Chapter 4

"Sir, we really don't need-" the nurse started to protest.

"She's unstable," Cameron cut her off, his voice like ice. "Her condition is more critical than Alicia's. What if the blood bank supply isn't enough? I'm not taking any chances."

He turned his cold eyes on me. "Alicia caused this. She needs to bear the consequences."

He actually reached out and stroked my hand, his touch a vile mockery of comfort. His voice dropped to a low, almost gentle tone that made my skin crawl.

"Just think of this as a lesson, Alicia. A lesson in not hurting innocent people."

I snatched my hand back as if his touch had burned me. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to look at his monstrous face. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

He sighed, a sound of put-upon patience, and walked out of the room. I heard him on the phone, arranging for some rare, expensive herbs to be stewed into a tonic for me, a pathetic attempt to buy his conscience clean.

The needle slid into my vein. I didn't flinch. I just let the exhaustion take over, and I drifted into a black, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up, the room was empty. The sun was streaming through the window, and on the bedside table was a bowl of steaming, dark liquid. The tonic Cameron had ordered. It smelled bitter.

I pushed myself up, my body aching and weak. Ignoring the soup, I put on the clothes someone had left for me and walked out of the room, my only thought to get away from this place.

As I passed a room down the hall, a voice called out my name.

"Alicia."

It was Hannah. I stopped but didn't turn around. I didn't want to see her.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoed in the hallway.

I spun around instinctively. I saw Hannah, standing in the doorway of her room. She was holding a bowl of soup-an identical bowl to the one left for me-and she deliberately poured the scalding liquid onto her own arm.

Just as the first drops hit her skin, Cameron came running down the hall. He saw the scene: me standing there, Hannah screaming in pain, the overturned bowl on the floor between us.

He didn't hesitate. He rushed past me, shoving me so hard I stumbled against the wall. He went straight to Hannah, his face a mask of frantic concern.

"Hannah! Are you okay? What happened?" he asked, gently examining her arm.

I watched him, a profound sense of exhaustion washing over me. I was tired of the lies, tired of the drama, tired of being the villain in their sick love story.

I looked directly at Hannah, whose eyes, over Cameron's shoulder, met mine. There was no pain in them. Only triumph.

"It doesn't matter," I said, my voice flat and dead. "I'm not marrying you, Cameron. It's over."

He froze. Then, a slow, condescending smile spread across his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out.

My diary.

My blood ran cold. It was a leather-bound journal I' d kept for years, filled with my most private thoughts, my dreams, my hopelessly romantic feelings for him.

"You don't mean that, Alicia," he said, holding it up like a trophy. "You're just confused. Once you read this, you'll remember how much you love me. You'll remember everything we planned."

The sight of my private words in his hands, twisted into a tool to manipulate and control me, was the ultimate violation. The pain was so sharp, so intense, it felt physical. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, trying to hold back the tears that were stinging my eyes.

"You've become so selfish, Alicia," he said, his voice full of disappointment, as if he were the victim here. "So... vicious. This isn't the woman I fell in love with."

I choked on a sob, unable to speak past the lump of grief and rage in my throat.

"Ms. England?"

A calm, authoritative voice cut through the tension. It came from behind me.

I turned. A man stood there. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity that seemed to suck all the air out of the hallway. It was Atlas Conner. My father's head of security.