My hand shakes, and I have to steady it with my other hand. I force my voice to be calm. “Where?”
“Bottom right corner.”
The ink scratches against the paper. My name. My consent. My choice.
The doctor’s voice is warm, but firm. “The surgery will take a few hours. You will be under anesthesia. When you wake up, you’ll still have the bandages on for at least two days. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Doctor,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.
Rowan leans closer. “I’ll be here the whole time. You’ll be fine, Elara.”
I nod. I have to be fine.
They wheel me into the operating room. The air smells faintly of disinfectant. I hear the metallic clink of tools being arranged, the low hum of machines. A nurse touches my hand.
“You’re safe,” she whispers.
The anesthesia takes me quickly.
When I wake, everything is muffled. My head feels heavy, and there’s a burning sensation under the bandages. My throat is dry.
Rowan’s voice is the first thing I hear. “You’re awake. The surgery went well. Doctor said the donor cornea was perfect.”
“It… hurts,” I whisper.
“That’s normal. Just rest.”
--
The next two days blur into pain and dizziness. Every time I move, the world tilts. But the thought of what’s ahead keeps me going.
On the third day, the doctor unwraps the bandages.
“All right, slowly open your eyes,” he says.
It’s not instant clarity. First, there’s only brightness, then shapes, then the faint outline of a face.
And then… Rowan. His smile is small but genuine. “Welcome back.”
Something shifts inside me.
No more tears for Julian. No more begging to be seen.
That night, I sit at the desk in my hospital room, scribbling in my notebook. Ideas for my revenge take shape in rough sketches and short notes. Rowan knocks on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
He steps inside. “Grandfather’s been asking when you’ll come home.”
My hand stills. Four years. Four years of excuses, all because I thought Julian’s comfort mattered more than my own family.
I swallow. “He’s… okay?”
“He’s waiting. And he’s proud of you, even now.”
Pride. A word I haven’t heard in so long.
Julian has no idea who I really am. He thinks I am just a plain housewife who paints for fun. He doesn’t know that once, I was a renowned painter. That my exhibitions sold out in hours. That I gave it all up to cook for him, clean for him, love him.
I look at my hands. The same hands that once held brushes and created worlds. They itch now, like they’re remembering.
I close my notebook and stand. “Rowan,” I say quietly, “we go home now. I’m ready to paint again.”
--
The flight was long, but Rowan made sure no one paid us too much attention.
No public greetings, no fanfare. Just two quiet passengers slipping through the VIP exit of El Prat Airport in Barcelona.
As soon as we stepped into the arrival hall, Rowan leaned close. “Abuelo already sent a car. Security team’s outside.”
I paused for a second, my hands tightening around my bag. Security. A car waiting for me. Those words used to be normal in my life, but now they felt almost… foreign. Julian never allowed anything like that. He always said, “It’s just for show. You’re not some princess. Stop acting entitled.” So I stopped expecting safety.
We walked toward the private parking area. A sleek black sedan waited, flanked by two men in tailored suits. They inclined their heads when they saw me.
“Bienvenida a casa, Señorita,” one of them said.
The title hit harder than I expected. I nodded, forcing a small smile, then slid into the back seat.
The drive to the estate was quiet, except for Rowan giving instructions in Spanish. My chest tightened when the gates came into view— tall wrought iron, the family crest in polished gold catching the late afternoon sun. The moment we rolled in, memories came flooding back: warm evenings on the terrace with the scent of bougainvillea, the salty breeze from the Mediterranean, my grandfather’s voice calling me mi pequeña.
Inside, the staff lined up in the entry hall. Familiar faces lit up when they saw me.
“Señorita,” the housekeeper whispered, her voice trembling. “Está en casa.”
And then I saw him. My grandfather. White hair, still upright and proud despite his age. His eyes softened, but when they landed on my thin frame, his jaw tightened.
“Elara.” He pulled me into his arms, holding me longer than I expected. When he stepped back, he studied me from head to toe. “You have lost weight. Your skin… too pale. Tell me, what did that man do to you?”
I looked away, forcing a weak smile. “We just drifted apart, Abuelo. That’s all.”
He frowned. “No me mientas. You think I do not know the look of a woman who has suffered?”
I had no answer. My throat burned, but I swallowed the truth. Not tonight.
That evening, after dinner, I wandered into my old art studio. The air smelled faintly of dust and turpentine. White sheets covered the easels and tables. I pulled one back and revealed an unfinished painting... the strokes rough, colors half-blended. My hands tingled just looking at it.
I touched the edge of the canvas. Four years gone. Four years I gave up painting, gave up myself, so I could cook his meals and wait for him to come home— only for him to choose someone else.
My fingers curled into fists.
Not anymore.
