The fever came quickly after the pool. My body trembled, drenched clothes sticking to my skin, the cold seeping deep into my bones. I coughed violently, every breath feeling like glass tearing through my throat. My skin burned with heat and yet I shivered.
And then came the performance.
Hannah. Sitting by my bed with a basin and towel, pretending to wipe my forehead with tender care. Her voice was soft, sweet, dripping with the act of compassion. “Shh… don’t cry, Ysabel. Rest. You’ll be fine.”
Joseph had told her not to. I remembered clearly the way his voice snapped, “Don’t waste your time on her, Hannah.” But she insisted, and so she played the saint—while I lay weak and broken.
I closed my eyes, forcing my tears back, pretending to believe her touch was genuine. But the moment Joseph left the room, her hand stilled. Her tone changed.
“You’re not his wife,” she whispered, low and sharp, her lips close to my ear. “You’re nothing but a bed warmer. That’s all you’ve ever been. Now that I’m here, it’s over. Leave. Got it?”
I trembled, my throat dry, but I couldn’t speak.
She lifted the glass of water and forced it against my lips. “Drink.”
I shook my head weakly, but she pressed harder until the liquid spilled into my mouth. My stomach churned, the water mixed with bile.
Moments later I bent forward, vomiting, tears streaking my cheeks. Hannah stepped back in disgust, smirk tugging at her lips.
“Pathetic,” she muttered, dropping the glass with a clink onto the table. “You’re sick, weak, and useless. Why would Joseph ever want you when he has me?”
She left me there, shaking, my fever making the room blur and tilt.
Later, I heard his voice outside the door—Joseph’s voice, cheerful, light, so different than when he spoke to me. “Come on, Hannah. Let’s go on a date.”
And they left together.
I fell asleep with the sound of their laughter echoing in my ears, my body heavy with fever, my heart heavier still.
By the time I opened my eyes again, my fever had broken. My body ached, but at least I could move without collapsing. I pushed myself up, my head throbbing, the silence pressing down.
No one was there. Not Joseph. Not Hannah. Not even the maids.
When I rang for someone, finally a maid appeared—but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Her lips were sealed, her posture stiff. I asked where Joseph was, and she only bowed her head and left.
Confusion clawed at me until I turned on the television. The headline hit me like a thunderbolt.
“Second Chances: Joseph Jones to Wed Hannah Mill at Sunset Today.”
The screen flashed with images of them—Joseph in his suit, Hannah in her gown, glowing, smiling as though betrayal didn’t stain their hands. The anchor’s voice was giddy: “A wedding of love reborn… a story of destiny…”
My body went numb.
So that was it.
Good. If they wanted their sunset wedding, they could have it. But I wasn’t leaving empty-handed.
I dragged my aching body to his office. I scanned the shelves, the desk, the drawers. And then my eyes landed on the safe tucked neatly in the corner.
My hands shook as I pressed the keypad, trying combinations. Nothing worked. Until my eyes flicked to a photo frame on his desk—Hannah, smiling sweetly, holding his arm.
Her birthday. I typed it in. Click. The lock opened.
Inside was a stack of documents, wads of cash, and a single flash drive. My gut told me this was it. I plugged it into his laptop. Files loaded. My breath hitched as I read.
Traffic reports. Witness statements. A police file marked confidential. It wasn’t just guilt. It wasn’t just an accident. It was the truth. Joseph had killed Jackson. And covered it.
My tears blurred the screen as I grabbed the flash drive, clutching it like it was life itself.
I called the police from the office line, my voice breaking. “I have evidence,” I whispered. “Evidence that Jackson Urie’s death wasn’t an accident. I’m filing a case now.”
I packed quickly after that. Every move filled with fury and sorrow. My clothes, my documents, the little savings I had. I stuffed them into a suitcase.
And then, just as I stepped outside, I saw him. My brother. Waiting by the car, his arms crossed, his eyes sharp but softened when they landed on me.
“You’re ready now?” he asked.
I nodded, tears trembling at the edge of my lashes. “Yes.” My voice cracked, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was resolve.
He opened the door for me. “Then let’s go.”
We drove in silence, the city flashing past, the sunset painting the horizon. By the time we reached the airstrip, a private plane was waiting. My brother helped me aboard, his hand steady against my trembling fingers.
The engines roared to life, the world shrinking below as we lifted off.
I pulled out my phone one last time. Staring at the screen—Joseph’s number still pinned at the top. With a deep breath, I pulled the SIM card out. Tossed it into the wind as the door shut.
I was gone.
And this time, I wouldn’t come back.
Joseph’s POV
My hands trembled as I adjusted the cufflinks, the ones Hannah had picked. Today should have been the day my life came full circle. Today, I was supposed to bury the shadows of the past.
The door creaked open. I turned, expecting a staff member. Instead, two men in uniform entered, their expressions sharp.
“Mr. Jones,” one of them said, voice firm. “You are under arrest for the death of Jackson Urie.”
My breath caught. “What?” I laughed, though my throat tightened. “That’s absurd. It was an accident. Everyone knows it.”
The officer stepped closer, holding up a folder. “We have new evidence. A flash drive. It was sent directly to us—by Ms. Ysabel.”
Her name struck me harder than the accusation. My pulse roared in my ears. “Ysabel?” I snapped. “Where is she? Bring her to me now!”
“She is not here,” the officer replied flatly.
I ripped my phone from the table, dialing her number again and again. Each ring clawed at me, unanswered, until finally the line went dead.
The butler entered quietly, his eyes darting with unease. “Sir… she isn’t answering her calls.”
Behind me, Hannah’s voice wavered, panicked. “Joseph, what’s happening? Why are they saying this? Why would she—?”
“Shut up, Hannah!” I barked, though my own chest was caving in. My mind spiraled. Ysabel. Evidence. Betrayal. None of it made sense. She wouldn’t dare. She couldn’t.
I called again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. My heart slammed harder with each silence.
Then, the butler’s phone buzzed. He answered, and his face drained of all color. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to me.
“Sir…” his voice cracked. “We just received a traffic incident report.”
He swallowed hard. “… Miss Ysabel was hit by a 12-wheeler truck and is now dead.”
