They Laughed While I Was Dying
Adrian Moretti’s adopted sister—She knew perfectly well that I suffered from severe asthma and could not be exposed to smoke or strong scents.
Yet during the yacht reception, she deliberately dragged me onto the open deck, where cigars burned nonstop and the wind howled.
Within seconds, my chest tightened.
When I reached for my inhaler, my blood ran cold.
It was empty.
I collapsed against the railing, gasping violently, my lungs burning as if they were collapsing in on themselves.
She crouched beside me and smiled.
“You’re always so dramatic. It’s just a little smoke. You don’t need to act like you’re dying,” she said softly.
“You’re too weak. You need to build some tolerance.”
I looked towa