Chapter 4

Dora POV:

The icy rain lashed down, blurring my vision. Each drop felt like a physical blow, a harsh reminder of Dawson's cruelty. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, but the cold outside was nothing compared to the desolation in my heart. Tears mingled with the rain, indistinguishable, a silent testament to my shattered world. He had left me, deliberately, for a "lesson." The same man who had promised to warm me, to protect me, had abandoned me to the storm.

I fumbled for my phone in my soaked purse, my fingers numb. Dawson had made sure I had all the latest tech, but in this moment of crisis, it was useless. The screen was unresponsive, waterlogged. I couldn't call a taxi. I couldn't call anyone. I had no one.

"I'll never leave you in the cold, little bird." The whisper of his voice, once a comfort, now haunted me, a cruel mocking echo of a promise broken. He had said it so many times, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer. Each memory, once precious, now felt like a fresh betrayal.

There was no choice but to walk. My designer heels, a gift from Dawson, were ill-suited for the flooded streets. They chafed my feet, slowed my progress, each step a struggle. I pulled them off, abandoning them in a puddle, and continued barefoot, the cold pavement biting at my soles.

I must have walked for what felt like hours, my body aching, my mind a numb haze of pain. The rain finally subsided, replaced by a chilling drizzle. Then, the blinding flash of headlights. A screech of tires. A searing pain. Darkness.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, a cacophony of voices and unfamiliar sounds swirling around me. The harsh glare of fluorescent lights pierced my eyelids. I was on a gurney, being wheeled rapidly down a corridor. A voice, distant and muffled, spoke my name. My head throbbed, my leg burned.

"We need to contact her emergency contact, Mr. Nash," a female voice said, clear and professional. "He's listed here."

My heart gave a weak flutter, a dying bird. Dawson. He would come. He had to. He couldn't leave me to die. Not after... Not after everything.

Then, a clipped, impatient male voice, unmistakable even through the haze of pain. It was Dawson's. "Dora? A car accident? Really?" There was no concern, no panic. Only irritation. "Tell her I'm busy. And tell her this is a well-deserved lesson for defying me yesterday." Click. The line went dead.

The words, cold and devoid of all humanity, hit me harder than the car had. My heart, already shattered, splintered into a million microscopic fragments. The pain in my leg, the throbbing in my head, faded into insignificance compared to the searing agony in my chest. Even the strongest anesthetic couldn't numb this. He truly didn't care. I was nothing to him.

"He... he refused to come," a nurse murmured, her voice filled with pity. "We need to operate immediately. She's losing blood."

Then, blessed unconsciousness.

I fell into a fragmented dream, a kaleidoscope of shattered memories. I saw myself, three years ago, trying to make sense of a smartphone, dropping it repeatedly. Dawson had been there, his laugh warm, his hand guiding mine. "It's alright, little bird. You'll get the hang of it. I'll teach you everything."

He taught me how to order food, how to watch movies, how to navigate the bewildering maze of modern life. He was patient, endlessly patient. He would hold my hand, his thumb tracing patterns on my skin, making me feel cherished, safe. I remembered our first kiss, tentative and sweet, under the glow of a city skyscraper. His lips on mine, his arms strong around me. "You're so pure, Dora," he'd whispered. "So innocent."

But the dream twisted, turning sinister. His words, once sweet, became tainted. "Clean, uncomplicated. Doesn't ask questions. A perfect prescription." The images of his tender smiles morphed into the cold, calculating glint I had seen in his eyes at the restaurant. His touch, once comforting, now felt like a violation. All of it. Every single moment, every touch, every word-a lie. A performance. My heart ached so fiercely, even in the dream, that I curled into a fetal position, a silent sob tearing through my dream-self.

I woke up to a dull, persistent ache that permeated my entire body. My leg was encased in a cast, heavy and stiff. The hospital room was bright, sterile, a stark contrast to the opulence of Dawson's mansion. The pain was real, but so was the emptiness.

The door creaked open, and in walked Dawson, followed by Arleen.

"Dora, darling, you poor thing!" Arleen exclaimed, rushing to my bedside, her face a picture of concern. She took my hand, her touch cool and surprisingly gentle. "When Dawson told me what happened, I was so worried. Are you in much pain?"

I stared at her, then at Dawson. He looked... annoyed. Not worried, not relieved. Annoyed.

"Dawson, you simply must apologize to Dora," Arleen said, turning to him, her voice firm yet soft. "Leaving her in the rain like that... it was too much. You know how delicate she is."

Dawson sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He looked at me, a flicker of something akin to shame in his eyes, quickly replaced by irritation. "Fine. Dora, I'm sorry you got hurt. It was... an accident. I didn't intend for this to happen." His apology was cold, hollow, and utterly unconvincing. He might as well have been apologizing for the weather.

"But," he continued, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, warning tone, "this is a consequence of your defiance, Dora. You must understand that. Arleen is important to me. More important than anything. You must never forget that." He squeezed my uninjured hand, a possessive, threatening gesture.

My heart was too numb to register another blow. It felt like a dried-up well, incapable of holding any more pain. I simply stared at him, my eyes devoid of expression.

Arleen, ever the attentive one, picked up a tray of food from the bedside table. "I thought you might be hungry, darling," she said, her smile saccharine sweet. "I picked out all your favorites." She held out a spoonful of what looked like creamy mushroom soup.

As she brought it closer, a faint, familiar scent reached me. My stomach lurched. "No," I whispered, turning my head away. "I can't eat that."

Dawson's eyes narrowed. "What now, Dora? Are you going to be difficult again? Arleen went out of her way for you."

"There's... there's shellfish in it," I said, my voice strained. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

The room fell silent. Arleen's smile faltered, a fleeting look of surprise on her face. Dawson looked genuinely perplexed. "Shellfish? You are? Since when?"

"Always," I replied, my voice flat. "You know that, Dawson. You found out years ago, when I first came here. I broke out in hives."

His face flushed, a rare moment of genuine embarrassment. He had forgotten. He had forgotten something so fundamental about me, something that could have landed me in the emergency room if I hadn't noticed. The man who claimed to love me, the man who knew every detail of Arleen's childhood, had forgotten my life-threatening allergy.

Arleen quickly stepped in, her composure regained. "Oh, my dear, I'm so terribly sorry! My memory isn't what it used to be. I must have completely forgotten. How thoughtless of me!" Her apology sounded sincere enough, but her eyes held a different story, a flicker of something cold and calculating.

Dawson, recovering from his blunder, turned back to me, his voice sharp. "It's fine, Dora. Arleen simply forgot. She's been under a lot of stress lately, darling. You know, with her mother's illness and all. Her mind is on more important things." He took Arleen's hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. "She's been so worried about me, Dora. Her well-being is my absolute priority."

I looked at their clasped hands, then at his face, etched with a concern that was never for me. "Why?" I asked, the single word a raw whisper that cut through the sterile silence. "Why is she so important, Dawson? Why is she more important than anything?"

He looked at me then, his eyes locking onto mine, cold and resolute. "Because," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt, "I would die for Arleen. I would give my life for her, without a second thought. That's how important she is."

The words, so utterly devoid of feeling for me, were the final nail in the coffin of my shattered heart.