The guest room was beautiful. Cordella had decorated it in soft creams and blues, with fresh peonies on the nightstand and a view of the garden. It smelled like home.
Angelena took a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the travel grime. She stood under the water, letting it wash over her, trying to hold onto the joy of the evening.
But as the water turned cold, the joy began to fade, replaced by a creeping chill that had nothing to do with temperature. The happier she was, the louder the ghosts became.
She dried off and put on a silk robe. She stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the dark garden. The reflection staring back at her was solid, real.
But the reflection in her mind was different. It was thinner, paler, hooked up to machines that beeped in a slow, agonizing rhythm.
She squeezed her eyes shut. The memories hit her like a physical blow, dragging her under.
The hospital room. The smell of antiseptic and decay. Gorden sitting by the bed, his handsome face twisted in a mask of guilt and desperation. He held her hand, but his grip was clammy, selfish.
"Angie, I know I messed up. Bettye was a mistake. But she's sick now. Aplastic anemia. She needs bone marrow. You're the only match."
She had agreed. Of course she had agreed. She loved him. She wanted to prove she was the better person. She had let them wheel her into the operating room, terrified but brave.
And then, the betrayal. The slow, agonizing realization that it was all a lie. The infection that set in after the harvest. The fever that wouldn't break. The way Gorden's visits became shorter, then sporadic, then non-existent.
She remembered lying in the bed, her bones aching, scrolling through her phone. Seeing the photos on Instagram. Gorden and Bettye, healthy and tanned, sipping cocktails on a yacht in the Mediterranean. The caption: "Grateful for second chances. My true love."
She had thrown the phone across the room. She had screamed until her throat bled. But no one came. The nurses thought she was delirious. Gorden thought she was being dramatic.
She was just a bag of marrow, discarded once it was empty.
Angelena gasped, her eyes flying open. She was on the floor, her knees pressed to her chest, her nails digging into her scalp. Sweat soaked her robe.
She scrambled to her feet, stumbling to the mirror. She pressed her hands against the cool glass, staring at her reflection. Young. Healthy. Alive.
"I'm alive," she whispered to the woman in the mirror. "I'm alive."
The names Gorden Barron and Bettye Francis tasted like ash in her mouth. They were nothing. They were insects she had once mistaken for gods.
She wasn't back for revenge. Revenge was too good for them. It required energy, passion, a focus they didn't deserve.
She was back to live. To love the man who had earned it. To never let herself be used again.
She walked to the bed and picked up her phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Dalton's name. She stared at it for a long time, a small smile returning to her face.
She placed the phone on the nightstand and lay down, forcing her breathing to slow. She had a date tomorrow. She needed to sleep.
She needed to be perfect for him.
