Chapter3

The sound of the cell door lock turning made my spine instinctively stiffen.

The door opened. Dim firelight from the corridor spilled in, outlining three silhouettes.

The woman in front wore a tailored dark gray suit, her blonde hair neatly tucked behind her ears, her lips curved in a perfectly measured, pitying smile.

Nicole.

Behind her stood two large men, her trusted lieutenants.

I didn't move.

My shoulder injury left me without even the strength to sit up. I could only lie on my side on the wooden plank bed, looking up at her.

"Still alive, I see." Nicole took two steps closer, looking down at me like examining a broken piece of porcelain. "Franco asked me to check on you."

My heart skipped a beat.

Franco.

That name coming from her mouth felt like a dull knife cutting into my chest.

"What did he say?" I heard my own voice, so soft it was barely audible.

Nicole laughed, the smile devoid of warmth, only a certain triumphant satisfaction.

She placed her handbag on the only small wooden table in the cell, methodically unfastening the clasp.

"He said he's finally done pretending." She took out a small mirror, adjusting her hair in the light. "These seven years, all he felt for you was duty. Pity. Your brother died for him, so he had to take you in, give you food, let you live. That's all."

Just duty. Pity. Take you in.

Each word was like another steel nail, driven into my already riddled chest.

I stared at her hard, trying to find some crack in her expression, proof she was lying.

"What else?" I asked.

"What else?" Nicole put down the mirror, turning to face me directly.

"He thinks you've gotten more and more annoying over the years. Always looking at him that way, suffocating him. He knew you liked him, but he never responded, did he?"

She tilted her head, her voice light as if discussing the weather.

"Because he doesn't like you. Never has."

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to tell her to get out, to call her a liar.

But the words stuck in my throat. I couldn't get a single one out.

Because she was speaking the truth.

Seven years. He really had never responded to me.

Never said he liked me. Never promised anything.

Those late-night companionships, bedside vigils when I was sick—things I'd carved into my heart like medals—for him, maybe they were just casual charity.

"But now it's fine," Nicole reached into her handbag, seemingly searching for something. "You've been punished, your looks are ruined, your reputation destroyed. He finally has a legitimate reason to dispose of you."

She pulled out a small glass vial, brown, impossible to see what was inside.

"He asked me to tell you one more thing." She held the vial in her palm, stepping closer. "The Colombo family from the West Coast sent over a girl. Eighteen years old. Parents dead too, an orphan under family protection. Franco really likes her."

She paused, smiling. "Younger than you, prettier than you, more obedient than you. She's moving into the mansion next week. Your old room."

West Coast. Eighteen. Parents dead.

Identical background.

Identical protection arrangement.

My mind buzzed, leaving only one thought:

He was replacing me.

Like replacing a slow horse, a dull knife.

I was never irreplaceable. I was just a position anyone could fill.

Nicole had reached my bedside, crouching down to meet my eyes.

The pitying expression on her face completely vanished, replaced by a long-suppressed, icy hatred.

"You know what I hate most about you?" Her voice dropped low, like a lover's whisper. "Not that you slept with him—there were others before and after you. It's that you were nothing, yet always thought you were special. That look in your eyes, as if he owed you something."

She unscrewed the cap of the small vial.

My pupils constricted instantly. Without thinking, instinct drove me to jerk my head aside—

Cold liquid poured from the bottle, arcing through the air.

Most of it missed, splashing on the straw by my ear, immediately producing acrid white smoke.

But a small amount landed precisely on the left side of my neck and collarbone.

Burning.

Not pain. Something more intense than pain—a searing that penetrated flesh.

Like someone pressing a red-hot brand directly against my neck.

My scream couldn't escape my throat, bitten to pieces between my teeth.

I curled up, instinctively bringing my good hand to cover that patch of skin. My fingertips touched not smooth surface but rapidly blistering, curling flesh. And the skin on my hand corroded from that reflexive action.

Nicole stood up, tossing the empty vial back into her handbag, dusting off her hands though there was nothing there.

"Franco told me to do this." Her voice returned to that sweet, refined lady's tone. "He doesn't want you. You're an eyesore taking up space. Much better now."

She turned. Her heels clicked out their crisp rhythm again. The two men followed. The cell door slammed shut.

The dungeon returned to deathly silence.

I curled up on that thin layer of straw, the skin on my left neck and collarbone still burning violently.

I didn't dare touch it, didn't even dare turn to look. But I could feel that patch of skin dying.

A smell I'd never encountered before—nauseating, scorched—permeated the air.

Tears finally came, sliding from the corners of my eyes into the straw, soundless.

I didn't scream. Didn't call for guards. Didn't beg for help.

I didn't deserve to.

Nicole was right about one thing, only one thing: I'd brought this all on myself.

I shouldn't have fallen in love with him. Shouldn't have allowed myself to fantasize. Shouldn't have mistaken charity for grace during those seven years.

So this was punishment. I deserved it.

I closed my eyes, burying my face in the cold straw, letting waves of searing pain wash over my nerves.

I didn't move. I didn't make a sound.

I just curled myself into a tiny ball, like a young animal kicked into a corner, too weak even to whimper.

I didn't know that at that moment, three floors above in the master bedroom, Franco Rossi lay bare-chested, face down on his bed.

His back and arms were wrapped in bandages, the white gauze still slowly seeping blood, soaking large patches of the sheets.

The family's old doctor stood by the bed, carefully using tweezers to remove debris embedded in the wounds.

Twenty-three steel nails already lay in the tray, each bearing dark red bloodstains, gleaming coldly under the light.

Nine remained.

Franco hadn't taken anesthesia. His face was buried in the pillow, expression invisible, but the exposed veins at his neck bulged, sweat sliding from his temples, soaking the pillow.

His fingers gripped the edge of the sheets so hard his knuckles were white, every muscle in his body trembling violently, uncontrollably.

But he didn't make a sound. From beginning to end, not a single sound.

Only in the final moment before high fever and delirium claimed him completely, his lips moved, forming broken syllables.

The old doctor leaned close to hear.

It was the same name. Repeated, like delirium, like a drowning man clutching the last piece of driftwood.

"Lillian... Lillian..."