bones.

The men below—shirtless, tattooed, dangerous-looking—whooped and hollered, clapping in rhythm.

I danced harder, faster, like I could shake this heart right out of my chest if I just moved violently enough.

But at some point, the noise cut off abruptly.

I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of how unsteady I was on my feet. The crowd had parted like the Red Sea, creating a clear path straight to the stage.

A man strode forward—tall, all sharp lines and controlled power.

Black suit. Features carved from stone, with an old scar slashing across one brow into his hairline. Tattoos crept up from his collar, disappearing beneath expensive fabric, and he carried the unmistakable scent of violence, the kind that clings to a man no matter how much he scrubs.

The entire club had gone silent. Armed men lined the walls now, hands resting casually on weapons tucked into waistbands.

The man hadn't said a word, hadn't lifted a finger, but the temperature in the room had dropped twenty degrees.

Damian stood below me, ice-blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that could make apex predators roll over and bare their throats.

This was what he looked like right before someone got hurt.

But I had no idea why he was angry. I supposed he was worried something might happen to this heart—the one he needed intact for someone else.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but I thought I'd gone numb to all of this. Yet standing there, thinking about why he'd really come, I felt my eyes burn with tears I couldn't hold back.

Through the watery blur, I watched Damian raise one hand—scarred knuckles, brutal and efficient.

"Get down."

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