Before Hannah could finish speaking, she pressed the sole of her high heel hard against Cynthia’s face.
Deliberately, she smeared mud over Cynthia’s head and cheeks, now and then digging the sharp heel into her skin, leaving bleeding bruises behind.
“…You’re not angry with me, are you, Cynthia?”
Wiping both heels clean, Hannah put on a look of feigned, timid innocence.
“She wouldn’t dare.” Michael kissed Hannah slowly on the lips, then glanced down at Cynthia with contempt. “The snakes’ fangs have been pulled this time. If there’s a next time… I won’t waste my energy again.”
With that, he tossed down a set of keys, scooped Hannah into his arms, and strode away without looking back.
Cynthia scrambled for the keys, hands trembling as she fumbled to unlock the glass door. Fighting back the nausea and terror churning inside her, she picked her way past the snakes—each one a coil of dread—and stumbled toward her grandmother.
She tried to lift Patricia gently, then froze. There, on the back of her grandmother’s hand, was a clear bite mark. The skin around it had already turned a sickly purple-black, the discoloration creeping up her entire arm.
Michael had lied. The snakes’ fangs were still there.
Nothing else mattered now. Cynthia hoisted her barely-breathing grandmother onto her back and burst out of the house.
But they were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by pitch-darkness. Days of heavy snow had left the ground treacherous. Every step was a struggle, her grandmother a dead weight on her back.
Her feet kept slipping. Again and again she fell to her knees, skin breaking, blood seeping through her pants and staining the ice below. Still, she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.
"Hold on, Grandma. The hospital… we’ll get there soon. You're going to be okay. You have to be okay!"
She repeated the words like a mantra, her voice shaking uncontrollably.
Then her foot caught on nothing. Her ankle twisted at a sickening angle, and she crashed down with her grandmother into the snow, a tangle of limbs. This time, she couldn’t get up.
“…Cynthia.” Patricia’s voice was barely a thread of sound. “I know… all these years… you’ve suffered for me. You don’t have to anymore… Go. Leave this place. Live well… just live…”
Her grandmother’s voice cut off abruptly. The hand reaching for Cynthia’s cheek fell, striking the snow with a soft, final thud.
Cynthia stared, uncomprehending, at the lifeless form in her arms. It was as if a white-hot blade had been driven through her heart. Raw, overwhelming agony swallowed her whole.
Her mouth opened. She wanted to scream, to cry for help—but all that came out was a violent rush of blood, spraying across the snow before she collapsed beside her grandmother, unconscious.
Cynthia woke in a hospital bed. A passerby had found them and brought them in. But for Patricia, it was too late.
Limping, Cynthia left the hospital carrying her grandmother’s ashes. She took them home; she couldn’t afford a burial plot.
On paper, she was the CEO of Michael’s Group. In reality, her annual salary was one dollar. Even basics—food, clothing, a roof—required a formal request. Anything over fifty dollars needed Michael’s personal approval.
As for the $100,000 she’d applied for two days ago? Still no word.
Now, the total in her bank account couldn’t even buy the cheapest plot of land in the city.
