That night, there was a knock — faint, almost afraid to be heard.
The door creaked open a moment later, but I didn’t bother turning around.
He stepped in quietly, every movement deliberate, like even the floorboards might shatter under his weight. In his hands was a small tray — a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and the same tea he used to bring me when I was pregnant.
He placed it down on the bedside table as if afraid to make a sound, then finally spoke — his voice calm, too careful. The same fake composure he always used when pretending to be the concerned brother.
“I shouldn’t have hit you,” he said, eyes flicking toward the bruise he caused. “I lost control. You just—took me by surprise. That baby... it was the last piece of my brother left. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. My eyes stayed fixed on the wall, as if I could see a world beyond it — anywhere but here.
He continued, his tone softening like it might disguise the guilt.
“You have to understand, Aria. I only want to protect Toby’s memory. He adored you, and seeing you this broken—it hurts. I just want you to feel safe again. Seen. Even if I can only do that as his brother.”
I finally turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze with nothing but ice.
“Don’t start pretending to care now,” I said flatly. “You’re years too late.”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of pain cutting across his face, but he said nothing. I didn’t touch the food. Didn’t move.
He watched me in silence, probably waiting for the version of me who used to cling to him — the woman who’d cry into his chest and forgive him with trembling lips. But she was gone. Frozen to death in that storage room Marcelline locked me in.
He sat beside me anyway. The bed sank under his weight, and he draped a blanket around my shoulders like it could erase everything — the bruises, the silence, the truth.
“You used to love it when Toby tucked you in,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. Every word that left his mouth felt like venom disguised as comfort.
---
Sometime later, I woke to the sound of screaming. Piercing, dramatic, and far too loud to be real.
I didn’t even need to check to know who it was.
Marcelline.
Putting on another show.
When I opened the bedroom door, she was already sprawled in the hallway floor — makeup smeared, her silk slip torn, fake scratches clawed across her arms and neck. Blood dotted her skin, shallow enough to look serious, but not enough to actually hurt.
She wailed when she spotted me, voice trembling with theatrical horror.
“Why are you doing this to me?!”
Then came the thunder of footsteps — Toby’s — as he rushed into the scene. His eyes widened at the sight of her, panic flaring instantly.
“Marcelline! What happened?!”
She threw herself at his legs like some tragic heroine, sobbing uncontrollably.
“She attacked me,” she cried between gasps. “I went to check on her, to help her move on. I know she hates me because Leon looks like Toby. I was only trying to comfort her—then she snapped!”
She looked up at him, eyes glistening with perfectly timed tears. “I’m dying, Toby. You know I am. I only have months left. And she wants to destroy me before I even reach my grave. If she wants you, let her have you. Just let me die in peace.”
Her cries grew louder, almost animalistic, echoing through the hall.
I didn’t say a word.
Toby’s eyes darted between us — confusion twisting quickly into fury.
He moved fast, standing in front of me before I could even blink. His chest heaved, his eyes wild.
“What the hell did you do to her?!” he roared.
I didn’t even flinch.
“She’s dying, Aria!” he shouted. “She has four months left, and she’s been nothing but kind to you. She’s been trying to make peace—and you beat her?”
A laugh broke from my throat. Not out of humor. Out of exhaustion. A sharp, bitter sound that tasted like finality.
“You’re both pathetic,” I said.
Then I slapped him.
Hard. With every ounce of betrayal that had built up — for every lie, every manipulation, every time he let Marcelline replace me piece by piece.
He just stared at me, stunned, like the mask had finally cracked.
“You used to be kind,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You used to be human.”
I stepped closer, close enough for him to see the tears I refused to let fall.
“And you used to be mine,” I whispered back. “But now, you’re hers.”
For a brief moment, something shifted in his face — something real. Like he wanted to confess. Like he might finally admit the truth he’d been hiding since the day he let me mourn him as a dead man.
But then Marcelline made a sound behind him — a weak, pitiful cough, followed by a dramatic collapse.
She hit the ground perfectly on cue. “Toby… please… I can’t breathe…”
That was enough to break his focus.
“Shit—Marcelline!” he cried, scooping her into his arms. “Stay with me, baby. Stay with me!”
He shouted for help, for the driver, for anyone who could play savior to her act.
I didn’t move. I just watched him carry her away — the woman he chose over me, the woman he built this entire nightmare for.
---
Moments later, his mother appeared at the end of the hall. Her hair was pulled tight, her eyes burning with disgust. She didn’t even ask what happened.
“You’re evil,” she hissed, her words cutting like glass. “I should have seen it sooner. You wore that mask so well — gentle, innocent — but underneath it, you’re cruel. Heartless. A killer.”
I tilted my head slightly, unbothered.
“I should’ve never let you into this family,” she continued. “You don’t deserve the Mercer name.”
I stepped closer and whispered, “Then take it back. I never needed it.”
---
Two of Toby’s men appeared, gripping my arms before I could move. I thrashed, kicked, screamed — but it didn’t matter.
They dragged me down the long hallway, my feet scraping the floor, my voice echoing uselessly in the silence. No one intervened.
At the hospital, they forced the doors open and shoved me inside a sterile room.
Marcelline was there. Lying pale and lifeless against white sheets, tubes in her arm, pretending to be a saint near death.
Toby’s voice came next — cold and sharp. “Kneel.”
I blinked. “What?”
He pointed to the floor — a square patch covered in coarse sea salt.
“Kneel,” he repeated. “On the salt.”
A small, humorless smile touched my lips. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“You assaulted my wife,” he said, his tone biting. “You made her collapse. You’re going to kneel there and think about what you’ve become.”
He leaned closer, his words dropping low, heavy.
“And when she wakes up, you’re going to apologize.”
