Chapter 3
That night, the bodyguards physically dragged me to the clinic.
But even that back-alley butcher lost his mind when he saw me. I was slipping in and out of a febrile shock, the right side of my face and neck a mass of weeping, half-cooked flesh. He immediately started cursing.
"Are you out of your fucking minds?" he barked. "If I pump an experimental drug with this kind of lethality into her right now, with this level of infection, she won’t last two hours! I need organ-tolerance data, not a charred corpse! Take her back. Don't bring her to me until her fever breaks and she's stabilized!"
And so, after lying like a dead dog in the basement of that clinic for three days, I was dumped right back at the front gates of the Vance estate.
The night wind was bone-chilling.
During those three days in hell, when the sheer agony blurred the lines between day and night, I actually entertained a delusion: If they see me in this state, like a slaughtered animal... would they spare me even a shred of pity?
Carrying that pathetic, incurable hope, I pushed the door open.
Declan was standing there, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. At the sound of the door, his head snapped around.
"Violet?" The glass slipped from his fingers, hitting the rug with a dull thud.
Initially, he didn't even recognize me.
For five whole seconds, he just stared at the side of my face—looked like it had been doused in battery acid. His pupils dilated uncontrollably.
Instinct coaxed him a half-step forward; he almost raised his arms to hold me. But the very next second, his eyes registered the ten blackened brands scorched into my neck, still oozing yellow fluid and blood. He froze, rigid as a board.
In the end, he only managed to extend two fingers, barely hovering over the cuff of my sleeve. His voice was cracked and trembling. "You've... you've suffered so much. How could Winthrop be so ruthless? But don't worry, I'll find the best plastic surgeons. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you!"
Making it up to me?
A stinging ache clawed at my eyes.
My mind was flooded, uncontrollably, with memories from three years ago. The way he used to drag me by the hand, sprinting across campus. The way he would cradle my face, kissing me with such sheer devotion, swearing I was the most radiant girl he’d ever laid eyes on.
But then, the first time he looked at Cecily after she returned from the sanatorium, something in his eyes shifted.
From that day forward, the hours he spent lingering by her side grew longer and longer. I realized it then: he never loved me. He only loved the face. He loved the face, and the malleable, helpless fragility that Cecily wore on it so fiercely.
Now that the face was ruined—the moment he truly saw me—he couldn't even be bothered to fake another ounce of warmth. Even the thought of touching me disgusted him.
"If I repulse you that much, don't force yourself," I choked out, violently pulling my arm away.
When I reached the landing on the second floor, I heard Declan out on the downstairs patio. He was already calling my parents, practically unable to dial fast enough.
"Yeah, she just got dropped off." His voice was hushed, completely devoid of the heartache he’d just pantomimed. "Fortunately, it’s mostly flesh wounds. Her arms and legs are fine. Don't worry, the clinic said to give it three days. Once the wounds scab over, the trials can proceed as scheduled. She's not dead yet."
It felt like a gaping hole had been blown right through my chest. Every last drop of hope was sucked out into the void, replaced by a howling, freezing wind that left me violently trembling.
Running on fumes, I pushed open my bedroom door.
The room reeked of an overpowering, cloying perfume.
Cecily was sprawled across my bed, wearing my favorite silk nightgown, casually flipping through a fashion magazine.
The second she saw me, she let out a shriek. But as soon as her eyes locked onto my mangled face, that shriek morphed, stretching into a shrill, hysterical burst of laughter.
"Oh my god, my dear sweet sister. You look like a monster that just crawled out of a grave!" Cecily sat up. Her cheeks were flush with color, a picture of perfect health—hardly the dying, terminally ill patient she claimed to be. "Well, look at the bright side. We finally don't look alike anymore. What do you think, if Declan dreams about you tonight, will he piss himself in terror?"
I had seen it with my own eyes back at school—watched her pour her exorbitant, lifesaving medication straight down the drain.
I knew she was faking everything just to siphon pity. I knew she had stolen my entire life. But because she was my sister, and because I was so starved for my family's love, I had backed down and compromised a thousand times. And now? Now she was going to bleed me dry just to pave her own way forward.
Shaking with an uncontrollable rage, I marched to the bed. I grabbed her by the wrist and pinned her violently against the headboard.
Tears finally broke and shattered against the soiled sheets. "This is perfect," I whispered, my voice quivering. "That piece of shit, our parents—they're all yours now. Utterly yours."
I watched genuine panic finally flicker in her eyes. When I spoke, it sounded like I was choking on glass. "Cecily, enjoy every single thing you manipulated your way into getting. Savor it. Because your little miracle trial? It’s three days away."
Three days later. Dead of night.
Richard, Eleanor, and Declan "escorted" me back to that underground clinic.
"Once we confirm Cecily can handle this targeted therapy, Mommy's taking you on a shopping spree in Europe! Haven't you been begging for that limited-edition bag from Milan?" Eleanor crooned, tightly clutching Cecily, who was bundled up in a lush wool coat.
"We'll have to grab a huge dinner to celebrate first!" Richard laughed, practically beaming.
The three of them stood under the pale glow of the streetlamp, a flawless picture of domestic bliss. I stood there alone, shivering in the biting wind.
Eventually, Declan remembered I existed.
He walked up to me, purposefully averting his gaze from my face. "Go inside," he urged, irritation lacing his words. "It’s just an extreme deep-tissue drug test. It’ll be over before you know it. I’ll come pick you up when you're done."
I turned around. My fingers clamped down on the clinic’s rusted iron door handle.
Inside my chest, my failing heart fired off its final warning—a blinding, jagged pang that forced me to hunch over.
This was my family. This was the man who claimed to love me. If I walked through that door today, I’d be subjected to weeks of inhumane torture, left to rot in an abyss where death was almost a guarantee.
I stopped. Slowly, I turned my head, my eyes dragging over each of their faces with a profound, hollow sorrow.
"If I walk in there today, I'm never coming back out..." My voice was a gravelly whisper. It was the last time in my life I would ever test them, a pathetic, dying plea. "Will any of you... even miss me?"
My mother, Eleanor, covered her nose in disgust. "Violet, don't be so morbid. You're just validating the safety of a treatment. It’s not a funeral, so who are you trying to guilt-trip with that dead look on your face?"
My father, Richard, let out a cold scoff, checking his watch in sheer annoyance. "Don't tell me you're backing out now. You signed the paperwork. Stop wasting everyone's time and get in there."
Declan stepped forward, reaching out to grab my hand—the one coated in dried scabs of blood. "Stop throwing a tantrum, Violet. The trial is going to be quick. After it’s over, I’ll take you to pick out that new jewelry set you’ve been wanting. Okay?"
I aggressively yanked my hand back, letting his hypocritical warmth slip from my fingertips. A crushing, acidic wave of grief washed over me. Just once... just this once, why couldn't he hold onto me tighter? Why couldn't he just say, 'Let's go home'?
"I gave up on that necklace a long time ago," I said, my voice shaking as a hot, searing pain flooded my eyes. "Just like I stopped expecting anything from the rest of you. If I really die in there... will any of you even be a little bit sad?"
