The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and old coffee, the same sterile scent that had clung to Seraphine in her first life while cervical cancer ate her from the inside. She lay in the narrow bed now, bruised trachea making every swallow feel like swallowing broken glass, shallow cuts on her arms and feet stitched and bandaged, the left side of her face swollen and purple. Monitors beeped softly beside her, a steady reminder that she was still breathing, still here.She felt worse than the injuries.Not the physical pain, though that was bad enough. The real ache sat heavy in her chest, a sick, twisting shame. She had run from Lucien over a lie. She had let doubt and old scars from Adrian convince her that the man who had sold his soul to save her could ever betray her. She had gone to dinner with Marcus, let him hug her goodbye, all while Lucien’s white roses arrived every morning like quiet apologies she hadn’t answered. She had almost destroyed the one good, real thing she had le
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