When I opened my eyes again, everything around me was white.
White walls. White ceiling. The sharp smell of disinfectant.
My head throbbed, and my stomach felt as though it had been carved open from the inside.
Beside the bed, Alaric sat silently.
The moment he noticed I was awake, whatever concern had been on his face vanished.
"You really went all out tonight," he said coldly. "If you didn't want to eat the shrimp, you could've just said so."
I stared at him.
Alaric crossed his arms and let out a bitter laugh. "But coughing up blood? That's a new one. I didn't realize you'd become this desperate for attention."
My heart sank.
"You think I faked it?" I asked.
My own voice sounded rough, broken, almost unfamiliar.
For some reason, the question made him frown.
His gaze lingered on me.
Because this wasn't the Olivia he remembered.
The old Olivia smiled.
The old Olivia spoke softly.
The old Olivia looked at him as if he hung the moon.
That woman no longer existed.
His eyes slowly drifted downward. The hospital gown hung loosely on my frame. My wrists were frighteningly thin and my cheeks were hollow.
Prison had taken almost everything from me.
I watched realization slowly settle across his face.
Earlier, when he'd carried me into the ambulance, he must have noticed it too.
I was too light.
Like there was barely anything left of me.
He sighed and sat back down beside my hospital bed. His large hand reached for mine, his palm warm against my ice-cold skin as he gently covered the back of my hand, almost as if he was trying to warm me up.
"Olivia, I know you're angry," he said softly. "But I've already completed three of the six promises I made to Marga. There are only three left, and once I finish them, everything will finally be over."
I stared at the ceiling without speaking.
For the first time that day, there was genuine anticipation in his voice.
"I'll finally be able to put the past behind me," he continued. "Then it'll just be us. No more complications, no more obligations, no more people standing between us."
His expression softened as he leaned closer.
"You always wanted to leave New York, remember? You used to tell me you wanted a quiet life surrounded by flowers. I'll buy an estate overseas, a huge one, and I'll fill every corner with flowers if that's what you want. You won't have to worry about anything ever again because I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
The future he described sounded beautiful.
Peaceful.
Like a dream.
The problem was that I didn't care anymore.
The woman who would've cried from happiness hearing those promises had died eight years ago.
After a long silence, I finally asked, "Where's Grandpa?"
Alaric froze.
The smile disappeared from his face.
For a brief moment, he looked caught off guard.
Before he could answer, the ward door suddenly burst open.
"Alaric, Marga's sick again," a bodyguard said anxiously. "She suddenly started feeling unwell and keeps asking for you."
Everything about Alaric changed instantly.
The concern in his eyes.
The tension in his posture.
The urgency in his voice.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"We're not sure yet. She said she feels dizzy and her stomach hurts."
Before the bodyguard even finished speaking, Alaric was already standing.
The hand covering mine disappeared.
So did its warmth.
"I'll go check on her," he said.
That was all.
No answer to my question.
No reassurance.
Not even a glance back.
He simply walked out of the room.
The door closed behind him.
I stared at the empty doorway and let out a cold laugh.
Of course.
What exactly had I been expecting?
A few minutes later, the ward door opened again.
This time, it was a nurse.
She looked around nervously before hurrying toward my bed.
"Miss Olivia, did you offend someone powerful?" she asked quietly. "You were seriously injured, but someone ordered us to give your husband a fake medical report."
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
"A fake report?"
She nodded and handed me a folder.
"The report shown to your husband only mentioned a minor allergic reaction. This one is your real diagnosis."
I lowered my eyes to the pages.
At first, the words blurred together.
Then they became clear.
Severe stomach damage.
Foreign objects found in the stomach.
Immediate surgery recommended.
My hand trembled.
"There are multiple foreign objects inside your stomach," the nurse explained. "Small stones, metal fragments, and signs of long-term internal damage. They need to be removed immediately."
The room fell silent.
After a while, I asked, "How bad is my throat?"
The nurse's expression darkened.
"The old injuries never healed properly," she admitted. "Whoever did that to you caused permanent damage."
I closed my eyes.
Immediately, the memories returned.
My first month in prison.
Several inmates cornering me in the cafeteria.
Forcing my mouth open while laughing.
Shoving food mixed with stones and metal fragments down my throat.
I remembered choking.
Vomiting blood.
Begging them to stop but nobody came and nobody helped.
That day, I truly thought I was going to die.
The nurse left shortly afterward, leaving me alone with the report.
As I stared blankly at the pages, another memory surfaced.
Years ago, before everything fell apart, a thief had stolen my bag. During the struggle, my leg was slashed by a knife. The wound wasn't even serious, yet when Alaric saw it, he looked as though his entire world had collapsed.
"Fuck, I should've protected you better," he'd said while carrying me home. "Does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts, Olivia. I'll call every doctor in the city if I have to."
After that, he personally picked me up from work every day. Even if it meant driving fifty minutes out of his way.
Even during storms and winter... He never complained.
Not once.
Back then, I truly believed he loved me.
Now, looking at the report in my hands, I could only laugh at myself.
I was the idiot.
The biggest idiot in the world. How could I have believed a man when he promised to love me forever?
The surgery had to be performed immediately.
But I didn't have the money.
Every dollar I'd earned before prison was still under Alaric's control.
So I called him.
The moment he answered, I got straight to the point.
"I need surgery," I said. "The doctors found foreign objects inside my stomach, and they need to operate immediately."
Alaric laughed. "Olivia, are you seriously still doing this?" he asked. "I'm already dealing with enough problems right now. Can't you stop making trouble for one damn day?"
I gripped the phone tighter.
"I'm serious, Alaric. The doctor said there are stones and metal fragments inside my stomach."
"Stop," he snapped immediately. "The medical report is already sitting on my desk. You had an allergic reaction, that's all. Now you're telling me you suddenly need surgery? What's next? Are you going to tell me you're dying too?"
My chest tightened painfully.
Then another voice drifted through the phone.
Margaret.
"Alaric, my stomach hurts."
Everything about him changed instantly.
