Chapter 3

A week later, Isabella and I were discharged from the hospital together.

I was pushed out in a wheelchair. But Isabella, who had been in a wheelchair just half a month ago, now stood in the sunlight like a bird set free.

The sea breeze carried a biting chill. In my thin hospital gown, I couldn't help but shiver.

Marco immediately took off his own cashmere coat.

I thought maybe he cared. The next second, he draped it over Isabella's shoulders.

"The wind is strong, you mustn't catch a cold," he said, meticulously buttoning it for her.

Mom naturally took off her own scarf and wound it around Isabella's neck. "There, that'll keep you warm."

No one glanced back at me, the one who'd just had a miscarriage, the one who'd just had surgery.

"Bad news, Sis."

She pointed at the car, shrugging without an ounce of apology.

"My legs are better now. Daddy thought those fixing devices were ugly and annoying, so he had them removed overnight. Your wheelchair won't fit in the car anymore."

I looked past her.

The spacious back seat, specially modified for me, was completely gone. In its place were brand new, bright pink leather seats – Isabella's favorite color.

The nurse pushing my wheelchair stood frozen, unsure what to do.

"Oh, I forgot all about it! Been so busy!"

Dad strode over, slammed the car door shut with a bang, blocking my view. He crouched down, straightening his expensive cufflinks, his tone more of an announcement than an apology.

"Elena, Daddy's been swamped lately with Isabella's surgery. Today, just take the ambulance back. In a few days, I'll have Marcus order you a new car."

"Don't bother buying one, Dad."

My voice was very soft. "It's not like I'll need it anyway."

Dad froze, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, won't need it? Elena, what are you saying?"

Before I could answer, Marco walked over. His hand landed on top of my head, that familiar warmth now only making me feel sick.

"Don't overthink things." His voice was low. "You'll recover soon too. Then you won't need the wheelchair."

He turned to look at Dad, and they exchanged a quick, knowing glance, reaching some unspoken agreement: "Right, Dad?"

Dad nodded immediately. "Of course, of course."

Marco took the wheelchair handles from the nurse, but just as he was about to move, Isabella suddenly reached out and hooked her finger into his tie, pulling him towards her.

"Marco—" she dragged out the word, acting like a spoiled child. "Never mind that wheelchair, I want you to ride with me. Mom and Dad are so boring. If you don't keep me company, I'll be bored to death!"

Marco looked a bit embarrassed, trying to pull her hand away, but his eyes involuntarily flicked towards me again.

"Stop that, Isabella. Elena's still recovering—"

"Go ahead."

I cut off his fake refusal.

"I'm used to being alone anyway."

I didn't look at him again. I spun the wheelchair myself, sharply, and rolled towards the waiting ambulance.

The nurse hurried to catch up and take over. Just before I got in, I looked back through the ambulance's rear window—

Marco was bending down, lifting the ecstatic Isabella into that pink back seat. And my parents stood nearby, smiling with doting satisfaction.

Like that was the real, perfect family portrait.

As the ambulance started moving, my phone buzzed. A message from Marco:

[Isabella's still weak, and Mom and Dad can't handle her. I need to help. You're the understanding one at times like this, right? You don't mind, do you?]

[Of course not. I don't mind.]

I'll be gone soon anyway. After I leave, you won't have to struggle anymore. You can focus all your attention on Isabella.

Back at the estate, looking at the familiar house, I smiled bitterly.

"Elena..."

Mom helped the medical staff get me settled, then took my hand.

She pressed a silver medal into my palm.

Her eyes were a little red as she held my hand tight. "Keep this with you. The Madonna will protect you. You won't be in danger again."

"Elena, take it," Dad chimed in. "Your mom went all the way to Monreale Cathedral while you were unconscious to pray for this. The bishop himself blessed it."

I looked down at the medal engraved with the image of the Madonna of Monreale. For a moment, I was touched.

I suddenly remembered when I was ten, running a high fever. Half-asleep, I often dreamed of a woman kneeling by my bed praying for me. The servants later told me it was my mother.

"Thank you."

I clutched the medal, its metal edges digging into my palm.

"I'm your mom. It's the least I could do." Mom smiled, and for a second, it looked like a weight had been lifted.

She glanced towards the villa, then back at me, hesitating.

"Elena, there's something..."

"Go ahead."

"Isabella just had surgery. She's too weak."

Mom looked down, avoiding my eyes, and rushed on:

"The doctor specifically said the room you have on the second floor has the best sunlight in the whole house. The sun would be great for her wound healing..."

She paused, even forcing a conciliatory smile:

"Your things have already been moved to the storage room in the back hall on the first floor. But don't worry, Daddy's already having it redone. They're putting in the thickest carpet and a heater. You won't be cold at all..."