The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic was the first thing that hit me when I opened my eyes in the clinic room.
Then came the steady beep. Soft, unyielding, a reminder that I was still breathing.
I blinked at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I had ended up here, until the bitter taste of shrimp returned to my mouth and memory crashed over me: the dinner table, their laughter, my body betraying me.
I let out a slow, shaky breath and turned toward the window. Sunlight streamed in, warm and golden. The blinds were the cheap kind, the sort they kept in the neutral-ground clinics where no one asks your last name and the front desk knows better than to write one down.
I was utterly alone.
Ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand, I pushed myself upright and reached for my phone. The screen lit up with notifications. None from Dante. None from Adriana. None from my parents.
I opened social media. There it was.
A story from Adriana's feed, now gone, but etched in my mind. The image of them at a private showing in some invitation-only auction house: laughing, glowing, perfectly staged. My parents beside them. Dante's hand casually resting on her lower back.
The caption: "Celebrating life with those who matter."
A jagged laugh escaped me. So that was it. While I nearly died, they sipped champagne beneath chandeliers in a room where men laundered fortunes through gilt frames. Well, perhaps it was partly my fault for eating the shrimp. I had hoped this incident might finally make them notice me. I was wrong. I would never belong, not really, even as the true daughter. The true blood heir of the Benedetti house, and still not worth a single phone call.
I dropped my phone onto the bed. No flowers. No cards. No fruit basket.
When I asked the nurse if anyone had come by, she shook her head, apologetic. "No visitors so far, ma'am."
Even now, after all the revelations about the switched lives, the heartbreak, the truth, they still loved Adriana more. Always. She wore the Benedetti name like it had always been hers, and maybe that was the only thing that mattered to them. Not blood. Not birthright. The performance of it.
And me? I had given them everything: my love, my body, my baby, my name, my future. And in return? Disregard. Disrespect. Contempt.
But I was done.
That afternoon, a message from my lawyer arrived:
Lawyer: Divorce finalized. Official documents on the way.
The word sat wrong in my mouth. Divorce. As if what Dante and I had was a marriage and not a political arrangement sealed over a handshake between bosses. The dissolution of an alliance. Nothing more.
Then Gia's message came, as ever my lifeline:
Gia: Everything's ready. Disappear? Or marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange either.
Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.
I signed my discharge forms and walked out of the clinic with nothing but my coat and silence. The air outside hit harder than expected, a reminder: there was nothing left for me here. No warmth. No family. No love.
Back at the estate, I gathered a few things before vanishing for good. No one noticed. The house buzzed with preparations for the Benedetti annual gala, the kind of church fundraiser and society front that kept the Family's name in the right columns and the wrong questions out of polite conversation. Guests. Lights. Champagne. Adriana, in her element, orchestrating florists and string quartets as though she ruled it all. And in this house, she did.
She turned, offering me a smile that never reached her eyes. "Oh, you're back. Bianca... I didn't mean for you to get sick."
My mother glanced up from her planner. "She just wants attention. And if she knew she was allergic, why eat it? Useless bitch."
I lowered my gaze. Pain flared, but I swallowed it, refusing to let it consume me. Viola Benedetti could cut deeper than any soldier with a blade, and she never even raised her voice. She just smoothed the edge of her linen napkin flat with the heel of her palm and moved on, as if I were a stain she'd already decided to ignore.
Then my mother threw a clipboard at me. "Since you're here, help finish the arrangements. And if anything goes wrong, it's on you."
Of course. Always me.
I worked through the night. Every seating chart, every floral centerpiece, every call to caterers who didn't ask questions and vendors who invoiced through shell accounts. I ate little. Slept less. But I endured. Because I had a plan. Just a few more days.
During a brief pause, I passed the hall and caught Dante and Adriana whispering near the grand piano. His hand brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned too close.
When I walked by, he spun his black signet ring once with his thumb and offered that same old line:
"She's just my friend, Bianca. Always has been. Even before you came along, it was supposed to be us."
His words made it clear: I was the intruder. The mistake. The wrong name written into a blood pact that should have bound him to her from the start.
I said nothing.
Later, in the guest room, exhaustion finally pulled at me, but sleep refused to come. Faint sounds drifted from down the hall. Soft moans, muffled gasps. Adriana's room. The headboard creaked. Then I recognized Dante's voice, low, intimate, familiar.
I crept toward the hallway and froze outside her half-open door.
Through the narrow gap, I saw them: bodies tangled, slick with sweat, sheets wrapped around them like silk. Her laugh. His groan.
Without a sound, I turned and walked back to my room, heart heavy, stomach twisting. I pressed my thumbnail against the crescent of dried paint beneath it until the small pain was the only thing I could feel.
