The world swam in and out of focus as a team of medical staff rushed towards me, their voices a flurry of concerned murmurs. Strong hands carefully lifted me onto a stretcher, and I was wheeled away, the fluorescent hospital lights blurring into streaks above me. The doctor's grim face, speaking of "fractures" and "concussion," was a distant memory. I was patched up, bandaged again, and confined to a new room. A private room this time, a cold comfort.
Later that evening, I found myself in a wheelchair, meticulously navigating the quiet corridors of the hospital. My leg was in a cast, my head still throbbed, but I refused to stay cooped up. I needed fresh air, some semblance of control. As I rounded a corner, I saw a half-open door. Through the gap, I heard Bentley's voice. I paused, my hand instinctively going still on the wheel.
"Look, man, I told you, Fraser," Bentley's voice was low, agitated. "It's not what it looks like. Frida and I? We're just... playing a part. To satisfy my father, you know? For the Taner alliance."
I leaned closer, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"Adelle's still the one," he continued, his voice softer, almost pleading. "She's always been the one. All this 'engagement' stuff, it's just a show. A ninety-nine day repayment of kindness, remember? It's almost done. Then, I'll propose to Adelle properly. She'll come back to me. She has to."
My gaze fell to my bandaged leg, to the fresh stitches on my forehead, to the memory of him kissing Frida, leaving me to fall. A bitter, sarcastic laugh bubbled in my throat, quickly stifled. He still thought he could manipulate me, manipulate the situation. He still thought I was just a pawn in his game. He would propose? After all this? No. Never. The thought of marrying him, of spending another second in his presence, made my skin crawl. The illusion was gone. His words were just another layer of deceit.
That night, a nurse informed me I was being transferred to a shared room. "It's a more luxurious suite," she said, her tone apologetic. "Mr. Wise insisted you have the best care. And Ms. Tanner is already there."
My eyes widened. Frida. He was putting me in the same room as Frida. The audacity. Bentley himself appeared moments later, a forced smile on his face. "It's for your recovery, Adelle," he said, avoiding my gaze. "The best facilities. And Frida needed company. She's been so distraught."
I said nothing, merely nodding, my face a blank mask. No point arguing. No point in making a scene. I was tired, so terribly tired. I just wanted this all to be over. I wanted to escape. I would play along. For now.
The next two days were a chilling spectacle. The "ninety-nine days" on his calendar were dwindling.
On the third to last day, I watched as Bentley spoon-fed Frida a lavish meal, ordering the hospital staff around like they were his personal servants. He cooed over her, asked about her every comfort, her every whim. I lay in the bed opposite, ignored, invisible.
On the second to last day, I heard the sounds from Frida's side of the room, muffled but unmistakable. Bentley was giving her a sponge bath, his voice low and tender, her giggles echoing against the sterile walls. My stomach churned. I pulled the blanket over my head, burying my face, trying to block out the sounds, the images, the brutal reality of his betrayal. The humiliation was a physical ache.
Finally, the last day arrived. The ninety-ninth day. The day he had promised to marry me. I watched him, still doting on Frida, still oblivious to my presence, as I slowly, painstakingly, packed my small bag. My crutches lay beside me, a constant reminder of how I had arrived here.
I hobbled to the door, my cast making a soft thudding sound with each step. "Adelle! Where are you going?" Bentley's voice, sharp with surprise, pierced the air.
I didn't turn back. "I'm checking out," I stated simply, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
His gaze, hot and possessive, burned into my back. I could feel it, a physical weight. But I kept walking, each step taking me further away from him, further away from the suffocating prison of his so-called love.
I made my way to a small, temporary apartment I had rented near the airport. My flight was for tomorrow morning. Paris. My new life. I carefully unpacked my bag, then took out my phone. The one with the recording, the video of Frida's malicious smirk just before she swerved into my mother's truck. The one with Frida's taunting messages.
I opened a burner phone, bought discreetly online, and carefully uploaded all the evidence. Frida's taunting messages, the video of the accident played in slow motion, Bentley's phone records showing he was with Frida during my emergencies, a recording of Frida proudly boasting about getting Bentley to cover up her 'little accident' during my kidnapping. I even added a brief, clinical account of my own surgeries and the moments Bentley abandoned me. I compiled it all, a damning dossier of their cruelty and his complicity.
I then created anonymous social media accounts, linked them, and began to post. I poured all my savings into promoting the posts, making sure they would be seen, shared, discussed. The truth, raw and unedited, was now out there. For everyone to see.
With a final click, I shut down the burner phone, removed the SIM card, and dropped both into a public trash bin. My revenge was set in motion. I walked towards the boarding gate, leaving behind the wreckage of my past. My flight was called. I was finally free.
Across the city, Bentley dropped Frida off at her penthouse, a forced smile on his face. He returned to our-his-empty mansion. The silence was deafening, the vast rooms echoing with an unfamiliar hollowness. He paced the living room, a strange sense of unease settling over him. Adelle can't be serious. She'll come back. He picked up his phone, ready to call his assistant. He needed to plan the perfect proposal. He would show Adelle he was serious, that he truly loved her.
His assistant's voice was frantic, breathless. "Mr. Wise! Sir, you need to see this! It's everywhere! Adelle... she's exposed everything!"
Bentley's blood ran cold. "Exposed what? What are you talking about?" He quickly grabbed his own phone, his fingers fumbling. The screen glowed with unfamiliar headlines, his name, Frida's name, trending topics, a storm of outrage. It couldn't be. Adelle. She had really done it.
