I woke from a nightmare with my hospital gown damp against my skin.
The ward was so quiet the monitor's beep was the only sound. My mother sat hunched at the bedside, dark bruises shadowing under her eyes.
"My daughter needs to rest. Mr. Crawford, it's not appropriate for you to visit now." My father's voice came from the doorway—firm, uncompromising.
Jeydon had found me.
Of course he had. In Seattle, there was no one Jeydon couldn't find.
"Uncle Simon, I only wanted to see her," his voice sounded concerned—low, soft, gentle—the same voice that had ordered a man to sterilize me like an animal.
"My daughter needs to rest. Mr. Crawford, it's not appropriate for you to visit now."
By evening, my parents' phones began to ring one after another. They exchanged a look, grabbed their coats, and my mother said, "Cheska, we have to go to the office. Rest for now. I'll have a caregiver watch you."
As soon as they left, the ward door opened quietly. I didn't want to see Jeydon's face, so I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep.
"Don't pretend." A syrupy, sweet voice slipped into my ear and I snapped my eyes open.
Krisha sat smiling like a painted flower. "I knew you were awake." She rolled her wheelchair closer. "You refused to see Jeydon, so I gave him an idea. If your company hits a snag... your parents will have other things to worry about."
Her perfume was cloying enough to make me nauseous. "Their love for you is kinda overrated," she taunted.
"I told you not to speak of my parents again." I stared at her coldly. "Clearly last time's lesson didn't stick."
"Oh—you're already angry?" She clutched her chest melodramatically. "Don't be impatient. It's not over yet."
Suddenly she slapped her own cheeks twice. "Miss Meyer, I truly was wrong!" She wiped at her eyes and slid from the wheelchair to kneel beside the bed. "Please, forgive me..."
Immediately, the ward door was flung open. Jeydon saw the scene at once.
"Cheska!" He hauled Krisha to her feet and turned on me with fury. "What have you done now?"
I only felt a wave of powerlessness, 'I'm already like this, what else can I do?'
Jeydon choked on his words. "You're injured, yet you still make trouble for Krisha—"
His words trailed off mid-sentence. He inhaled slowly, then pushed Krisha out of the room. When he returned, he sat by my bed and let his fingers brush my cheek as if comforting a child. "Your complexion looks even worse," he murmured. "Come home with me."
I watched him without expression.
He sighed and softened his tone even more. "It's my fault you've suffered so much." He gripped my hand. "Don't worry. I'll make it right."
He went on, voice wrapped in honey. "I've arranged the best surgeon. He will perform a small surgery on you, and your injuries will recover quickly without leaving any marks."
My heart dropped. He had not abandoned his plan. The word "operation" rang in my ears like a bell.
I pushed myself up on trembling arms. "Jeydon."
"I'm here."
The next instant, I grabbed the glass vase on the bedside cabinet and hurled it at him.
The vase shattered against his temple. Blood trickled down his brow. I smiled, and said each word like a verdict. "You can do the surgery yourself!"
