Chapter 4

Novia didn’t keep her promises like a normal person.

She kept them like a predator.

The “accident” happened three days later.

A sharp shove in a stairwell with no cameras. A slick patch on marble. A bodyguard who turned his head at exactly the wrong time. The world tipping, my stomach dropping, pain blooming white-hot through my side as I hit the edge of a step.

I remember the taste of blood.

I remember a voice saying, “Careful, careful—don’t let her bruise where it shows.”

Then darkness.

When I came back to myself, the ceiling above me wasn’t the hospital ceiling. It was lower. Cleaner. Wrong.

The air smelled like antiseptic and metal.

I was in one of the Matthews private medical rooms—the kind they didn’t admit existed. The kind you didn’t leave without permission.

A nurse checked my vitals without meeting my eyes. “You need rest,” she said flatly.

“Where am I?” My voice came out thin.

“A safe place,” she replied. “The wedding will not be delayed.”

Not your recovery. Not your health.

The wedding.

I drifted in and out for hours—pain, silence, shadows passing at the edge of the bed.

At one point, I heard Wayne’s voice through the wall, low and hard.

“…keep her quiet,” he said. “No one needs to know what happened.”

Another man answered—one of his lieutenants. “And Novia?”

Wayne’s tone softened with that infuriating indulgence. “Novia didn’t mean it. She got carried away.”

A pause.

“And Clara?” the lieutenant asked.

Wayne exhaled, annoyed. “Clara will be fine. The doctors will fix it. The wedding happens on schedule. After that, I’ll handle the rest.”

Handle the rest.

Like I was paperwork.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and felt the last fragile thread inside me snap.

The next morning, my phone vibrated on the bedside tray. A message from an unknown number.

Go to the room next door. Now.

No signature. No explanation.

My hands were steady as I swung my legs off the bed. Pain flared, sharp enough to make my eyes water, but I forced myself upright.

I walked down the sterile hallway, barefoot, my gown clinging to my skin.

The door next to mine was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

Sound hit me first.

A woman’s breathy laugh. The slap of skin. A man’s low grunt—familiar, unmistakable.

My stomach turned to ice.

Wayne.

Novia.

On the bed like it belonged to them. Like I belonged to them.

Wayne’s hand gripped Novia’s hip. Her nails raked his shoulder. His face was half hidden, but I could see the way his eyes narrowed when he heard the door.

He didn’t look guilty.

He looked irritated.

“Clara,” he said, voice rough, like I’d interrupted a meeting.

Novia turned her head, smiling through the mess of her hair. “Oh. You’re awake.”

Wayne’s gaze flicked over me—my pale skin, my unsteady posture.

He didn’t move away from Novia. He didn’t cover her. He didn’t even try to pretend.

Instead, he spoke like he was doing me a favor.

“This is complicated,” he said. “But I’m handling it.”

Novia laughed softly. “He means he’s handling you.”

Wayne’s jaw tightened, and for a moment his eyes flashed with something like warning. “Enough,” he snapped at her, but his hand stayed on her body.

Then he looked back at me.

“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice, as if tenderness could erase betrayal. “After the wedding, Novia is gone. She’ll stop. She won’t be around you.”

Novia’s eyes lit up like a child hearing a new game. “After the wedding,” she echoed, sweetly. “That’s when it gets really fun. I’ll visit you in your big house, Clara. I’ll sit in your living room and drink your wine and—”

“Novia,” Wayne growled.

She only smiled wider, eyes cutting to mine. “He wants both,” she whispered. “But he’ll marry you. Because you’re useful.”

Useful.

That word could have shattered me once.

Now it only made me cold.

I lifted my phone, pretending my hands were shaking from pain.

In reality, they were steady as stone.

I pressed record.

Wayne saw the movement too late.

His eyes widened a fraction. “Clara—”

I met his gaze, calm and empty. “Don’t,” I said quietly. “Don’t try to explain.”

I turned and walked away.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the video play silently on my screen.

Wayne’s face. Novia’s laugh. His warning. Her promise to invade my life forever.

I saved it to the encrypted folder.

Then I began to erase myself.

I cleared drawers. I boxed jewelry. I shredded personal notes. I deleted calendar invites and wiped my browsing history. I moved through the estate like a quiet storm, leaving nothing behind that proved I’d ever loved him.

When the staff asked if I needed help, I smiled and said, “No, thank you.”

I didn’t need help.

I needed an ending.

That night, I placed a wedding gift box on the table in the sitting room. Inside, nestled under silk and ribbons, was a small, innocuous item: an encrypted USB drive.

I tied the bow carefully.

Then I leaned close to the box, as if it could hear me.

“Let’s burn it all down,” I whispered.

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