Chapter 4

I woke up to blackness. A thick, suffocating void where light should be. Panic clawed at my throat. My hands flew to my face. Bandages. Thick, heavy bandages covered my eyes.

Where was I? What happened?

The last thing I remembered was the minor explosion at my old studio. I' d been careless, setting up the chemicals for a new glass pigment.

A flash, a searing pain in my eyes, then nothing. It was supposed to be a small, controlled incident to explain some minor scarring, a way to alter my appearance subtly before my real escape. But it had gone wrong. Or had it?

"She's awake." Jake Miller's voice. Smug. Vicious.

My blood turned to ice. No. Not him. Not here.

"Good. The doctors said the chemical burns were... extensive." Ethan. His voice was different. Not the feigned tenderness, but something harder, colder. "A pity. Such talented eyes."

My studio. The chemicals. It wasn't an accident. He' d tampered with them. He' d planned this. Another layer of his sick game.

Jake chuckled. "Poetic, isn't it? The artist, blinded. Just like Chloe was blinded by her ambition, according to you, right? Stealing that scholarship, leading to her... tragic end." He spat the words out.

"It seems Elara has a penchant for accidents around the anniversary of Chloe' s death," Ethan mused, his voice dangerously soft. "First the fall in the Rockies, then the car crash, now this. Almost like fate is trying to tell her something."

Chloe' s death anniversary. He' d orchestrated all my "accidents" to coincide with it. The cruelty was unimaginable. Each loss, each trauma, a twisted tribute to his dead fiancée. A fiancée who was very much alive.

"So, what' s next, boss?" Jake asked, his voice eager. "The engagement gala is soon. A blind, scarred fiancée? Might dampen the mood. Or... heighten it, depending on your taste."

Ethan was silent for a moment. Then, "The doctors say the damage is permanent. She' ll never see her precious colors again. Perhaps that' s enough. For now. A public humiliation might be... redundant. Less entertaining than watching her stumble through a world she can no longer truly perceive."

No. My art. My vision. Gone. He' d taken everything. My children, my body, and now, my sight. The one thing I had left.

A wave of despair, so profound, so absolute, washed over me. My body went limp. The darkness behind the bandages seemed to press in, crushing me. I think I screamed. Or maybe the sound was trapped in my chest, a silent agony.

Ethan rushed to my side, his hand on my arm. "Elara? Elara, can you hear me? You' re safe. It was an accident at your studio. A terrible accident." His voice was laced with that false concern again.

I wanted to rip his hand away, to scream the truth I knew. But what was the point? He already knew. He was the author of this horror.

"My eyes..." I whispered, my voice raspy. "I can' t... I can' t see." I had to play along. For now.

"Shhh, darling," he soothed. "There was an explosion. Chemicals. The doctors did everything they could. There' s... significant damage. But we' ll get through this. I' ll be your eyes."

Liar. He wouldn't be my eyes. He would be my tormentor, delighting in my every stumble, my every moment of frustration.

The ophthalmologist came later. A kind-faced woman Ethan had undoubtedly paid off. She delivered the news with practiced sympathy. "Severe chemical burns to both corneas, Ms. Vance. The damage is... irreversible. I' m so sorry. You' ve lost your sight."

I lay there, silent. The words echoed in the suffocating darkness. Lost my sight. Elara Vance, the glass artist, was now blind. He had won. He had finally broken me. Or so he thought.