Chapter 3

Ila POV:

The days that followed were a masterclass in psychological torture, and I, the blind woman, was the most observant person in the room. I played my part to perfection. I was the fragile, sightless fiancée, dependent and docile. I let them lead me, feed me, and talk around me as if I were a piece of furniture.

Dr. Evans, my long-time ophthalmologist, came for his weekly check-up. He shone a light into my eyes, and I forced myself not to flinch, to give no indication that the piercing beam was anything but a familiar pressure against my lids.

"The swelling is down," he told Jaxon in the hallway, his voice carefully neutral. I stood just inside the bedroom door, pretending to search for a dropped hairbrush. "There's a real chance, Jaxon. Her vision could return."

A sliver of hope, sharp and painful, pierced through my resolve. To see the world again, to see the ice, to see... what? The man I loved doting on another woman? The life that was stolen from me? The hope curdled into a bitter acid in my throat. It was too late. Seeing wouldn't fix a damn thing.

So I would remain blind. In their eyes, at least. It was the perfect camouflage. My only goal was to survive the next few weeks until Dario' s plan was in place, until my new life, my new identity, was ready.

"No," Jaxon's voice was a low, cold command from the hallway, oblivious to my presence. "We don't want that."

Dr. Evans was stunned into silence for a moment. "What? Jaxon, for five years, this has been our goal."

"Our goal was to manage her condition," Jaxon corrected him, his tone chillingly precise. "Her blindness... it' s better this way. For everyone. Kamila has had enough stress. If Ila' s sight returns... it would complicate things."

He admitted it. He had been deliberately keeping me in the dark. For five years, he had dangled the carrot of recovery in front of me, all while ensuring I never reached it. All for her. For the imposter.

The wedding ring on my finger, the 'Eternal Heart,' suddenly felt like a shackle. My fingers closed around it, squeezing so hard that the sharp edges of the pavé diamonds bit into my palm. A drop of blood, warm and sticky, welled up and dripped onto the pristine white carpet. I didn't feel the pain.

I stumbled back into my room, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My body trembled with a rage so profound it left me weak. I bumped into the large, framed wedding photo on my dresser-a life-sized portrait of Jaxon kissing my cheek, his eyes closed in seeming adoration. It crashed to the floor, the glass shattering.

A tear, hot and solitary, finally escaped and tracked a path down my cheek. Then another. And another. Until I was choking on silent, wracking sobs. The grief was a physical thing, a monster clawing its way out of my chest. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by a hollow, echoing laughter that sounded like breaking glass.

I knelt, carefully picking up the photo from the wreckage. I carried it to the shredder in Jaxon's home office, a machine he' d once boasted could destroy corporate secrets. I fed our smiling faces into its hungry maw. The grinding noise was the most satisfying sound I had ever heard.

"Ila?" Jaxon's voice came from the doorway. "What was that noise? Are you okay?"

I turned, my face a perfect mask of serene blindness. "Just getting rid of some old files, darling. Things that have mistakes in them."

He walked over, peering at the confetti of paper in the bin. "This looks familiar..." he murmured, but his attention was already drifting. He was a man who only saw what he wanted to see.

Just then, Kamila appeared in the doorway, holding a massive bouquet of lilies. "Happy birthday, Ila!" she chirped, her smile wide and dazzling.

My throat closed up. The cloying, sweet scent of the lilies, a flower I was violently allergic to, filled the air. I doubled over, coughing, my eyes streaming with genuine, painful tears.

"Oh, goodness!" Kamila rushed forward, a look of faux concern on her face. She clamped a hand over my eyes. "Don't peek! Jaxon has a surprise for you!"

She guided me, stumbling and choking, to the dining room. There, on the table, was a birthday cake. A mango mousse cake. And a single, mocking candle.

"We wanted to celebrate you!" Kamila said brightly. "I hope you like it. Mango is my favorite."

Jaxon beamed at her, stroking her arm. "You're so thoughtful, Kami." He turned to me. "Make a wish, Ila."

I stood there, the scent of lilies and mango suffocating me. My lungs burned, my eyes felt like they were on fire. I looked from the cake to Jaxon' s smiling face, to Kamila' s triumphant one.

My voice, when it came, was terrifyingly calm.

"Today is not my birthday, Jaxon."

His smile faltered. "What? Of course it is."

"No," I said, my gaze unwavering. "Today is the anniversary of our son's death. The son I miscarried while you were in Tokyo, closing a deal. And I," I added, my voice dropping to a whisper, "am deathly allergic to mango."

The color drained from Jaxon's face. The doting smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of horrified recognition, of guilt. For a split second, I saw the man I used to love, the man who would have moved mountains for me.

But he was gone.

I turned and walked out of the room, leaving him with his cake, his imposter, and the ghost of our dead child. I didn't need to see his face to know the truth. He had forgotten. He had forgotten me.

A noise from downstairs woke me. I cracked my eyes open to see Jaxon sitting by my bed, his silhouette dark against the pale moonlight. He had been watching me sleep. For a terrifying moment, it felt like old times.

"Ila," he whispered, his voice thick with a counterfeit tenderness. "I'm so sorry about yesterday. I... I don't know what I was thinking. Let me make it up to you."

He offered me a glass of warm milk, just as he used to. He told me he'd arranged a private concert in the garden, a string quartet playing my favorite Debussy pieces. It was a perfect replica of a thousand other nights we'd shared.

I said nothing. I refused his touch. I let the milk grow cold.

His jaw tightened. The gentle façade cracked. "Fine," he clipped, his patience gone. "Be that way." He scooped me up into his arms, ignoring my rigid posture. "But you will come and listen to the music I arranged for you."

He carried me out to the stone terrace, the night air cold against my thin silk nightgown. I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself.

Down on the lawn, Kamila was already waiting, a theatrical smile on her face. But my eyes weren't on her. They were on the large, covered cage beside her.

Jaxon set me down in a chair, then immediately went to Kamila's side. He wrapped her in a thick, fur-lined coat, his hands lingering on her waist. "Are you warm enough, my love?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You and the baby need to be careful."

My love. The baby. Each word was a fresh wound.

Kamila preened under his attention. "We're fine, Jaxon. Now, are you ready for the main event?"

With a dramatic flourish, she pulled the cover off the cage.

Inside, pacing restlessly, was a full-grown Siberian tiger. Its eyes, glowing like embers in the dim light, fixed on me. A low, guttural growl rumbled in its chest.

Jaxon clapped his hands together, oblivious. "A tiger! Ila, isn't it magnificent? Kamila arranged it all. A private performance, just for you."

A performance. For a blind woman. The cruelty was breathtaking.

Kamila blew a kiss towards the tiger. "Isn't he beautiful? I call him Rajah."

The tiger ignored her. Its gaze was locked on me, its body tensed, ready to spring. This wasn't a performance.

This was an execution.

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