Anabelle sat on the hard plastic bench in the VIP corridor, staring blankly at the sterile white tiles between her feet. She was waiting for her final discharge papers.
Footsteps clicked against the linoleum.
Anabelle looked up. Britany was walking toward her, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. The innocent, worried mask was back on her face.
"Sister, are you okay?" Britany stopped a few feet away, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Was I too emotional earlier?"
Anabelle didn't move. "Save it, Britany. Keep your acting for Antoine."
Britany's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, she took a step forward, pretending she was going to sit down next to Anabelle.
As Britany shifted her weight, her ankle deliberately rolled. She let out a piercing scream. She threw her body weight toward Anabelle, simultaneously tipping the cup of scalding coffee directly onto her own arm and chest.
Anabelle's reflexes kicked in. She reached out her hands to catch her falling sister.
Britany grabbed Anabelle's wrists, pulling Anabelle forward so it looked like they were struggling, before collapsing onto the floor.
"Ahhh! It burns!" Britany shrieked, clutching her reddened arm. Tears streamed down her face instantly.
Nurses and patients poked their heads out of nearby rooms.
Britany looked up at Anabelle, her face twisted in agony. "Sister, why... why did you push me?"
Anabelle froze. Her hands were still suspended in the air. Her lungs seized.
Whispers erupted from the onlookers.
"Did she just push a sick patient?"
"That coffee was boiling!"
Heavy, frantic footsteps thundered down the hall. Antoine sprinted around the corner, his face dark with fury.
"Anabelle! What the hell are you doing? !"
Antoine lunged forward. He shoved Anabelle hard in the chest.
Anabelle stumbled backward. Her spine slammed into the concrete wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, sending a sharp jolt of pain down her ribs.
Antoine dropped to his knees, pulling Britany into his arms. He frantically examined the red, blistering skin on her arm.
"Antoine, it hurts so much," Britany sobbed into his shirt. "Sister is just mad that you stayed with me... so she..."
Antoine snapped his head up. His eyes were black with disgust as he glared at Anabelle. "You are completely unreasonable! She is already hurt, and you're still bullying her?"
Anabelle looked at the steaming coffee on Britany’s arm, then at Antoine’s predictable fury. A thin, cold smile touched her lips—not of guilt, but of liberation. She didn't even bother to look at the "burn."
"Nice theatricals," Anabelle said, her voice devoid of the usual tremor. "But you're bleeding your own resources, Britany. That's a genuine burn for a very temporary audience."
She didn't wait for Antoine to convict her; she had already acquitted herself from his life.
"Think whatever you want," Anabelle whispered. The exhaustion in her bones was suddenly heavier than gravity.
She pushed off the wall and turned to leave.
Antoine grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising. "You are not going anywhere! We are going to have a serious talk after the doctor treats her!"
She didn't yank her arm away in pain; she pried his fingers off one by one with a look of profound disgust, as if touching a piece of rotting fruit.
"Talk about what?" Anabelle’s voice was flat, like a judge reading a closed case. "No thanks, Antoine. Keep your 'talks' for your patient. You two deserve each other’s company—and each other’s lies."
Antoine's jaw tightened. "Your behavior right now is only making things worse!"
Ten feet away, the heavy wooden door of the VIP lounge was cracked open.
Beatrice Beck sat in her wheelchair, peering through the gap. Martha Ward stood silently behind her. They had a perfect, unobstructed view of the entire hallway. They had seen Britany's deliberate trip, the calculated arc of the coffee, and the way she pulled Anabelle down.
Beatrice's eyes narrowed, tracking the way Anabelle dismissed the man without a single tear. "What a pathetic performance," she murmured to Martha. "The younger one is a clumsy actress."
"And the young man is a lost cause," Martha agreed.
Beatrice’s gaze sharpened on Anabelle’s retreating back. "A spine is a start, but she has something better now—contempt. Martha, find out if she’s looking for a new battlefield. I’m tired of watching amateurs."
In the hallway, Antoine scooped Britany up into his arms and carried her toward the burn unit, leaving Anabelle standing completely alone.
Anabelle didn't cry. She stood frozen for ten seconds. Then, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, turned her back on the direction Antoine had gone, and walked away.
