Chelsea curled into a fetal position, her knees drawing up to her chest. Her fingernails dug into the filthy sheets, scratching until she felt them snap. A guttural sound escaped her throat-half groan, half sob.
Brittany stood by the bed, frantically wiping at the brown stains on her coat with a silk handkerchief. Her face was a mask of fury, but as she watched Chelsea writhe, the anger slowly morphed into satisfaction.
"Leave us," she commanded the guards. "Wait outside."
The heavy door clicked shut, leaving them alone in the suffocating room.
Chelsea's vision was starting to swim. The edges of the room were dissolving into static. But her hearing... her hearing became terrifyingly sharp. She could hear the rain hitting the roof, the hum of the mini-fridge, the ragged sound of her own dying breath.
Brittany stepped closer. She didn't mind the smell anymore. She wanted a front-row seat. She crouched down, her face inches from Chelsea's. Her perfume-something floral and expensive-clashed violently with the metallic taste of blood in Chelsea's mouth.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" she whispered. "It's a special blend. Quick, but not painless."
Chelsea tried to speak, but her tongue felt swollen, heavy like lead.
"You want to know the truth, Chelsea? Before you go?" She pulled out her phone. The screen lit up the gloom.
She swiped a finger across the glass. A photo. Bennet and Brittany, on a yacht. They were tanned, laughing, holding champagne flutes. Bennet's hand was resting possessively on her thigh.
"Look at the date," she urged.
Chelsea's eyes struggled to focus. The timestamp. July 4th, 2029.
The year Chelsea married Bennet. This was taken three months before their wedding.
"He never loved you," Brittany said, her voice smooth like poisoned honey. "He loved your money. He loved your connections. And I loved him. We planned it all, Chelsea. Every step. The addiction? Who do you think introduced you to that 'doctor' who prescribed the first round of painkillers? Who do you think swapped your anxiety meds for something a little more... destabilizing?"
Chelsea's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The betrayal hurt worse than the poison. Her entire life-her marriage, her downfall, her misery-it had all been orchestrated. She wasn't just a failure. She was a puppet.
"You... you..." Chelsea choked out.
Brittany laughed. It was a high, tinkling sound that bounced off the peeling wallpaper. "We spent your fortune together. We bought houses, cars, islands. And you? You were just the bank account."
The poison was reaching Chelsea's extremities now. Her fingers and toes were going cold. The fire in her stomach was turning into a numbing ice that crept up her spine.
"And now," Brittany sighed, standing up and smoothing her skirt, "you're just a loose end."
Rage.
It flooded Chelsea's system, overriding the pain, overriding the fear. It was a pure, white-hot energy. She was going to die. She knew that. But she wasn't going to let Brittany have the last laugh.
Chelsea bit down hard on the tip of her tongue. The sharp pain cleared the fog in her brain for one singular second.
Brittany leaned in again, her arrogance making her careless. She wanted to see the light go out of Chelsea's eyes. She wanted to savor the moment.
"Goodbye, loser," she whispered.
Chelsea summoned every ounce of adrenaline left in her dying cells. Her right arm, which had been lying limp, shot up.
It wasn't a graceful strike. It was a desperate, animalistic swipe. But it connected.
Crack.
Chelsea's palm collided with the side of Brittany's face. The sound was sickeningly loud in the small room. Brittany's head snapped to the side. She stumbled back, losing her balance in her high heels.
She gasped, her hand flying to her cheek. A red welt was already forming on her perfect, porcelain skin. Her hair was disheveled. She looked shocked.
Chelsea didn't stop. She couldn't speak, so she did the only thing she could. She gathered the blood and bile pooling in her mouth and spat.
The red spray hit Brittany squarely in the face, spattering across her eyes and nose.
"You animal!" she shrieked.
She lunged forward and kicked Chelsea. The toe of her heel drove into Chelsea's stomach. The pain was blinding. Chelsea rolled off the bed, hitting the hard floor with a thud.
Dust bunnies danced in front of her eyes. The floor was cold. So cold.
Above her, Brittany was scrubbing her face, cursing, sounding like a banshee. But Chelsea was smiling. Through the blood, through the agony, her lips curled up.
She had marked her. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was something.
