Sean's stance said it all. He didn't just tolerate Wanda's cruelty; he silently endorsed it.
My body had reached its limit. The alcohol churned violently in my stomach, burning like molten lava. My head throbbed and my vision swam, the room tilting as if it were on a sinking ship.
I tried to steady myself, but the strength drained from my legs. My fingers trembled as I reached out, grasping at air, but there was nothing to hold onto. The last thing I saw was Wanda's triumphant smirk as darkness swallowed me whole.
***
When I regained consciousness, the sterile, biting scent of disinfectant hit me first, stinging my nose and throat. My eyelids fluttered open and I found myself staring at the blank ceiling of a hospital room. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting a cold, unwelcoming glow.
My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. A dull ache spread from my stomach, radiating outward with every shallow breath. The starched bedsheets beneath me were coarse against my skin, a cruel reminder that I was still alive.
Beyond the thin screen divider, familiar voices filtered through.
"How is she?"
It was Sean's voice. That unmistakable coldness still lingered in his tone, but there was something faint beneath it—something almost like concern, though not quite.
The doctor's voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency. "Miss Natalie's stomach can't handle alcohol. She's extremely lucky to have been brought in on time. If this happens again, it could be life-threatening."
A heavy pause followed.
"How could she not be able to drink?" Sean's disbelief was palpable. "She used to handle alcohol really well."
"Her current condition suggests severe damage to her gastric mucosa," the doctor explained. "It's likely the result of long-term irregular eating habits and stress. In short, she must avoid anything too irritating from now on."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then Sean's voice returned, colder and sharper. "It must be because the prison food didn't suit her. She's always been picky and spoiled. She ruined her own stomach."
The words struck me harder than I expected, a dull ache blooming in my chest. My lips curled into a bitter smile. What did he know?
In prison, I had fought for scraps—dry bread that crumbled like dust, spoiled meat that reeked of decay. I had starved until my ribs jutted out and shivered through winters with no coat to keep me warm.
Sean never knew. He never cared. Or worse—he had known and allowed it to happen.
***
The doctor left shortly after and Sean stepped into the room. His polished shoes clicked softly against the tile floor, the sound measured and deliberate.
"Three years apart and you still managed to cause such a spectacle at a banquet," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He stopped at the foot of the bed, towering over me, his presence oppressive. "You turned what was supposed to be a simple welcome-back party into a disaster."
I lowered my gaze to the crisp white bedsheet, my fingers twisting its edge. "I'm sorry for ruining everyone's fun," I murmured weakly.
"If you can't handle alcohol, you should've said so earlier," he snapped. His words felt like ice shards. "If you drank yourself to death, wouldn't that be an even bigger joke?"
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to remain silent. A former Johnson Family heiress who had given up everything for him—wasn't that already the biggest joke of all?
"Alright," I said softly, my voice barely audible.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us.
After a long pause, Sean's tone shifted, taking on an unfamiliar gentleness. "Since you came back, you've become much quieter. You used to talk non-stop at gatherings. When you were with me, you were even more of a chatterbox."
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression had softened ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of warmth flickering in his eyes.
"Talking less means being less of a nuisance," I replied flatly, keeping my gaze fixed on the bedsheet.
Sean ignored the bitterness in my tone. His lips quirked upward, almost wistfully. "I remember once when I went away for a competition. Two months later, when I returned, I saw you standing outside my dorm with a huge bouquet of flowers. You stood out so much..."
His voice trailed off, his mind seemingly lost in the memory. For a brief moment, he looked almost human—like the boy I used to love, the one who had once made my heart race.
"I was young and foolish back then," I said, cutting him off. My voice cracked as I forced the words out. "I caused a lot of trouble for you. It won't happen again."
My hands clenched the sheet tightly, my nails digging into the fabric as I fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill.
The faint smile on Sean's face vanished instantly, replaced by his usual cold mask.
"After being apart for three years, do you really have nothing to say to me?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.
I froze, his question hitting me like a sudden gust of wind, leaving me breathless.
What could I say? Should I tell him how Wanda's people had tormented me in prison, with his silent approval? Or how I had clawed my way through every moment of despair, only to find myself here again—trapped in his orbit?
Should I tell him that I was tired? Tired of everything. Tired of him.
Or should I tell him the truth? That soon, I would be marrying someone else.
There was no point in telling Sean about my life in prison. His reaction would be the same as always—a dismissive wave of his hand and a scoffed, "Stop making up stories to fool me."
I had learned my lesson the hard way. Hope was a dangerous thing. The more I clung to it, the deeper the wound when it was torn away. So, I swallowed my words and simply shook my head.
Sean's sharp gaze lingered on me, his eyes scanning my face and arms as if searching for something. His brows furrowed, the tension in his expression bordering on irritation.
"What's with all these injuries on you?" he asked at last. His voice wasn't filled with concern, though—it was accusatory, sharp like a blade.
Expressionless, I replied, "I was beaten in prison. Got hurt." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Sean's jaw tightened and he immediately shot back, "What nonsense are you talking about? How could anyone beat you in prison?"
I couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. It was hollow, scraping against the silence like sandpaper. Curling my lips into a mocking smirk, I fired back, "Then maybe you should ask your dear Wanda."
His face darkened, his expression hardening into a cold mask. "You're still trying to accuse Wanda? Stop messing around, will you?" His words sliced through the air, leaving no room for argument.
Before I could respond, he cut me off entirely. "I've already chosen the hotel for our wedding," he announced, his tone brisk as if ticking off an item on his to-do list. "Focus on recovering for now. I will marry you as promised."
The absurdity of his words made me want to laugh again. Instead, I closed my eyes, turning my head toward the window. Outside, the sky was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain. It felt fitting—a reflection of the storm inside me.
Once upon a time, Sean would have trusted every word I said without question. But now, the moment anything involved Wanda, I was nothing but a liar in his eyes.
There was no point in explaining anymore.
The air between us turned ice cold. Sean stood there for a moment longer, tension radiating off him. When I didn't respond, he let out a sharp, exasperated snort before spinning on his heel and storming out. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing in the room like a final judgment.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling as my chest tightened. I willed the tears not to come.
With trembling hands, I unlocked my phone and saw the notification: my passport was ready. Without hesitation, I booked a plane ticket.
'It's fine, Sean,' I thought silently. 'Soon, we'll never see each other again.'
