Mom, Dad—I don't need you either.
Consider this my gift. Now you and Lucinda can have your perfect family reunion.
When I came to, the sharp sting of antiseptic flooded my nostrils.
For one breathless moment, I thought I'd made it back.
But before the hope could even take shape, a familiar voice shattered it.
I hadn't died after all.
"Tilly, you're finally awake. Do you have any idea—if you'd jumped even a little more to the side, you would've missed the safety cushion entirely. And if you hadn't woken up soon, I was about to call an emergency shareholders' meeting just so I could follow you."
Nathan's eyes were rimmed red, his voice trembling and choked with emotion. He gripped my hand so tightly it hurt, like he was clutching something precious he'd nearly lost forever.
But the moment he leaned down to press a kiss to my forehead—
I saw the marks on his neck. Fresh, unmistakable hickeys that hadn't been there before. And clinging to his clothes was the scent of magnolia—Lucinda's signature perfume.
Details I'd never noticed before.
My stomach lurched. I dry-heaved right there in the bed.
Nathan's face went white. He called in every doctor in the hospital.
He stood to the side, eyes locked on the medical team, looking for all the world like a man who'd rip the pain out of my body and bear it himself if he could.
The doctor checked my thready pulse, his expression grave.
"Mrs. Sanchez's body is severely depleted. There's significant emotional distress compounding her condition. She needs careful, sustained care—and absolutely no further agitation."
He paused, then continued more quietly. "The day of her incident, I was called to the Sanchez residence. I don't know what happened, but by the time I arrived, she was in full respiratory alkalosis—convulsing, barely breathing. Ten more minutes and she would have been gone." He glanced at Nathan. "Mr. Sanchez, I'd strongly recommend paying attention to your wife's mental health."
The memory hit me without warning—Biscuit's glassy eyes staring up at me, wide open, unseeing. Blood seeping along the grout lines between the tiles, creeping up the soles of my shoes.
My hollow gaze trembled.
Biscuit had been my longest companion in this world. My most faithful friend since I'd arrived.
And Lucinda had poisoned him with a cup of drugged milk, then butchered him into hot pot.
Nathan must have felt me shaking. Something raw flickered behind his eyes, and he pulled me into his arms.
His voice dropped low, dangerous, as he turned to his assistant. "Find out exactly what happened that day. Whoever's responsible—I want them begging Tilly for forgiveness on their knees. With their life."
The words had barely left his mouth when the door slammed open.
Lucinda swept in wearing a white couture dress, her makeup immaculate, two perfect tears glistening on her cheeks. She looked like a delicate flower—pure, fragile, innocent.
But the instant her gaze landed on me, something venomous flashed through her eyes. Gone in a blink.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. In her pale, slender hands, she held a leather riding crop.
"Nathan, this is all my fault. If I'd known my sister would react this way, I would have let Biscuit bite me to death before I ever hurt him. It's all because of me." She lifted the crop toward me, her voice breaking. "Please, hit me. I deserve it."
Nathan froze. But beneath the shock, that telltale softness crept into his eyes.
My parents filed in behind her. When they saw Lucinda kneeling there, their fingers twisted into the hems of their clothes, knuckles white—barely holding together the performance of parents who loved me.
Nathan reached out to pull her up. "What is this about?"
But Lucinda refused to move. She stayed rooted to the floor, stubborn and trembling, tilting her tear-streaked face up at him.
"Nathan, if my sister can't bring herself to do it, then you do it for her. If she doesn't get this anger out, her depression will only get worse. It's just a few lashes." Her voice quavered with rehearsed courage. "Hit me as hard as you can. Even if it tears the skin off my back—as long as it makes her feel better, I'll take it willingly."
She pressed the riding crop into Nathan's hand, closing his fingers around it.
That look on her face—wounded, selfless, enduring—made it seem like I was the one bullying her from my sickbed.
Even the doctor standing nearby softened toward her. The look he turned on me was one of barely concealed disgust.
She could do this every single time. A few carefully chosen words, and suddenly I was the villain.
Before, I would have scrambled to defend myself. Argued. Explained.
But not anymore.
While Nathan hesitated, I grabbed the riding crop. But before I could hurl it away, his hand clamped around my wrist.
