With a deafening bang, the door slammed shut. Dorothy stared at the bottles of medicine beside her and the tears she had been holding back finally fell, each drop carrying the weight of her grief.
Her hands trembled violently and an overwhelming urge to grab a knife and cut her wrist surged through her.
In her darkest moments, Dorothy had often turned to self-harm, finding a strange peace in the blood, a way to silence the chaos inside her. But now, the room felt suffocatingly empty, with nothing to grasp onto.
She gritted her teeth, trying to still her trembling hands, but it was hopeless. Finally, she curled up into herself, her sobs silent yet full of despair, like someone who had lost their voice.
For days, Dorothy remained locked in this void of emptiness. The servants brought her food, but Portia would always replace it with leftover scraps.
Portia’s grudge over the slap remained fresh and every chance she got, when Kyrie wasn’t around, she would find ways to humiliate Dorothy, even showing her videos of herself with Kyrie in bed.
Dorothy was on the edge of a complete breakdown. Her body shook relentlessly and the thoughts of self-harm and suicide grew, suffocating her like wild vines. At her lowest point, she even considered ending it all in front of Portia or dragging them both down together.
But when her mind turned to Ivan, still lying in the hospital, she gritted her teeth and fought the urge.
If she died, Kyrie would never care about Ivan’s life.
She couldn’t die.
Portia watched Dorothy, her hands trembling as she tried to hold back the pain, a mocking smile curling on her lips. "Worried about Ivan?"
Dorothy froze, feeling the blood drip from her clenched palm, where she had dug her nails in too deep.
Portia’s voice was cold as ice. "I’ll tell you the truth. Your brother’s condition has worsened. While you’ve been away, his heart disease relapsed multiple times. The doctors have said he’s critical. He’s about to die."
Dorothy’s eyes widened in horror. She hissed, barely able to breathe. "Did you do something to provoke him?"
Portia just smiled, saying nothing.
"Why are you doing this?"
Driven by anger and desperation, Dorothy stumbled out of bed, reaching for Portia’s sleeve. But just as her fingers brushed the fabric, Kyrie stepped through the door.
Dorothy turned instantly, gripping his pant leg with desperate hands. "Kyrie, how’s my brother? Please, let me see him!"
Kyrie looked down at her, his gaze hardening, unable to stomach her pitiful state. He clicked his tongue and tossed his phone at her. "Go ahead."
Without hesitation, Dorothy gritted her teeth, sprang to her feet and bolted out of the villa. Snow fell heavily outside and she stood in the cold for what felt like an eternity before finally hailing a cab. But when she reached the hospital, her heart shattered.
Ivan was gone.
She hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye.
This couldn’t be true… It was impossible.
Tears blurred Dorothy’s vision as she gripped the doctor’s sleeve. "You must have made a mistake! His heart disease was serious, but not to the point of death! When did this happen? How could this happen? Why didn’t anyone contact me?"
The doctor shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Howell, please calm down. Mr. Howell’s condition relapsed last night. We tried to reach you, but we couldn’t."
Dorothy staggered back, barely keeping her balance.
Last night, she had woken suddenly, pain cutting through her chest, a cold sense of dread filling her. For reasons she couldn’t explain, her thoughts had turned to Ivan. Yet no matter how desperately she begged, Kyrie had refused to let her go.
Now, they had released her. It was clear they had known Ivan was gone.
"Why did his heart disease relapse so suddenly? It had been stable! Did someone provoke him? Did Portia visit him?"
