Chapter Eight

Kyla

I stare out the window of the hospital room, watching the skyline of New York blur against the glass. The clouds hang low, pregnant with rain, a storm threatening to fall but holding back. Much like me.

Two months.

Two months of my life gone.

The doctor told me this morning I had been in a coma for eight weeks. That I had been pulled from the edge of death, washed ashore like a forgotten memory. The fishermen who found me thought I was a corpse at first. My body had been battered, my lungs half-filled with water, my face swollen beyond recognition. No ID. No one looking for me. No one to claim me.

Not even Jake.

Not even Amina.

The nurses were kind at first. Pitying. Curious. They called me “miracle girl.” But now their curiosity has dulled. They’ve stopped asking questions because I haven’t answered any. I barely remember how I got here. The impact, the screeching tires, the way everything went black. My last clear memory was standing outside the bedroom door, hearing Jake’s voice moaning, breathless entangled with another woman’s.

Amina’s laughter.

Amina's voice.

My own blood. My sister.

I squeeze my eyes shut as nausea coils through my stomach. Not from illness, but from heartbreak.

Yesterday, I finally asked the nurse for a phone. She hesitated before handing it to me, her eyes worried, her mouth pursed like she could already guess the storm I was about to walk into.

But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw.

Jake Donovan.

My husband.

Married.

To Amina Park.

My sister.

There was even a headline. 

“Tragedy Turned to Love: Grieving Husband Finds Solace in Sister In Law’s Arms After Wife’s Death.”

Death.

They pronounced me dead.

I was in a coma and no one looked for me. Jake never filed a second report. There were no updates, no candlelight vigils, no desperate posts. Just... closure. Fast and easy.

The article made it sound romantic, like they were two wounded souls finding light in the midst of darkness. But I know Amina. I know her manipulations. I grew up with her lies. And now she has everything she always wanted in my life.

The man I loved. The home I built. The name I carried.

Mrs. Donovan.

No. Not anymore.

I lean back into the hospital bed, my fingers trembling as I place the phone down on the tray. A quiet resolve begins to anchor itself in my chest, deep and cold and final.

I will not go back.

I will not crawl home and beg for the scraps of my old life.

Let them think I’m dead.

Let them keep their illusion.

Because now, I’m done being the obedient wife. The loyal sister. The girl who always forgives, who always hopes.

They buried Kyla Park.

So I’ll let her stay dead.

*****

The discharge papers are smooth and crisp in my hands, still warm from the nurse’s printer. I’m dressed in secondhand jeans and a loose gray sweatshirt, donated by a local charity. No makeup, no rings, no trace of the woman I once was.

In the reflection of the hospital lobby glass doors, I don’t even recognize myself.

That’s good.

That’s the point.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for someone?” the nurse asks gently, walking me to the exit. “We can call social services, maybe arrange ”

“No,” I say quietly, my voice steady. “I need a fresh start. Away from everything.”

She nods reluctantly. “There’s a halfway house that helps women start over. I wrote down the address, just in case.”

I take the piece of paper from her, folding it twice and slipping it into my back pocket. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Kyla” She pauses, unsure. “or, whatever name you choose next.”

I smile for the first time in days. It’s small. Hollow. But real.

Outside, the air is colder than I expected. The late fall wind bites through my sweatshirt and rustles my hair. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, just breathing. Watching people pass. No one pays attention to me. No one recognizes me. I’m just another face in New York City.

And for once, that feels like freedom.

I walk.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just move, letting the sound of the city guide me. Taxis honking. Street vendors calling out. A saxophone playing somewhere in the distance. Life keeps moving, unbothered by my grief.

I stop at a small café and buy a cheap cup of coffee. The barista doesn’t even glance at my name when I pay in cash. I sip slowly, savoring the bitterness. It’s the first thing that tastes real since I woke up.

I pull out the folded paper from my pocket. The halfway house is uptown, near Harlem. It’s a start. I can stay there, find work, rebuild. I have no money, no ID, no connections. But I have breath. I have fire. I have a new name to choose.

And I have time.

I make a silent vow as I drop the paper back into my pocket.

I won’t go back.

I won’t make contact.

Let Jake Donovan mourn his dead wife. Let Amina Park live in her stolen paradise. They’ll never know that the woman they betrayed is alive and watching.

Because one day, whether it’s tomorrow or ten years from now, I will rise.

And when I do, I won’t come back to beg.

I’ll come back to burn.