Scarlett's Revenge

"Alexander Blackwood! Over here!"

Flashes exploded in the alley behind the theater. My husband clutched his Best Newcomer trophy against his chest, waving at the press barricade. I stood three steps behind him, hidden in the shadows. A secret wife. A ballet dancer from Queens who knew how to stay out of the spotlight.

"Just one more question, Alex!" a reporter shouted. "Are you celebrating with anyone special tonight?"

Alexander flashed his signature movie-star smile. "Just my team. The grind never stops."

He turned away from the cameras and walked toward our waiting SUV. I fell into step beside him.

"You lied flawlessly," I whispered.

"It protects you, Scarlett." He unlocked the car door. "The studio wants me single. You know the rules."

"I know."

"Liar! You belong to me, Alexander!"

The screech ripped through the damp alley. A woman burst from behind a dumpster. Her eyes were wide, manic, fixed entirely on my husband. She held a glass mason jar.

"Hey! Stop right there!" a security guard yelled.

The woman swung her arm back. The liquid inside the jar sloshed.

Instinct took over. Years of ballet training gave me the speed I needed. I launched myself forward, shoving Alexander hard against the side of the SUV.

"Alex, get down!"

The glass shattered against my right shoulder.

Liquid splashed across the right side of my face.

At first, it was just wet. Then the fire ignited.

"Ahhh!" I collapsed to the concrete.

My skin melted. The burning chewed through my pores, digging into the muscle. I clawed at my cheek, but my fingers only found slick, dissolving flesh.

"Scarlett!" Alexander dropped his trophy. The gold statue clattered onto the asphalt.

"My eye! It’s eating my eye!" I writhed on the ground. The right side of my vision blurred into a terrifying, cloudy gray, then vanished entirely into black.

"Someone call an ambulance!" Alexander roared. "Help her!"

The chemical stench filled the air. It smelled like burning hair and melting plastic. The pain swallowed my thoughts, dragging me into a vortex of pure, unadulterated agony.

***

The siren wailed, vibrating through the metal floor of the ambulance.

"Heart rate is spiking. We need to push morphine," a paramedic ordered.

I lay strapped to the stretcher. The right side of my head felt like it was submerged in boiling oil. Every pulse of my heart pumped fresh lava through my veins.

"Alexander," I gasped, reaching my left hand out blindly.

Warm fingers wrapped around mine.

"I'm right here, Scar." His voice cracked. "I'm right beside you."

"It hurts so much. I can't see out of my right eye."

"Don't speak. Save your strength." A tear dropped onto my knuckles. "You saved my life."

"I couldn't let her hurt you."

"Listen to me," Alexander whispered, leaning close to my left ear. "When I win Best Actor, I'll officially announce our relationship to the world. I promise you, Scarlett. No more hiding. No more secrets."

I forced my left eye open. The ambulance lights cast harsh red shadows across his face. Tears streamed down his cheeks, wetting his collar.

But his mouth told a different story.

His lips were perfectly relaxed. The corners rested in a flat, tranquil line. There was no tremor of fear. No grimace of shared pain. Just a fleeting, chilling calm.

A violent shiver racked my spine. Why did he look so peaceful?

"Sir, you need to step back. We're arriving at the hospital." The paramedic shoved him aside.

The doors banged open. Cold night air rushed in.

***

Bright surgical lights blinded my remaining good eye. Metal instruments clinked onto stainless steel trays.

"Get the saline irrigation going!" a voice commanded. "We need to neutralize the chemical burn."

"Heart rate is dropping," another voice warned.

I thrashed against the restraints. "Where is he? Alexander!"

A heavy hand pressed my left shoulder down. "Hold still, Mrs. Blackwood."

"I need my husband!" I shrieked. The movement tore the ruined skin on my face, sending a fresh wave of blinding torment through my skull.

A masked doctor leaned over me, inspecting the damage. He shook his head.

"This face is completely ruined," he murmured to the assisting surgeon. "The tissue necrosis is too deep."

"What about her vision?"

"The eye can't be saved. The cornea is entirely dissolved. Prepare for enucleation."

Panic seized my chest. Enucleation. They were going to take my eye.

"No! Please don't!" I sobbed. "Get Alexander! Tell him to come in here!"

A nurse adjusted the IV line near my wrist. She patted my arm with a pitying touch.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said.

"Bring him to me!"

"Mr. Blackwood has already left."

The words slammed into me harder than the chemical splash. Left? He left me here?

"He wouldn't leave," I choked out. "He promised."

"The anesthesia is kicking in," the doctor stated. "Count backward from ten."

"Alex..." I whispered.

The white lights faded into absolute darkness.

***

Three days.

I drifted in and out of a heavy narcotic haze for three days. Whenever I woke, the room was empty. Only the steady beep of the heart monitor kept me company.

On the afternoon of the third day, the door clicked open.

I turned my head. The thick gauze wrapped around my skull shifted, pulling at the fresh stitches.

Alexander stepped into the private suite. He wore a crisp black suit, holding a massive bouquet of white lilies.

"You're awake," he noted.

He set the flowers on the bedside table. He didn't reach for my hand. He didn't lean in to kiss my forehead.

"Where were you?" My voice sounded like crushed gravel.

"Handling the press." He straightened his cuffs. "The incident made national news. My PR team has been working around the clock to control the narrative."

"Control the narrative?" I stared at him with my one working eye. "I lost my eye, Alex. My face is gone."

"You're alive, Scarlett. That's what matters."

"Give me your phone."

He stiffened. "Why?"

"I want to see. Turn on the front camera."

"You shouldn't look yet. The doctors said you need time to heal."

"Give me the damn phone, Alexander!"

I lunged forward, snatching the device from his jacket pocket. My fingers fumbled with the screen, swiping up to open the camera app.

I raised the screen to my face.

A monster stared back at me.

Thick white bandages covered my head, but the gaps exposed the horror underneath. Angry, raw, blackened flesh bubbled along my jawline. Where my right eye used to be, there was only a sunken, hollow dip covered by a sterile patch. My lips were pulled into a permanent, distorted snarl on the right side.

The ballet dancer from Queens was dead.

A guttural, agonizing scream ripped from my throat. I hurled the phone against the wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces.

"Get out!" I shrieked, clutching my head. "Get out!"

Alexander didn't argue. He didn't try to comfort me. He simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him.

Silence rushed back in, suffocating me.

I buried my face in my hands, sobbing until my ribs ached. My career was over. My life was destroyed.

After ten minutes of crying, a strange necessity forced me out of the bed. I needed water. My throat felt like sandpaper.

I swung my legs over the mattress. My bare feet hit the cold linoleum. Grabbing the metal IV pole, I used it as a crutch. I shuffled toward the door, intending to ask a passing nurse for a pitcher of ice water.

I reached for the handle.

Through the narrow crack in the doorframe, a familiar voice drifted from the end of the hallway.

Alexander.

I paused, resting my forehead against the cool wood.

"Yes, the media swallowed the crazy fan story," Alexander said. His tone was low, clipped, and completely devoid of the sorrow he had shown in the ambulance.

I held perfectly still.

"The acid did exactly what it was supposed to do." He paused, likely listening to whoever was on the other end of the line. "No, she has no idea. She thinks it was a random attack."

My stomach plummeted. The room spun.

"I'll handle her," Alexander continued. "She won't find out. Proceed with the plan."

He hung up.

I backed away from the door, my bare feet stumbling over each other. The IV pole clattered against the wall.

Proceed with the plan?

The chilling calm on his lips in the ambulance suddenly made terrifying sense.

He hadn't been afraid for me. He had been waiting for this to happen.

And I had just taken the hit for him.

What plan? And who was he talking to?