Chapter 5

As Avery’s furious footsteps faded down the hall, silence returned to the hospital room. Elena leaned back against the pillows, her body trembling, her heart heavy with sorrow.

Her thoughts drifted—not to Damien, not to Avery, not even to the cruel divorce papers—but to the life she had lived before ever stepping into the Salvatore villa. To the beginning of her story, where all her pain had quietly taken root.

She had grown up in an orphanage. A simple, modest place where laughter echoed through the hallways and warmth was found not in riches, but in the love of one woman—the matron. The matron wasn’t her mother, but to little Elena, she was everything. She wiped Elena’s tears, braided her hair, tucked her into bed when nightmares came, and always reminded her, “You are precious, my little star.”

Elena never knew her real mother. The matron always looked away whenever she did, her kind eyes clouding with pity and something too heavy for a child to understand.

Then, one day, everything changed.

Elena remembered the matron calling her into her office. The small room smelled faintly of books and old wooden cabinets. But that day, the matron’s face was pale, her hands trembling as she reached out to Elena. Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, “Elena… your father is here for you.”

Elena froze. Father? She had never known she even had one. Confusion tangled with fear inside her small chest. She didn’t want to leave the only home she had ever known. But the matron’s voice was breaking, helpless. There was no choice.

The man who entered wore a polite smile, but even as a child, Elena saw through it. Mr. Peter. He bent down, hugging her stiffly. His arms were strong, but cold, and when his face brushed hers, she caught it—that flicker of disgust, buried deep in his eyes. She had never forgotten it.

He took her away from the orphanage that day. She looked back over her shoulder as the matron stood in the doorway, her eyes red and her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs. Elena wanted to run back to her, to stay where love was real. But her tiny feet carried her forward, trapped by fate.

At the Miller home, she was introduced to her stepfamily. Paula, Mr. Peter’s wife, looked her over as if she were a stain on her perfect house. Beside her stood a young girl, Avery—beautiful, delicate, and glaring with thinly veiled hostility.

Elena’s heart raced as she gathered the courage to ask the question that burned inside her: “Where’s my real mom?”

The words had barely left her lips before Paula’s face twisted with fury. “Don’t you ever mention that woman again!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice through Elena’s little heart.

From that day on, silence became Elena’s only defense.

Life with the Millers was never warmth, never love. It was duty. Cold, mechanical, suffocating duty. Every three months, without fail, they would take her to the hospital. She was told she was “donating blood for the future.” That it was for her own good.

She was young, too frightened to question them. The doctors would smile at her, Paula would hold her hand with fake gentleness, and Mr. Peter would stand in the corner, his eyes avoiding hers. The needle would pierce her skin, and she would lie there, weak and confused, wondering what part of her was worth saving—if they couldn’t even love her.

Then the truth started surfacing. It had been an ordinary afternoon in the Miller household. She was ten years old then, quiet, timid, and careful not to draw too much attention to herself. She remembered padding softly down the hall, her small feet carrying her toward the kitchen, when she heard voices drifting from within.

The old nanny and the chef were gossiping. Their whispers, meant to be private, struck Elena’s ears with the force of thunder.

“Poor little thing,” the nanny sighed. “If only she knew why she was really brought here.”

“What do you mean?” the chef asked, lowering his voice.

The nanny leaned closer, her voice sharp with disdain. “Mr. Peter and Madam Paula have fooled everyone. Don’t you know? That girl isn’t Paula’s child. Paula couldn’t bear children anymore after a complication at birth. Their precious baby girl—Avery—was born sickly, with a rare defect. She needed blood transfusions to survive, but her blood group was so rare only a sibling could match.”

The chef gasped. “So… Elena—”

“Yes.” The nanny’s lips curled bitterly. “Mr. Peter went down to a remote village and lured a poor maid into his bed. Lied that he loved her, made her believe she was special, broke her innocence, and got her pregnant. That maid was Elena’s mother. Poor woman died giving birth, left to suffer without care, because Mr. Peter never loved her. He only wanted her womb.”

Elena’s small body had frozen in the hallway, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle a cry.

The nanny continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It all fit perfectly into their plans. With Elena born, they had their blood donor ready. But just when they were about to use her, the doctors announced a new cure for Avery’s illness. So what did the Millers do? They dumped the newborn into an orphanage, like she was nothing but trash.”

The chef’s knife clattered against the chopping board. “Monsters…”

The nanny nodded, her voice shaking. “Yes. And when the cure no longer worked, when Avery’s illness returned, they suddenly remembered the girl they abandoned. That’s why they went back to fetch her. Not because of love—not because she’s family. But because she’s nothing more than a blood bank for their darling princess.”

The words burned themselves into Elena’s heart that day.

She had stumbled back from the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks, her small chest heaving with grief and confusion. She wanted to scream, to ask why she had been born just to suffer, but she was too afraid. Too broken.

So she did the only thing her little legs could do—she ran.

She ran out of the Miller estate, her tears blurring the streets, until her bare feet sank into the sand of the beach. The salty air stung her face, but it was the only place she could breathe. She wandered aimlessly along the shore, crying until her throat ached.

And that was when she saw him.

A boy—sitting on a rock, his eyes dark and lonely against the bright summer sea. He was about her age, but tall, striking, with an aura that set him apart from the world.

Damien.

Something about him drew her in, as though fate itself had placed him there for her.

Cautiously, she had approached him, her tiny hands clutching a seashell she had picked up. She remembered her voice trembling as she said, “Big brother, this is for you. I hope it makes you happy every day.”

He had looked at her with wary eyes, eyes that seemed to carry their own pain. But he reached out, took the shell, and for the first time in days, Elena felt seen.

The next day, he gave her milk tea in return. Sweet, comforting, unfamiliar—and yet, it wasn’t the drink that made her smile. It was him.

That summer, they became each other’s refuge. Elena, who had been born into lies and cruelty. Damien, who carried his own unspoken sorrows. Together, they laughed, they played, and for the first time in her life, Elena believed she could be loved.

And when she had cut her foot on glass and Damien carried her on his back to the clinic, she had whispered against his shoulder, blushing, “Damien, I want to be with you forever, to play with you every day.”

Without hesitation, he had replied, “Sure. When I grow up, I’ll marry you, and then we can be together forever.”

It was the first promise her heart had ever clung to.

But years passed. And fate, as always, was cruel.

That summer ended, and with it, Damien disappeared from her life—only to return years later, not as the lonely boy who once held her hand, but as a man whose heart belonged to another.

And that other was none other than Avery—her half-sister, the very person Elena had unknowingly been born to save.

Now, as Elena lay on the hospital bed once again, older, wiser, carrying a fragile life inside her womb, her chest ached with the memories.

But this time, she thought fiercely, clutching her stomach, this child will not suffer like I did. This child will be loved.

Her tears slipped silently onto the pillow. Elena’s chest ached as she pressed her palm against her stomach, feeling the faint warmth of the life inside her. Once, she had been born to save another. But this child—this child would be born to save her.