CHAPTER 01

Bianca's lips trembled uncontrollably, and her heart stopped at that exact moment, crushed beneath the weight of the news. She lay in a hospital bed, barely aware of the sharp pain in her immobilized arm and the scrapes on her skin. Those physical injuries were insignificant compared to the gaping wound in her soul: her sister, Aitana, her favorite person in the world, was gone.

A painful knot grew in her throat, and grief seized every fiber of her being. Why did such cruel things happen to good people? Why did Aitana have to die instead of her, the clumsy and often invisible girl?

She covered her face with trembling hands, and a sob burst from her chest—a heartbreaking wail she had never uttered before.

"No, it's not true, she's not dead. Why did you have to die?" she cried, shivering as her entire body tensed to the breaking point.

Emotions churned in a violent vortex, and remorse gripped her without mercy. She didn't blame the truck driver, whose image she barely remembered; instead, the needle of her guilt stabbed straight into herself over a simple teenage wish: having asked Aitana to take her to the water park. A trivial decision that had turned into the catalyst for an irreversible tragedy.

A tired-looking nurse entered the room and, seeing her in such a hysterical state, gently asked her to calm down.

But Bianca was beyond reason. Her screams echoed in the silence of the room—a violent release of annoyance, sorrow, and pure desperation. It felt as though an essential part of her being had been ripped out by the roots upon learning of her sister's death.

When she finally managed to breathe normally, with aching lungs and a raw throat, she got up from that bed.

Meanwhile, out in the corridor, Vivian's collapse was devastating. Mrs. Bellerose threw herself into the arms of her husband, Bruno.

Her favorite daughter, Aitana, brilliant and full of promise, was no longer in this world. The two melted into a desperate embrace, a futile attempt to lessen a pain as fierce as a hungry tiger and a resentment burning from deep within.

"Why did she have to die, damn it, Bruno? Why did Aitana have to die?" Vivian cried out in the middle of the quiet hallway, her voice broken by sobs. "She had so many things to accomplish, so many dreams. Tell me this is just a nightmare I'm going to wake up from, please."

Bruno could only stroke his wife's back, grief choking his own words. If it had been up to him, he would have done the impossible to bring Aitana back; he would have bargained with destiny itself. But he could only hold the love of his life, trying to comfort her even when he desperately needed support himself—a pillar to keep him standing.

"I'm so sorry, Vivian... I'm so sorry," Bruno managed to articulate, his own voice raspy from contained tears. "You're right, Aitana shouldn't have died in that accident. It's not fair."

While her parents lamented in their shared grief, Bianca watched them from a more hidden spot, paralyzed with tears in her eyes. She felt once more the lacerating rejection from her parents—the painful and undeniable certainty that her life wasn't as valuable, as celebrated, as Aitana's had been. She was nearly drowning in her own sea of tears. It was then that her parents turned in her direction and saw her, their bloodshot eyes locking onto her.

Vivian's green eyes pierced her like an icy dagger, and Bianca knew it once more: she was the guilty one.

"You! You're the reason Aitana is dead," Vivian spat, the venom in her words palpable.

Bruno, who tried to stop and calm his wife, failed miserably as Vivian marched right up to Bianca, consuming her with accusations.

"Mom, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry, Mom," was all that escaped her ruined throat—a weak voice barely holding onto the pain, a muffled plea.

"Give me back my daughter! Make her come back!" the woman insisted vehemently, now completely out of her mind, her hands clenched.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Bianca repeated in a barely audible voice, tears blurring her vision.

"Don't call me that! I can't be the mother of a brat who killed her own sister," Vivian's voice was a whip, every word a wound.

Bruno, seeing the situation completely spiraling out of control, stepped forward and managed to pull Vivian away from his daughter.

"That's enough. Stop it."

Vivian growled, casting one final look of pure hatred at Bianca before storming off. Bianca, foolishly hoping that Bruno—that at least her father—would hug her or say something comforting, ended up receiving only his freezing look of disappointment before seeing him walk away too. Then, Bianca collapsed onto the cold hallway floor, feeling like she mattered to no one, that she was nothing more than a nuisance, a useless shadow.

On the day of the funeral, the sky turned a leaden gray, and the cold wind whipped her face with a harshness that chilled her to the bone, even beneath the thick layers of her black coat.

There were many people saying goodbye to her sister—a crowd of acquaintances and friends sharing the mourning for Aitana. But among all those people, she saw him: Eric Harrington. His bearing was dominant, elegant, and as serious as ever.

Eric was the heir to the Harrington family, a powerful family with immense influence.

His name was synonymous with authority.

Even in the face of the tragic death of his fiancée, Aitana, Eric looked unfathomable—an impregnable fortress of contained pain and cold resolve. Bianca looked away before her eyes could meet Eric's powerful, intense blue gaze, which, even behind those dark glasses, threatened to completely destabilize her.

Her heart still beat rapidly and leaped wildly in her chest at the memory of the time she had pretended to be Aitana at her sister's request, a night that now seemed so distant, almost three weeks ago. Now, with everything that had happened, she felt terribly bad for having tricked him; he had no idea about that charade.

The somber ceremony concluded, and people began to leave in silence. Even her parents had already gone, immersed in their own grief, but Bianca lingered a little longer, staring at that headstone with Aitana's name that still seemed unreal—a cruel joke of destiny. She fell to her knees in the wet grass, and the sobs she had tried to suppress broke free again, uncontrollable and convulsive.

Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over her. Bianca abruptly stopped crying, and before she could try to get up on her own, he did it for her, hauling her up roughly and without tact. His feline blue gaze, now stripped of the dark glasses, riddled her, filled with icy resentment.

"Why didn't you die?" Eric's voice was a guttural whisper, loaded with venom and pain. "Why her and not you, the woman I love?! You should have died, Bianca, not Aitana. We had so much ahead of us, a future planned out. You've destroyed everything. You are to blame for her death, and you'll have to carry that forever," he pointed out with rage, each word a dart to her already fragile heart.

She couldn't defend herself. Her whole body shook, and she felt more broken than ever being singled out that way—and to top it off, by the person she had secretly loved from the shadows all this time.

A physical blow would have hurt less than the cruelty of his words.

The hatred in his eyes was excessive, incomprehensibly deep. The man roared—an animalistic sound of pure pain and fury—and walked away, leaving Bianca standing there, watching him leave, before shattering completely.

She thought she would most likely never see him again.

But how wrong she was!