Chapter 10

When I came to, the air smelled sharply of disinfectant. The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors echoed faintly.

The ceiling above was blindingly white.

Pain pulsed everywhere, but miraculously, I was still in one piece.

A nurse in a white uniform walked in, her gaze sharp and assessing.

"You're awake," she said. "You're lucky—no fractures, just some bruises and a mild concussion. You'll need rest."

I blinked slowly, trying to clear my vision.

"Was… someone here with me?"

She tilted her head slightly, studying me.

"You don't remember?"

"I… think there was a man. Maybe I imagined it."

Tad? My heart betrayed me with a faint, pitiful flicker of hope.

"Not your imagination." Her lips curved slightly, a trace of amusement in her eyes. "A man named Eric brought you in. Paid most of your bill. Stayed with you all night. Didn't leave your side."

My chest tightened, as though an invisible hand squeezed it.

"Eric…"

That name—he always appeared like a ghost whenever I was at my lowest.

"Yes," she said with a nod. "He almost got into a fight with two other men who came to see you. He told them to leave—and they did."

I held my breath.

"Did he… leave a number?"

"Unfortunately, no." She shook her head. "He left early this morning. Just said—you'd understand."

I didn't.

But somewhere deep inside, part of me did.

He was always watching. From the shadows.

Eric.

The man who appeared every time I fell—then vanished just as quickly.

Why? How?

Who was he—ally, or something else entirely?

The nurse left, and silence reclaimed the room.

As always.

Memories surged like a cruel tide.

They used to rush to my side at the slightest scratch, as if I were made of glass.

I remembered once, after cleaning up a traitor in an abandoned warehouse, a shard of rusted metal tore through my arm.

Tad was the first to reach me—before anyone else even reacted. He tore off his tie to stop the bleeding, held me in his arms, and barked orders at his men like a madman.

That night, he cleaned my wound himself, dabbing at it with alcohol-soaked cotton. His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered, "You're not like anyone else. You're mine. Wherever, whenever—no one will reach you before I do."

Then he kissed my forehead.

And I—fool that I was—believed him.

Leo, too.

Every time I got sick or hurt, he'd sneak into my room at night.

He couldn't stand seeing me weak.

Once, after a botched sea exchange left me feverish, he stayed up with me until dawn, watching mindless infomercials and clumsily feeding me chilled martinis.

"Nancy," he had murmured softly, brushing damp hair from my forehead, "even if the whole world turns against you—even if I have to stand against the family—I won't."

They used to bring me flowers.

Sunflowers—Tad said they reminded him of the sharp, fierce way I sometimes smiled.

And Leo made me a secret playlist on a coded channel, titled For Nancy's Luck. After every crisis we survived, he'd add another song.

"You'll never be alone," he had promised, hooking his little finger with mine—the blood oath of our youth.

And now?

Now they were both at Celia's side.

She sneezed—and they came running, with blankets and tea.

And I—lay here alone, bruised and broken, my wounds deeper than flesh.

No flowers.

No martinis.

No playlist.

Only silence.

Once, I was the most important person in their lives—their partner, their confidant, their comrade-in-arms.

Now, I wasn't even a passing thought.

Silence.

No texts. No calls. Not even a perfunctory knock at my door.

I had become their past tense.

And their actions made it clear—

This chapter would not be reopened.

By afternoon, my decision was final.

I signed my own discharge papers, ignoring the nurse's protests.

I couldn't bear to wait any longer for people who would never come.

My luggage was still at the hotel.

I checked out, booked the next flight, and headed straight to the airport.

I couldn't stay another second.

My phone buzzed.

Leo:

Where are you? Why did you leave early? You're not healed! If something happens, don't blame us for not warning you!

The same controlling tone as always.

I didn't reply.

Not to that one.

Not to the next.

When his third call came in, I stared at his name on the screen, then pressed decline—and set it to silent.

Then Tad's name flashed.

Tad:

Where the hell are you? Who's the guy that stayed with you? When did you start seeing him? You cheating whore. How long have you been lying to me? You disgust me. You'll regret this.

I read every word—calmly.

Like inhaling the last trace of gunpowder from a dying cigarette.

Then I typed one final message, with all the strength and resolve I had left:

Don't worry. You'll get our wedding invitation soon.

I hit send.

Then, without hesitation—

Blocked his number.

Cut off everything.

The airport's boarding announcement echoed overhead.

I rose, gripping my passport.

And as I stepped onto the plane, I didn't look back.

Because finally—

I was flying toward a life without them.