Chapter 2

The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic pulled Amelia from the blackness. She blinked, her vision slowly focusing on the white ceiling tiles of a hospital room. A dull, throbbing pain radiated from her left arm, which was encased in a heavy cast. Her ribs ached with every breath.

A deep, commanding voice cut through the haze. "You're awake."

Julian Vance stood by the window, his expensive suit immaculate, not a single hair out of place. The morning light silhouetted him, making him look like a figure carved from stone. There was no warmth in his voice, only cold, hard inquiry.

"What was that last night?" he demanded. "What were you trying to do?"

Amelia tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her chest forced her back against the pillows with a gasp. "The light... it was falling."

"I know that," he said, his tone impatient. He walked closer, his shadow falling over her. "I'm talking about your stunt. You resigned. Your work was done. Why were you there? Why did you do that?"

She looked into his eyes, searching for the flicker of concern she thought she had seen, but there was nothing. Only suspicion. How could she explain? How could she tell him that for five years, her entire existence had been a lie, a carefully constructed performance of loyalty designed to destroy him? How could she say that in that one, split second, instinct had overridden years of planning?

"I..." she started, but the words wouldn't come. The truth was a weapon she couldn't use, not yet. The lie was a shield she had held up for so long, it felt like a part of her.

He mistook her silence for something else. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before it was gone. "Never mind. You're a liability."

His phone rang, and he answered it instantly, his voice shifting from cold to irritated. "What is it, Isabella?"

He listened for a moment, his jaw tight. "I'm at the hospital... Yes, with her... No, I'm not coming right now... Because I said so." He pinched the bridge of his nose, a rare sign of frustration. "Fine. I'll be there in an hour."

He hung up and glanced back at Amelia, his expression once again unreadable. "The doctors said you have a broken arm and two fractured ribs. You'll be here for a few days." He tossed a platinum credit card onto the bedside table. "This will cover it. My driver will pick you up when you're discharged."

And just like that, he was gone. He didn't ask if she was in pain. He didn't thank her for saving his life. He simply took care of a problem, a transaction.

Amelia lay there, alone in the silent room, the weight of his indifference pressing down on her more than her injuries. She had saved him. She had saved the man who destroyed her sister, and he had looked at her like she was a piece of broken furniture.

The silence was broken by the nurses talking softly in the hallway.

"Did you see that? That was Julian Vance!" one whispered. "And that woman with him on the phone, Isabella Rossi, the model. He left his injured assistant to go see her."

"I heard he's crazy about her," the other nurse replied. "Poor assistant. Saves his life and he can't even stay for an hour. Some people just get all the luck."

The words drifted into the room, each one a small, sharp sting. Amelia closed her eyes. It shouldn't matter. This was part of the plan-to be invisible, to be underestimated. But it did matter. The sheer, callous injustice of it all settled deep in her bones, a cold, heavy ache.

Later, a nurse came in to check her vitals. "You need to rest," the woman said kindly. "You were very lucky."

Amelia simply nodded. After the nurse left, she slowly, painfully, used her good arm to push the button for the pain medication. The IV line in her hand was a constant reminder of her weakness. She had to get out of here. She had to finish this.

She looked at the cast on her arm, a stark white symbol of her failure. She had been so close.

Through the window, she could see the city moving on without her. Cars flowed like blood cells through the concrete veins of the city. Somewhere out there, Julian was with Isabella, laughing, planning, building his empire on a foundation of lies.

A new thought, cold and sharp, cut through her pain. Maybe Sarah's way wasn't enough. Maybe the truth wasn't a strong enough weapon against a man like Julian Vance.

She looked at her reflection in the dark screen of the television. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow. She saw her own resolve staring back at her. The gala had changed things. Seeing him, seeing Isabella, feeling his cold dismissal... it had made it personal in a way it hadn't been before.

This wasn't just for Sarah anymore.

Later that evening, she saw a news report on the TV. It showed a clip of Julian Vance, looking composed and powerful, speaking to reporters outside the gala. "I want to thank my assistant, Amelia Davis, for her quick thinking. She is a loyal and dedicated employee."

Then the camera panned to Isabella, who was clinging to his arm, looking tearful and concerned. "We're just so grateful she's okay," Isabella cooed. "Julian was so worried."

The camera then showed Julian putting a protective arm around Isabella, his expression softening as he looked at her. He was gentle, caring. The man she had never seen.

Amelia felt a bitter taste in her mouth. He used her sacrifice to paint himself as a caring boss and a loving partner. He was spinning the narrative, controlling the story, just like he always did.

A new idea began to form in her mind, a darker path. If he wanted to see her as a loyal dog, then that' s what he would get. A loyal dog who was waiting for the right moment to bite the hand that fed it.

When the nurse came to check on her before the night shift ended, Amelia asked for her clothes. "I'm discharging myself."

"But the doctor said-"

"I'm fine," Amelia said, her voice flat. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the shooting pain in her ribs. She painstakingly got dressed with one arm, her movements slow and deliberate. She left Julian's credit card on the table. She wouldn't take his money. She wouldn't be his transaction.

As she was about to leave, Isabella Rossi walked in, carrying a bouquet of expensive, cloyingly sweet lilies.

"Leaving so soon?" Isabella said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She placed the flowers on the table, then "accidentally" knocked over Amelia's cup of water, soaking the front of her shirt. "Oh, clumsy me."

Amelia didn't react. She just stared at her.

"Julian felt bad he couldn't stay," Isabella continued, enjoying herself. "He had to take care of me. I was so traumatized by the whole ordeal." She leaned in closer. "He told me to tell you that your services are no longer required. Your resignation is accepted. In fact, he insists on it."

Amelia knew it was a lie. A petty, cruel game.

"He also said," Isabella added, her smile turning vicious, "that you should have let the light fall. It would have saved him the trouble of firing you." She straightened up, admiring her nails. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Julian is waiting for me in the car."

Isabella turned and walked out, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. Amelia stood there, the cold, wet patch on her shirt clinging to her skin. She watched through the window as Isabella got into Julian's sleek black car. He was in the driver's seat. He leaned over and gave Isabella a long, lingering kiss before pulling away from the curb.

He didn't even look up at the hospital window.

Amelia felt a wave of dizziness, a combination of pain, exhaustion, and pure, cold rage. She leaned against the wall, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorframe. The promise to Sarah felt distant. The evidence on the USB drive felt inadequate. All she could feel was the burning humiliation and the image of Julian's car driving away, leaving her broken and alone in its wake.