Liv POV
One step. Then another.
I was walking. It was supposed to be part of the physical therapy, but it felt more like a cruel joke designed to put weight on skin that felt like it was being peeled off layer by layer.
I turned the corner near the vending machines and saw her.
Izzy.
She was wearing a white coat, looking pristine, immaculate, untouched. She saw me and froze. For a second, I saw guilt in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a defensive hardness.
I turned to leave. I couldn't look at her. Looking at her was like looking at the reason for my own extinction.
"Liv, wait," she called out.
She ran after me. Her heels clicked sharply on the linoleum, an aggressive staccato against the hospital's hum.
"We need to talk," she said, reaching for my arm.
"Don't touch me," I said, my voice low.
"You're being childish," she snapped, grabbing my wrist. "Marcus is tearing himself apart. You need to understand the history—"
"I understand enough," I said, yanking my arm back.
She didn't let go. She pulled harder, her fingers digging into flesh that was still screaming from the burns.
We were at the top of the emergency stairwell. The door was propped open by a janitor's bucket.
"Let go!" I shouted.
I wrenched my body away. The momentum threw me off balance. My slipper caught on the linoleum.
I fell backward.
The world lurched. I saw the ceiling, then the wall, then the dizzying blur of stairs.
Izzy lunged. Not to push me, but to grab me. It was instinct.
She caught my sleeve, but my weight was too much; it dragged her down with me.
I tumbled down the first flight, my body slamming against the metal railing. Pain exploded in my ribs, my shoulder, my burned legs. I landed in a heap on the landing, gasping for air, vision swimming.
Above me, there was a sickening crack.
Izzy had fallen too. She hadn't tumbled as far, but her head had struck the concrete wall with a force that sounded like a gunshot.
She lay still on the upper landing. Blood began to pool around her blonde hair, bright red against the white floor.
"Izzy!"
The door above slammed open. Marcus.
He took the stairs three at a time. He didn't look at me. His eyes slid right over the wife crumpled at the bottom of the landing, clutching her broken ribs.
He fell to his knees beside Izzy.
"No, no, no," he moaned, a sound of pure devastation. He gathered her into his arms, ignoring the blood soaking his shirt. "Isabella, look at me!"
"Marcus..." I whispered. "I think... my arm..."
He snapped his head toward me. His eyes were black pits of rage.
"You did this," he snarled. "If she doesn't wake up, Liv... I swear to God, I will destroy you."
He turned back to Izzy, lifting her effortlessly. "Help! I need a doctor!" he screamed, running back up the stairs, carrying his world in his arms.
He left me there.
I lay on the cold concrete, listening to his footsteps fade into silence.
Minutes later, a nurse found me. I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
"We need a gurney here!" she yelled. "Mrs. D'Angelo is down!"
I woke up hours later. My arm was in a cast. My ribs were taped.
My phone rang on the bedside table. It was Marcus.
I answered. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to hear the nail in the coffin.
"How is she?" I asked. My voice was dead.
"Concussion. Seven stitches," he said. He sounded exhausted, but the panic was gone. "She's going to be fine."
"That's good," I said.
"How could you be so careless, Liv?" he asked, his tone shifting to annoyance. "She was trying to talk to you. You put her in danger."
He didn't ask about my arm. He didn't ask about the burns that had reopened.
"I broke my arm, Marcus," I said softly. "And three ribs."
Silence.
"I'll send the best orthopedic surgeon," he said finally, his voice devoid of warmth. "Just... stay put. I can't leave her right now. She's scared."
"I know," I said. "You can't leave her."
I hung up.
I looked at the window. It was dark outside. My contract with this marriage was over. I had fulfilled the terms. I had been the distraction. Now, I was just the casualty.
