The fluorescent lights of the private clinic hummed with a sound that burrowed deep into my skull.
I had driven myself here at three in the morning, my hands trembling on the wheel as my temperature hit 104 degrees. My vision had blurred on the highway, the road slick with rain, but I made it. I always made it. That was my curse.
I was too competent to die, and too insignificant to be saved.
Now, I lay in a VIP recovery room, a solitary IV drip counting down the seconds of my life in clear, saline drops. No one sat in the chair beside my bed. No flowers on the table. Just the sterile smell of antiseptic and the throbbing ache in my joints.
I needed water. The nurse button was out of reach, and my body felt like lead. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, dragging the IV pole with me as I shuffled toward the door.
The hallway was quiet, lined with luxury suites for the wounded foot soldiers of the underworld. Then, I heard a familiar voice drifting from a room two doors down.
"Open up, little bird. Just one more spoon."
I froze. It was Luca. His voice was tender, a soft baritone I hadn't heard directed at me in years.
I shouldn't have looked. I should have kept walking to the water cooler. But I was a masochist for the truth. Trembling, I peered through the crack in the door.
Sofia was sitting up in bed, looking radiant despite the hospital gown. She had a tiny bandage on her finger—a paper cut, perhaps. Luca sat on the edge of the bed, holding a bowl of soup, blowing on a spoonful before bringing it to her lips.
He looked at her as if she were made of spun glass—precious, fragile, and the only thing that mattered.
"I can't, Luca," she whimpered, turning her head away. "It hurts."
"It's just anxiety, sweetheart," he soothed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I spent the whole night guarding your door."
My grip on the IV pole tightened until my knuckles turned white. He had left me burning with fever to watch over a girl who was healthy enough to manipulate him.
"What about Elena?" Sofia asked, her eyes darting toward the door as if she sensed my presence. "Isn't she sick?"
Luca sighed, setting the spoon down. "Elena is fine. She's tough. She has no right to mind that I prioritize you right now. You are the one who needs protection."
The sound of my heart breaking was silent, but it felt like a gunshot in the quiet corridor.
I turned to leave, my legs shaking, and collided with a wall.
Dante Russo. My adoptive brother. The family Enforcer.
He looked down at me with a sneer, taking in my pale face and the IV pole.
"Spying, Elena?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "God, you are pathetic."
"I'm sick, Dante," I whispered, leaning against the wall for support. "I just wanted water."
"Don't lie to me," he hissed, stepping into my personal space. "You're jealous. You can't stand that Sofia is the real princess and you're just the stray we picked up to balance the books."
"He is my fiancé," I said, though the word tasted like ash in my mouth.
"For now," Dante said, crossing his arms. "You have no shame, do you? You stole Sofia's life for eleven years. You lived in her room. You wore her clothes. You spent the inheritance that should have been hers. And now you begrudge her a little comfort?"
"I earned my place," I countered, my voice gaining a fraction of strength. "I laundered your money. I kept you out of prison."
"You did what you were told!" he barked, causing a nurse down the hall to look up. "You were a placeholder, Elena. We kept you because it looked bad to the Commission to throw an orphan back on the street. But Sofia is back now."
He leaned in close, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and expensive cologne.
"Do the family a favor: break the engagement. Let Sofia have her rightful place. She loves him, and he clearly prefers her. Stop clinging to a man who only keeps you around because you're good at math."
My vision swam. The cruelty wasn't just in his words; it was in the casual way he delivered them, as if my destruction was just another chore on his to-do list.
I didn't answer him. I couldn't. I turned and shuffled back to my room, the wheels of the IV pole squeaking against the linoleum.
I climbed back into the cold bed and stared at the ceiling.
Dante was right about one thing. I was a placeholder. But he was wrong about the rest. I wasn't clinging anymore.
I was letting go.
