I stood there for a long moment, shivering uncontrollably in my soaked hospital gown. The despair that had driven me to the ledge was still there, but now, a tiny, hot spark of rage had ignited beside it.
I turned and walked back down the stairwell.
When I pushed the heavy door open to my hospital room, Mia and Cheska were still there. Mia was plugging a hot curling iron into the wall outlet by the mirror, touching up Cheska's hair as if my room was their personal salon.
I stopped in the doorway, staring at my younger sister.
For twenty years, I had been her shield. I had taken our father's drunken blows so she wouldn't have to. I had worked three jobs with a shattered pelvis to pay for her first modeling portfolio. I thought we were surviving the world together.
But looking at her now, seeing the genuine, unadulterated disgust in her eyes as she looked at my dripping wet hospital gown, a horrifying realization washed over me.
Mia didn't just sell me out for Roger's money. She hated me.
She had always hated me. I saw it now, clear as day. She resented my sacrifices because they made her feel like a charity case. She was bitterly jealous that I had married into the billionaire Thorne family, while she had to hustle for auditions. She didn't care that my marriage was a gilded cage of abuse; she only saw the gold. And now, by replacing me with her best friend, she finally got to be the one holding the power.
I had spent my entire life protecting a girl who was just waiting for the perfect moment to destroy me.
"Look who decided to come back," Mia sneered, rolling her eyes. "Did you go for a swim in the rain to cool off your temper?"
I didn't answer. I just stood there, staring at them with dead, hollow eyes.
Cheska frowned, clearly unsatisfied with my lack of reaction. She wanted me screaming. She wanted me begging. She looked at the hot curling iron in Mia's hand, and a dark, twisted idea flashed in her eyes.
Before I could even blink, Cheska snatched the iron from Mia. She pressed the scorching hot ceramic barrel directly against her own forearm for a split second, then threw it to the floor and collapsed onto her knees, wailing at the top of her lungs.
"What the hell is going on in here!"
Roger burst through the door, his face pale with panic.
Mia immediately dropped to the floor beside Cheska, playing her part perfectly. "Roger! Save her! Ysabel went crazy! She attacked Cheska with the iron! She said if her baby is dead, yours shouldn't live either!"
"My arm is burned!" Cheska sobbed hysterically, clutching her stomach. "And my stomach hurts so much! Roger, please, save our baby!"
At the mention of the child, Roger's face twisted in terror. He scooped Cheska up into his arms instantly.
He didn't spare a single glance for me. He didn't notice that I was soaking wet, shivering, and bleeding from where I had ripped out my IV. He only spat a cold, venomous warning in my direction.
"Ysabel! Stay right here. When I get back, we are going to fix this for good!"
After the room cleared out and Mia scurried after them, the room fell into a deathly silence.
It took forever for me to find the strength to move. I didn't look for dry clothes. I simply sat on the edge of the bed, numb, waiting.
When Roger finally returned an hour later, he grabbed me by the arm, hauling me up with cold efficiency.
"Cheska has a severe third-degree burn on her arm because of you," he snarled. "She's hysterical, and the doctor says her stress is putting my heir at risk. You have two choices, Ysabel: you either undergo a skin graft for her right now to fix what you ruined, or I will have your son's grave paved over with concrete tonight."
The color had long since drained from my face. I looked like a walking corpse.
I didn't defend myself. I didn't argue that Cheska had burned herself. I just looked into the eyes of the man I had once taken a truck impact for, and whispered through dry lips, "If I give her the skin... will you tell me where he is?"
The words seemed to catch in Roger's throat. After a tense silence, he grunted, "Fine."
That night, I was wheeled into the surgical wing. Whether it was my body's exhaustion or an order from Roger himself, the local anesthesia didn't work. I felt every agonizing, searing second of the scalpel slicing the skin from my thigh.
When I finally came to the recovery room, Roger was standing by my bed. My leg was wrapped in thick, painful bandages.
My first words were a broken rasp. "Tell me... where is my child buried?"
Roger's expression was grim. The air around him became intense. He reached out, gripping my chin hard, his eyes dark and angry.
"If I tell you," he whispered dangerously, "are you just going to go find him and kill yourself?" He tightened his grip until it bruised. "Ysabel, I have already announced Cheska's pregnancy to the board. My new heir will be born soon. Until then, you will not cause another scene."
I froze, then suddenly shoved his hand away, crying uncontrollably. "Roger, you promised! You said you would tell me! You can't take it back!"
"I am his mother!" I screamed, the agony of the last ten years finally tearing out of my throat. "When I still had a womb, he was a part of me! Now that he's gone, what right do you have to keep me from him?"
Roger remained completely unmoved by my tears.
Despair, cold and infinite, flooded my soul. I rolled off the bed, ignoring the blinding pain in my bandaged leg, and fell to my knees at Roger's feet. I had to play the broken wife one last time.
"I'm begging you..." I sobbed, gasping for air. "I just want to know where he is. I won't ruin your plans, I swear. Just let me see him once. I'm on my knees, Roger! Please! Tell me!"
"Enough."
Roger stood up abruptly, yanking at his tie in irritation. He looked down at me with total, absolute contempt.
"Look at yourself, Ysabel. You're pathetic. Do you think your dead son would even want a mother as miserable and broken as you?"
I went still, my hands pressed against the cold floor, shaking uncontrollably. Just as I felt my heart was about to stop from the sheer weight of his cruelty, Roger's cold, thin voice drifted down from above.
"Angelique Church Cemetery. Plot 278."
