Chapter 3

The next day, the hospital announced that I was the "real culprit."

The internet exploded with hate. My photo was leaked, my face plastered everywhere, sometimes with a funeral wreath photoshopped around it. My private number received thousands of death threats.

All thanks to my husband.

The old hospital director called me into his office. He sighed.

"Phoebe, we all know this wasn't your fault."

"But that's Marcello. No one in New York dares to cross him. Luckily, you'll be with the peacekeeping forces soon. You can get away from this mess."

I nodded and gave him a grateful smile.

"Thank you, Director."

I walked out of his office into a chaotic hallway.

The deceased's family was protesting with banners.

When they saw me, a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes let out a roar.

"An eye for an eye! You quack!"

He pulled a glass bottle from his coat and threw it at me.

The acrid smell of chemicals filled the air.

Concentrated sulfuric acid.

I froze, my body refusing to move, too slow to even duck.

Just then, a tall, dark figure lunged forward.

Marcello threw himself in front of me, shielding me with his back and arm.

A sickening sizzle of burning fabric was followed by Marcello's muffled grunt.

Bodyguards quickly subdued the attacker. The scene was chaos.

ER doctors rushed over. Marcello's face was ashen, his forehead slick with cold sweat.

The clothes on his arm were eaten away, the flesh underneath raw and bloody. By comparison, I was barely scratched.

"Leave me!" he roared at the doctors, his voice hoarse. "Check her first! See if she's hurt!"

I stood to the side, watching his dramatic, life-saving performance.

I felt nothing. Not a shred of gratitude.

Only the absurd, bitter irony.

He'd taken the acid for me, but wasn't he the one who'd put me in this impossible situation in the first place?

Soon, Marcello was rushed to surgery for his burns.

I sat numbly in a hospital room.

The door opened and Camilla walked in, dressed in a designer gown and high heels.

She looked me up and down, a concerned smile on her face, but her words were pure venom.

"You're a lucky one, aren't you, Phoebe?"

"What a shame that acid didn't splash right on your face. Then Marcello wouldn't even look at you again."

"By the way, how does it feel to be cursed out by everyone online?"

I looked at her coldly. "It was you. You leaked my information."

She admitted it without a hint of shame. "So what if it was?"

Just then, Marcello, his wounds treated, walked in.

Camilla whispered quickly in my ear, "If you tell Marcello I leaked your info, I'll make you regret it."

I gave a bitter laugh.

Did she really think Marcello would believe me if I told him?

This was the man who gave my child to her. What wouldn't he do for her?

I knew my place. I wouldn't ask for trouble.

Camilla stood up, her expression instantly shifting to one of pitiful distress as she threw herself into Marcello's arms, crying.

"I'm so sorry... Marcello, it's all my fault you and Phoebe got hurt. Blame me..."

Marcello gently wrapped his uninjured arm around her.

"Stop crying, Camilla. It's not your fault." He stroked her back, his voice a gentle caress. "Don't blame yourself."

"But I feel so terrible..." Camilla sobbed against his chest.

"Then as punishment," Marcello said with a fond smile, wiping away her tears, "you have to take little Leo to the mall this afternoon and buy him a bunch of new clothes. The card's on me."

My head snapped up. My heart felt like it had been smashed with a sledgehammer.

Little Leo? The name I’d so joyfully chosen for my son back in our tiny apartment.