Kiana Craig POV:
Kecia, sensing Jonathan's momentary doubt, immediately tightened her grip on his arm. She looked at me, her eyes brimming with fresh tears, then she turned her gaze to Jonathan, her voice soft and fragile. "Oh, Jonathan, please don't let Kiana upset you. My arm... it was nothing. Just a little scratch from when I tried to stop her from throwing things at you last night. I was just so worried about you."
She painted a picture of herself as a brave, loyal protector, and me as a deranged aggressor. My father, ever the opportunist, nodded solemnly. "Kiana, you really need to control your temper. Kecia was very brave."
The sheer audacity of it left me speechless for a moment. They spun narratives like spiderwebs, trapping everyone in their lies. Jonathan, the mighty tech mogul, was blind, or perhaps willingly so.
"Kecia, you're a pathological liar," I stated, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "There were no thrown objects. You were never 'protecting' him. You were gloating."
Kecia burst into a fresh torrent of tears, burying her face into Jonathan's chest. "She's so mean, Jonathan! She always tries to make me look bad!"
Jonathan' s face darkened. He stroked Kecia's hair, his hand a comforting presence on her trembling back. His gaze, when it landed on me, was a chilling arctic blue. "That's enough, Kiana. You are out of line. Kecia risked herself for me. And you are here, in a hospital bed, blaming her."
The words felt like a physical blow, punching the air out of my lungs. He truly believed her. He truly thought I was the villain, the hysterical, jealous woman. The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave. All this time, I had loved a phantom, a man who never existed, a man incapable of seeing beyond his own warped perceptions and Kecia's carefully crafted facade.
"You really believe that, don't you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, the last shred of hope dying within me. "You believe her, over me."
He looked at me, his eyes hard. "I believe what I saw, Kiana. And I believe Kecia. She's a good person. Unlike you, sometimes."
My fragile composure shattered. A raw, guttural cry tore from my throat. "Good person? She poisoned me, Jonathan! She handed me a macaron with peanuts, knowing full well I'm severely allergic! And you stood there, enabling her! You forced me to eat it!"
Kecia shrieked, pulling away from Jonathan, her face a mask of manufactured horror. "No! That's a lie! I didn't know! I didn't!" She ran out of the room, her sobs echoing down the hallway.
Jonathan stared at me, his face pale, then a flicker of something, perhaps confusion, crossed his features. But it was quickly replaced by a familiar anger. "Kiana! You just upset her! You're making things up!" He turned and rushed after Kecia, leaving me alone in the sterile white room.
My father, who had been a silent observer, shook his head. "Kiana, you've gone too far this time. You really need to get your act together." He then followed Jonathan, leaving me truly, utterly alone.
I stared at the closed door, my chest heaving, my eyes burning. Alone. Truly alone. The realization was a bitter pill, but also strangely liberating. There was no one left to disappoint, no one left to betray me.
"Good," I whispered, a chilling smile spreading across my face. "Good. Let them go. Let them all go."
He had left me. Again. For her. Again. The pattern was clear, undeniable. I was not just a placeholder; I was a punching bag, a convenient target for Kecia's venom and Jonathan's misguided chivalry.
But no more.
I was done being Jonathan's emotional collateral. Done being my father's pawn. Done being Kecia's victim.
I would recover. I would get out of this hospital. And then, I would execute my plan. The marriage to Gage Sawyer, once a desperate escape, now felt like a strategic weapon. A shield. A new beginning.
The next few days in the hospital were a blur. Jonathan didn't visit. My father called once, his voice gruff, to say he'd arranged for my discharge. Kecia, of course, was absent. It was strangely peaceful. I used the time to rest, to heal, and to plan.
When the discharge papers were signed, I walked out of the hospital, feeling lighter than I had in years. The crisp autumn air felt invigorating, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the past. I hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of my small studio apartment, the one I kept hidden from Jonathan and my family. My sanctuary.
As the cab pulled away from the hospital, I saw him. Jonathan. Standing by a sleek black car, leaning against it, his gaze fixed on the hospital entrance. He was waiting. For me.
My breath hitched. A knot of familiar dread tightened in my stomach. What did he want now? More accusations? More lectures?
I told the driver to keep going, to ignore him. But he saw me. His eyes, sharp and intense, locked onto the cab. He pushed off the car and started walking towards us, his strides long and purposeful.
"Drive faster," I urged the driver, my voice tight with panic. "Please, just drive!"
The driver, sensing the urgency, accelerated. But Jonathan was fast. He pounded on the back window, his face a mask of fierce determination.
"Kiana! Stop the car!" he yelled, his voice muffled by the glass.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I couldn't face him. Not now. Not when I was finally feeling a fragile sense of self.
"Just keep driving!" I practically begged.
He didn't give up. He pulled out his phone, making a call. My phone, still in my pocket, vibrated. I ignored it.
The cab turned a corner, finally losing him. I slumped back in my seat, a shudder running through me. He was relentless.
"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
"My apartment," I said, giving him the address.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then, my phone buzzed again. It was a text message from Jonathan.
Jonathan: Kiana, stop running. We need to talk. I know you still have the ring.
The ring. The heirloom ring I had planned to propose with. The one I had thrown onto his bed last night. He had found it.
A cold wave washed over me. He wasn't chasing me out of love or concern. He was chasing me because of a possession. Just like the bracelet.
My phone buzzed again. Another text.
Jonathan: If you don't answer, I'll come to your apartment. I know where it is. We have unfinished business.
My blood ran cold. He knew about my apartment? My secret sanctuary? How?
I stared at the phone, my mind racing. This wasn't about love. This was about control. He couldn't stand the idea of me making a decision without his input, without his approval. He couldn't stand the idea of me escaping his orbit.
I swallowed hard, my resolve solidifying. He wouldn't control me. Not anymore.
"Change of plans," I told the driver. "Take me to Sotheby's."
The driver looked puzzled. "Sotheby's? The auction house?"
"Yes," I said, a dangerous glint in my eyes. "I have a lot of money to spend. And a lot of anger to burn." This wasn't about revenge in the petty sense. It was about reclaiming my power, my agency. He thought I was obsessed with possessions? Fine. I would embrace it. I would buy back my narrative, one expensive item at a time.
He thought he could hurt me by taking my mother's bracelet? He had no idea what he had unleashed.
As the cab sped towards the auction house, I made a mental list. Not just the physical items. But the emotional ones. My dignity. My self-worth. My future. I was going to buy it all back. And Jonathan Chavez would be there to witness every single purchase.
This wasn't just about showing him. This was about proving to myself that I was worth fighting for. And the fight had just begun.
My phone buzzed with another call from Jonathan. I ignored it. Then another. And another. He was persistent. Annoying. But now, he was also irrelevant.
I wouldn't just be buying things tonight. I would be buying my freedom. And the price, I knew, would be steep. But worth every single penny.
