Pain was the first thing that greeted me.
It spread through my body like fire licking along nerves, as though I had been dragged across concrete until nothing but rawness remained. My arms and legs felt stiff, every joint resisting movement, while each attempt at a deep breath sent flames tearing through my ribs. But even with all that, it wasn’t my body’s agony that cut the deepest.
“Miss Simon,” a voice said gently.
I shifted my gaze and saw a nurse at my side, clipboard tucked against her arm. Her smile was polite, professional, practiced. She checked the monitor briefly before lowering her eyes to me. “You’re awake now. That’s very good news.”
I tried to swallow, though my throat felt like sandpaper. My voice came out strained. “Where’s… Jerwin?”
Her expression flickered, but she answered with a small nod. “He left earlier this morning. He arranged for our staff to monitor you while he attends to Miss Yvette. She also sustained injuries during the incident, and he has been by her side.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
Then a sound escaped me—something like laughter, but hollow, jagged, empty of all joy. It scraped through my throat like broken glass.
I was the one who had fallen. I was the one who had been knocked unconscious, the one with bruises blooming across bone and skin. But she—she was the one he ran to first. She was the one he stayed with.
And now, instead of watching over me, he left strangers to handle it while he sat by her bedside, probably brushing hair from her face, whispering soothing words, making her smile.
It was absurd.
I leaned back into the pillow, releasing a long breath through my nose. A part of me considered lying still, letting the weight of betrayal crush me, letting this hurt dig its claws in.
But no.
I refused.
Even though my body trembled in protest, I shoved the covers off and lowered my legs over the edge of the bed.
The nurse gasped and rushed forward. “Miss Simon, please, you shouldn’t—”
“I’m fine,” I cut her off, my tone sharp, cold, absolute. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
It was a lie. My first one that day.
I stepped into the hallway, one palm braced against the wall for stability. The corridor stretched before me, dimly lit, lined with muted green doors. Vases of flowers stood neatly arranged along tables, their colors too deliberate, too staged to feel real.
I hadn’t meant to pause.
But I did.
Right outside the room next to mine.
The door was slightly ajar, and voices floated out into the corridor.
“It’s all because of me,” Yvette murmured, her tone trembling just enough to sound fragile. “You were hurt because of me.”
“No,” Jerwin replied, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it—gentle, careful, almost tender. “It doesn’t matter. I’d make the same choice again. I don’t mind being hurt if it means you’re safe.”
My nails cut into my palms.
“But… what about my sister?” Yvette whispered, her words almost too delicate, like lines rehearsed for a script. “You’re supposed to be her butler, her guardian.”
“She’ll be alright,” he said without hesitation. I could imagine his expression: calm, steady, utterly devoted. “Fatima’s strong. She doesn’t need me the way you do.”
Something twisted deep in my chest.
Strong.
That word again.
It was the excuse they all leaned on whenever they wanted to abandon me. Fatima’s strong. She doesn’t cry. She can manage alone. She’ll endure.
But no one ever stopped to ask if I wanted to be strong.
Movement stirred inside the room. I edged closer and caught sight of several men in black suits filing in, each carrying velvet-wrapped boxes.
“Who are they?” Yvette asked, her voice a mix of shock and curiosity.
One man stepped forward and gave a respectful bow. “Miss Yvette, these gifts come from Young Master Andersen. He heard of the accident and wished to send tokens of comfort to brighten your day.”
Her lips parted in astonishment. “Wait—what? I don’t even know him personally!”
The man smiled knowingly. “Even so, he has admired you quietly, from afar.”
Her eyes widened, sparkling like she had stumbled into a fairy tale. “Do you really think I deserve something like this?” she asked, turning to Jerwin as though his opinion was the only one that mattered.
“Of course,” he said instantly, no pause, no doubt.
“And do you think… maybe he likes me?” she added with a shy giggle.
Jerwin gave a single, steady nod. “Without question.”
I didn’t need anyone to spell it out.
I already knew the truth.
Young Master Andersen was Jerwin. Hiding behind another name, another mask, so he could shower her with gifts while pretending it came from someone else.
I turned, intent on slipping down the hall unnoticed. But her voice reached me before I could escape.
“Oh my goodness—Fatima!” Yvette gasped, eyes wide as she caught sight of me. “Look at all these presents Young Master Andersen sent for me. Aren’t I the luckiest girl?”
I kept walking, lips sealed.
But she wasn’t done. She hurried after me, the sharp click of her heels chasing me down the hallway.
“Wait! Are you upset? Is it because you’re jealous?” she asked, almost breathless.
I stopped.
Turned.
“I would never be jealous of you,” I said, each syllable like a shard of ice. “Now. Let. Me. Go.”
She reached for my arm, and I shoved her back—not hard, but enough to free myself.
“Careful!” Jerwin’s voice cut in as he appeared behind us. He darted to Yvette’s side, shielding her with his presence. “She’s not fully healed. You shouldn’t push her. Apologize.”
Apologize?
I stared at him, empty and cold, for what felt like forever.
And then… I did.
“Sorry,” I murmured, flat, devoid of any meaning.
Sorry for what? I couldn’t even say. The word came out simply because I no longer had the strength to fight.
I turned away, walking down the corridor—past the nurses, past the vases of too-perfect flowers, past walls painted in colors meant to calm.
Behind me, his voice floated faintly. “Let her be… she’s only overreacting.”
And Yvette, ever sweet, ever clinging, chimed in, “I’m still worried. Let’s follow her.”
