Brenna Mann POV:
The operating room was a blur of bright lights and hushed voices. My good hand, the one that still functioned, moved with a detached precision. I instructed the other surgeon, my voice calm and steady, even as my mind reeled from the events of the past hour. Kiley' s mother, a pale, lifeless figure on the table, was a pawn in this twisted game.
The surgery was long, complex, and draining. When it was finally over, I felt a profound weariness settle over me, a physical and emotional exhaustion that went bone-deep.
As I emerged from the operating room, I saw Davis pacing in the waiting area, Kiley clinging to him, her tears still flowing freely. My gaze met his, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of something that resembled gratitude. But it was quickly replaced by his usual cold indifference.
"She' s stable," I said, my voice hoarse. "She' ll recover."
Davis nodded, then directed his attention back to Kiley, murmuring reassurances. He didn' t spare me another glance.
I walked away, my legs heavy, my head pounding. I needed to see Fabiola. I needed to know she was safe.
But before I could reach the exit, a piercing scream cut through the sterile silence of the hospital corridor.
"Fabiola!"
My blood ran cold. The scream had come from the direction of the room where my sister had been held.
I ran, my heart pounding in my chest, a terrible premonition gripping me.
The door was ajar. I pushed it open.
Fabiola was standing on the window ledge, her eyes vacant, her face streaked with tears. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes torn. The video. The humiliation. It had broken her.
"Fabiola!" I screamed, my voice raw with terror. "No! Please, no!"
She looked at me, a faint, heartbreaking smile on her lips. "It' s over, Brenna. It' s finally over."
I lunged for her, my injured hand screaming in protest. "No! Fabiola, don' t! Please!"
But I was too late.
She jumped.
The scream that tore from my throat was primal, guttural, a sound of pure agony and despair. I rushed to the window, peering down, but she was gone. Just an empty space where my sister had been.
Davis, drawn by my scream, appeared in the doorway, Kiley behind him. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock on his face for the first time.
"Fabiola…" he choked out, his voice laced with uncharacteristic horror.
I turned on him, my eyes blazing with a fury so intense it threatened to consume me. "You did this! You killed her, Davis! You monster!"
My hands, my good hand, reached for his throat, my fingers digging in, desperate to squeeze the life out of him. He stumbled back, surprised by my sudden, visceral attack.
Kiley shrieked, pulling at my arms. "Stop it, Brenna! You' re insane!"
But I didn' t hear her. All I saw was Davis' s face, the architect of my destruction. All I felt was the searing pain of my sister' s loss.
"She' s gone, Davis! She' s gone because of you!" I screamed, tears streaming down my face. "You took everything from me! My mother! My career! And now my sister!"
Guards rushed in, pulling me away from Davis. I fought them, kicking and screaming, a wild animal in their grasp.
"Let me go! Let me go, you bastards!"
They restrained me, pinning me against the wall. My body was wracked with sobs, my spirit shattered into a million irreparable pieces.
Davis, recovering, smoothed his suit, his face regaining its mask of cold control. He stared at me, his eyes now devoid of even that flicker of shock. Just a cold, calculating assessment.
"Take her away," he ordered, his voice steady. "Sedate her. And make sure she' s kept away from any windows."
Sedate her. Keep her away from windows. As if I was the one who was truly mad.
The world blurred, the white walls of the hospital closing in on me. I felt the prick of a needle, the familiar drowsiness creeping in.
Darkness. Blessed, merciful darkness.
When I woke again, the world was still dark, but different. I was in a plush bed, the scent of lavender filling the air. My head felt heavy, my body weak.
The door opened, and a man I hadn' t seen in years walked in. Brock Cline. The reclusive biotech billionaire who had tried to recruit me years ago.
"Brenna," he said, his voice soft, compassionate. "I heard."
I looked at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "He took everything, Brock. Everything."
He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze steady. "I know. And I' m so sorry, Brenna."
He reached out, taking my functional hand in his. His touch was gentle, respectful. Not like Davis' s.
"I made you an offer once, Brenna," he said, his voice low. "A chance to change the world. To build something new."
I met his gaze, a single, potent thought crystallizing in my shattered mind. Revenge.
"I accept," I said, my voice firm, unwavering. "But I have a condition."
He nodded. "Anything."
"I want to make him pay, Brock," I said, my voice laced with a cold, unforgiving resolve. "I want to make Davis Lawrence regret the day he ever met me."
His eyes, always so intelligent, seemed to gleam with understanding. "Consider it done, Brenna."
He squeezed my hand. "And first," he added, a hint of steel in his voice, "we get you out of this marriage. For good."
