Chapter 2

I pulled my hand back.

I looked at the three people gathered around my bed. This picture of warmth I used to see, now it just made my stomach churn.

"It's okay." I forced a smile. "Isabella has suffered from rejection issues for years. I'm the big sister. Think of this as me suffering a little for her."

"Isabella will be fully recovered soon."

The words slipped out of Mom's mouth.

The moment they did, the air in the room froze.

She realized her mistake, her face instantly going pale.

Dad walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. The oppressive feeling was immediate.

"While you were unconscious, Isabella's bloodline authentication matched perfectly." He patted my back, once, twice. This touch I once craved more than anything, now felt like some kind of ominous rhythm.

"Don't worry, I saved Isabella, and I'll save you too. Daddy loves you."

Love?

I looked up at him, still in his arms. This was the face I'd worshipped for twenty years, the eyes I'd trusted completely.

All of it, a lie.

"When I was having my surgery," I stared into his pupils, my voice light and airy, "Isabella just 'happened' to find a match?"

He went rigid.

His hand, still patting my back, froze mid-air, hanging there awkwardly.

Mom turned her face away. Marco stared intently at the floor.

"Elena..."

"I'm just kidding, Dad."

I pulled back from that suffocating embrace, my smile widening. "I'm happier than anyone that Isabella's getting better."

All three of them let out a synchronized sigh of relief.

The way they did it in perfect unison, it was hilarious. Watching them, I just felt a sense of irony – so in your eyes, I'm still that same fool who'll obediently do anything for a little kindness.

"Elena," Dad immediately stood up, not even bothering to straighten his wrinkled suit. "Daddy has urgent business. You rest up and get better."

"Go ahead." I met his gaze. "Isabella needs you more than I do anyway."

The smile froze on his face for a second. He opened his mouth, but in the end, said nothing to explain, just turned and left. Mom followed close behind, the clicking of her high heels sharp and jarring.

Like they were fleeing.

Only Marco remained in the room.

He watched their retreating backs until the door clicked shut. He sat in the chair, his fingers tapping anxiously on the armrest, his eyes darting around, looking profoundly uncomfortable – the agony of wanting to leave but feeling obliged to stay.

I looked at this man I had once loved so deeply, a cold smile playing on my lips.

My hand unconsciously touched my flat stomach. A life had once grown there. Now, all that remained was a scar that would never fully heal – and a diagnosis: "permanently unable to conceive."

"You should go too, Marco."

"Since the baby's gone, you don't have to force yourself to stay with me anymore. Go be with Isabella. She's your only hope now, isn't she?"

Before I even finished speaking, he flinched like I'd hit a raw nerve.

"Elena, don't say that..." He hesitated, then added, "You should rest."

He leaned in to kiss my forehead. I turned my head, and that kiss, heavy with fake guilt, landed in my hair.

He paused for a moment, offered no explanation, turned and quickly walked to the door.

The moment it closed, I reached under my pillow and pulled out my phone.

My fingers trembled as I typed my reply: [I've decided to join the organization.]

As I hit send, my phone vibrated.

"Are you sure?" The voice on the other end was low, completely devoid of emotion. "Once you join, three years of complete isolation. Family, friends – everyone you know now has to die in your past."

"I'm sure."

The line went dead.

I clutched the phone, my finger accidentally brushing the screen. The voice recording app icon was there, a red dot blinking – it was playing.

I froze.

This was from the day I went into surgery. Three hours of recording, from the first fake kindness to the final, brutal unveiling of the truth.

I pressed play.

Static, the sound of wheels rolling, metal instruments clinking. The anesthesiologist counting down. Then—

"Don Salvatore, there's hope for Isabella now."

Marco's voice. As clear as if he were whispering in my ear.

I closed my eyes and let those vile schemes wash over me.

At least God was on my side.

During my stay in the hospital, Marco came every day at ten in the morning.

He'd hold my hand and spout meaningless platitudes – nice weather, a project going well, Isabella recovering nicely. Then he'd constantly check his watch, mumble a few more empty words, and rush off.

My parents came in the evenings.

Twenty minutes. Obligatory greetings, fake concern. The excuse was always the same: "Isabella needs us."

I smiled and said okay every time.

Watching their eager retreating forms, I thought, playing pretend must be exhausting. You guys must be so tired.

Late at night, the nurses' gossip from the hallway drifted in without a care.

"The day Elena was attacked, Isabella's bloodline authentication suddenly matched. Isn't that too much of a coincidence?"

"Coincidence, my eye. I bet Don Salvatore planned it all along. Bringing Elena back was just to keep her as a source for that illegitimate daughter."

"Then Elena is so pitiful, treated like a walking blood bank by her own father."

"Shh, keep your voice down, don't let anyone hear..."

The voices faded.

I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.

The heart in my chest beat strong and steady, each thump a reminder of this bloody, brutal truth.

On my bedside table was the cake Marco had brought during the day, to celebrate Isabella's recovery.

I reached over, grabbed it, and ripped the packaging open roughly. In the dark, I gulped down the sweet, cloying, almost bitter cream. Tears fell silently, but I just chewed harder.

I have to live.

Even if this body is broken, even if it can never nurture life again—

This body is still mine.

Only by living can I make them pay back every drop of blood and every tear, with interest.