Amanda POV:
The acrid scent of antiseptic pierced the fog of unconsciousness. My eyelids fluttered open, battling the overwhelming urge to remain in the dark. My body was a landscape of throbbing pain, each movement a fresh agony. I lay perfectly still, my gaze fixed on the sterile white ceiling.
"Family?" a nurse's voice cut through the haze, emotionless and professional. "Are you Amanda Park's family?"
I tried to speak, to confirm, but my throat was raw, my tongue thick. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I just stared at the ceiling, my mind a blank canvas of numbness. There was no family. Not anymore. I was alone. Utterly, completely alone.
The door creaked open. Brody.
He stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed as always, a stark contrast to my broken body. "I've settled the medical bill," he said, his voice flat, formal. He wasn't speaking to me, but to the nurse. "She's medically stable now."
His words, meant to sound responsible, were a calculated dismissal. He was paying to erase me, not to save me. I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea washing over me. I couldn't bear to look at him.
He cleared his throat, a small, almost imperceptible sound. When I didn't respond, he said nothing more. The silence was deafening, filled with the unspoken weight of his indifference.
Then, a small head peeked around the doorframe. Eben. His eyes, so familiar, met mine. A flicker of something-surprise? guilt?-crossed his face, quickly replaced by a carefully constructed mask of detachment.
"Daddy," Eben piped up, his voice clear and innocent. "Mommy Carla said to remind you about the charity gala tonight. She's almost ready." Mommy Carla. The words landed like tiny daggers, each one twisting deeper.
My chest tightened, a familiar, agonizing squeeze. My son. My little boy. He called her Mom.
Brody turned, his back to me. "Alright, son. Let's go."
Eben followed without another glance, his small footsteps echoing down the hall. The door clicked shut, sealing me once more in the suffocating silence of my new reality. I stared at the closed door, a single tear tracing a path through the grime and blood on my cheek.
The door opened again. Carla.
She glided in, a vision in a shimmering evening gown, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless. She looked like she' d stepped off a magazine cover. She looked like everything I wasn' t.
"Still alive, I see," she purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She walked closer, her expensive perfume clashing with the sterile hospital smell. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, Amanda? You always were so persistent." She leaned closer, her eyes glittering with malice. "But I know you, Amanda. Every little secret. Every little weakness."
I watched her, my eyes narrowed, a cold knot forming in my stomach. What did she know?
She pulled a phone from her clutch and tapped the screen. A recording began to play.
Eben's voice, young and uncertain, filled the room. "I don't like her, Daddy. She's scary. Carla is my real mom. She tells me stories and bakes cookies. I don't want the crazy lady back. She just makes you sad."
My breath caught. It was Eben. My son. The words were a fresh wound, deep and festering.
Brody's voice, low and weary, followed. "She won't come back, son. She's gone. Carla is good for us. She understands. She doesn't have all... her issues."
Then, Carla's saccharine voice, laced with triumph. "Don't worry, Brody. I'll make sure she never bothers us again. Some people just don't know when they're not wanted anymore. She' s disposable."
The recording clicked off. The hospital room was suddenly too small, too suffocating. My face was pale, my lips trembling. Disposable. That' s what I was to them.
Carla smiled, a wide, predatory grin. "See, Amanda? Even your own son knows you're nothing but a nuisance. A ghost from a past no one wants to remember. You're yesterday's news. And soon, you'll be nothing at all."
