Amelia POV:

When I resurfaced, the world was a blurry white. The antiseptic smell attacked my nostrils, pulling me further into a painful consciousness. My head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with every beat of my heart. My left arm, my side, and my legs screamed in protest as I tried to shift. Bandages, tight and restrictive, swaddled my body.

A nurse, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, entered the room. "You're awake," she said softly, her voice filled with a professional gentleness. "Take it easy. You have several lacerations, a deep bruise on your side, and a mild concussion. You're lucky, given the circumstances."

Lucky. The word tasted like ash. Lucky to have survived Blake's latest act of cruelty. "Circumstances?" I rasped, my throat raw.

She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the chart in her hand. "You were brought in after an incident at your residence. Allegedly, you fell. Is there anyone we can call for you? A next of kin?"

I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my chest. "No," I whispered, the word hollow and empty. "I have no family." Blake was the only family I had left, and he was the one who had put me here. The betrayal was so complete, so absolute, it was almost comical.

The nurse nodded, a flicker of pity in her eyes, before silently excusing herself. Her departure left me in a sterile silence, alone with the ghosts of my past. Blake's callous words, the guru's twisted prophecies, Chyna's triumphant sneer-they all swirled in my mind, a tormenting symphony. He hadn't even bothered to visit me. Of course he hadn't. I was just a nuisance, a loose end.

The door burst open with a jarring suddenness, making me flinch. Chyna stood there, her eyes wide, a faux look of concern plastered on her face. She rushed to my bedside, her voice a theatrical whisper. "Amelia! Oh, my dear, I was so worried! Blake told me what happened. You poor thing, you must have been so disoriented."

My blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of her performance. "Disoriented?" I replied, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Or perhaps pushed?"

She ignored my barb, pressing on. "Blake was so upset. But the guru said it was for the best, a necessary cleansing of negative energy from the house. He said your distress was simply a manifestation of your own inner turmoil." She shook her head, a practiced sigh escaping her lips. "He even said you tried to hurt me, pushing me down."

My teeth clenched. "He said what?"

Before I could react, she reached out, her hand landing squarely on my bandaged side. A sharp, excruciating pain shot through me, making me gasp. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.

"Oh, Amelia, I am so, so sorry!" she cried, pulling her hand away with feigned horror. "I forgot where you were hurt! I'm so clumsy!" Her eyes, however, sparkled with malicious glee.

I glared at her, my hand slamming down on hers, pushing it away with surprising force. "Stop it, Chyna. Don't pretend. I know what you are. And I know what you did." My voice was a low growl, laced with a venom I didn't know I possessed. "And I know your babies' 'illness' was a convenient excuse to destroy my garden, wasn't it? Another one of your pathetic schemes."

Her smile vanished. Her face hardened, a mask of calculated malice replacing the false concern. "Oh, you caught on, did you? Clever girl." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, taunting whisper. "Yes, it was. And it worked perfectly, didn't it? Just like everything else. Blake and I, we're meant to be. The guru said so, and now we have proof. Two beautiful, healthy sons."

She chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "You know, Blake and I have been together for years. Even when he was 'with' you, I was always the one he came back to. The one he confided in. The one he truly loved." She leaned closer, her breath smelling faintly of sweet perfume, a stark contrast to her bitter words. "Those miscarriages? He was with me every time. Celebrating our future, while you mourned a past he never truly wanted."

My mind reeled, a sudden wave of nausea, sharper and more potent than before, washing over me. The miscarriages. The nights Blake had been "working late," or "meditating with the guru." He had been with Chyna. Celebrating. While I was bleeding, grieving, dying inside. The sheer depravity of it.

A primal scream tore from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. My hand flew up, fueled by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage, and connected with her cheek with a resounding slap. The sound cracked in the sterile room.

Chyna shrieked, clutching her face. Blood welled up from her split lip. Just then, the door burst open. Blake stood there, his eyes blazing, a fury I had never seen directed at me etched on his face.

"Amelia!" he thundered, rushing to Chyna's side. "What have you done?" He cradled Chyna's face, his concern palpable, his gaze never once meeting mine.

My mind, though still reeling, snapped into focus. Blake wouldn't believe me. He never had. But I had something that could prove it. My hand fumbled beneath my pillow, pulling out my phone. I held it up, my finger hovering over the record button.

"Don't worry, Blake," I said, my voice trembling but gaining strength. "I have proof. Everything she just said? It's all right here. Every ugly, disgusting truth."

Chyna's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine panic crossing her face. Her carefully constructed facade cracked, revealing the fear beneath.

A grim satisfaction, cold and sharp, cut through my despair. I had nothing left, no family, no children, no garden. But I had this. This was my last piece of dignity, my last chance to expose their lies.

Blake's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. He took a menacing step towards me, his eyes now fixed on my phone. Just as he lunged, Chyna gasped, clutched her head, and collapsed to the floor in a dramatic faint.

Amelia POV:

Blake froze mid-lunge, his eyes instantly abandoning me for Chyna' s crumpled form. "Chyna! What' s wrong?" he cried, his voice laced with a genuine panic that stung me more than any blow. He scooped her up, his gaze never once returning to me, leaving me alone with the sickening realization of his true priorities. He didn't care about my pain, my broken body, or the truth. He only cared about his "destined partner" and his heirs.

"Guards!" he roared, already carrying Chyna out the door. "Secure this room! Do not let her leave or contact anyone!"

Two hulking figures in dark suits immediately materialized, blocking the doorway. My heart sank. They were Blake' s private security, loyal only to him. My phone, still clutched in my hand, was yanked away, tossed against the wall, shattering into a dozen pieces. The tiny SIM card, my only evidence, was probably ruined. All my proof, all my leverage, gone.

"You can' t do this!" I yelled, my voice hoarse. "This is illegal confinement! I have rights!"

The guards remained stoic, their faces impassive. They simply stood there, silent sentinels of my captivity. My protests faded into the sterile silence of the room. I was utterly alone, imprisoned, my voice unheard, my truth obliterated.

A week later, the door creaked open again. Not Blake, not Chyna, but a stern-faced man in a tailored suit, one of Blake's senior assistants. He held a tablet in his hand, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion.

"Mrs. Hodge," he began, his voice formal, "Mr. Hodge requests your presence for a spiritual cleansing ritual. It is for Ms. Hatfield's recovery and the continued well-being of the twins. The guru believes your participation is essential to purify the household's energies."

A spiritual cleansing. For their well-being. Not a word about me, about my injuries, about my shattered life. The sheer arrogance, the unrelenting cruelty, was breathtaking. I refused, of course, but my refusal was met with a grim silence. Without another word, two new guards entered, lifted me from the bed, and half-carried, half-dragged me out of the hospital, ignoring my cries of pain.

They drove for hours, the city lights fading into the endless stretch of highway, then a winding, unpaved road. We stopped at the base of a towering mountain, shrouded in mist. My body, still healing, screamed with every jolt of the suspension. The guards pulled me out, my legs buckling beneath me.

"What is this place?" I demanded, my voice weak.

My question was answered by a jarring ringtone. One of the guards answered, holding the phone to his ear, then grimacing. He held it out to me. Blake.

"Amelia," his voice, distorted by the poor reception, was chillingly calm. "The guru has instructed that you are to ascend this sacred mountain. Each step, a kowtow. A cleansing of your spirit, a penance for the discord you have brought into our home. For Chyna's recovery, and for the health of my sons."

My blood boiled. "I won't do it, Blake! I won't debase myself for your twisted guru and your lies!"

His voice hardened. "Think of your mother's roses, Amelia. The seeds you cherish. The last vestige of her memory. They are quite vulnerable, aren't they, out in the open? A sudden frost, an unfortunate accident..."

My breath hitched. He wouldn't. But I knew he would. He had destroyed my garden once; he wouldn' t hesitate to destroy the very last link to my past. "You monster," I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

The line went dead.

My heart felt numb, replaced by a cold, leaden weight. The guards released me, gesturing towards the steep, rocky path. Each step was agony, each kowtow a searing pain as my bruised body scraped against the rough stone. My injuries, still raw, tore open with every genuflection, blood seeping through my thin clothes. I moved mechanically, a puppet on strings, my mind disconnected from the brutal reality of my physical torment.

When I faltered, one of the guards, without a word, would grab my head and slam it against the stone steps, a sickening crack echoing in the silence. "The master's instructions," he would grunt, his face impassive. "No shortcuts in penance."

Hours later, the sun already dipping below the horizon, I reached the summit. My body was a mass of raw, bleeding wounds, my face streaked with dirt and tears. My clothes were torn, my skin abraded. I stood there, swaying, a broken, empty vessel.

Blake and Chyna were waiting, flanked by the guru, who watched me with an unsettling, knowing smile. Blake, seeing me, frowned, a flicker of something, perhaps concern, in his eyes. He took a hesitant step forward.

"Blake," I said, my voice raspy, unfamiliar even to me. I had used his full name, a stark departure from the intimate endearment I once reserved for him. "What more do you want?"

He winced, a subtle shift in his otherwise composed demeanor. Chyna, seeing her opportunity, rushed forward, a picture of fragile gratitude. "Oh, Amelia, thank you," she simpered, clutching Blake's arm. "I feel so much better already. The guru says your efforts have purified the air."

I wanted to hit her again, to wipe that smug, fake gratitude off her face. But I was utterly spent, too tired to even lift my hand. I simply turned to leave, needing to escape the suffocating hypocrisy of their presence.

Just then, a shrill, piercing alarm blared from a nearby monitor. A voice crackled through a loudspeaker: "Warning! Unstable rockfall detected! Seek immediate shelter!"

A massive boulder, dislodged by the vibrations, came hurtling down the mountainside, directly towards us. Chaos erupted. People screamed, scattering in every direction.

Blake, without a second thought, shoved Chyna behind him, shielding her with his body. He was her protector, her hero. But as he lunged to save her, his arm swung wide, slamming into my chest. The impact sent me flying backwards, off balance, directly into the path of the oncoming projectile. My head hit the ground with a sickening thud, and then, everything went black. The last thing I heard was the thunderous crash of the boulder, and Blake's distant shout, not of my name, but of Chyna's.

Amelia POV:

The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain. A searing impact, then darkness, punctuated by flashes of white-hot agony. I heard muffled voices, frantic commands, the urgent beeping of medical machinery. My consciousness flickered, a fragile candle in a storm.

"...severe internal bleeding... head trauma... priorities..." A male voice, calm but urgent, cut through the haze. Then another, softer, but equally firm.

"The mother of the heirs must be stabilized first," it was Blake, his voice closer now, sharper. "Chyna and the boys are paramount. Amelia... she's secondary. Just keep her alive, if you can."

My breath hitched, a fresh wave of pain, colder and deeper than any physical wound, washing over me. Secondary. Keep her alive, if you can. He had prioritized Chyna, again. He had left me to die, again.

"But Mr. Hodge," a doctor's voice protested faintly, "her injuries are life-threatening. She needs immediate intervention."

"My decision stands," Blake's voice was firm, resolute. "The guru's prophecy must be protected above all else. She understood the risks. She brought this upon herself. The negative energies..." His voice trailed off, swallowed by the distance. He was walking away. Again.

I was utterly, completely alone. Abandoned. My heart, already shattered, splintered into irreparable fragments. The warmth of my body, the last flicker of hope, drained away, leaving behind an icy void. He didn't care. He never had. He was a monster cloaked in charm, and I was just collateral damage in his twisted pursuit of destiny.

The darkness consumed me once more.

Hours, or perhaps days, later, I clawed my way back to consciousness. The world was still blurry, but the sharp edges of pain had dulled to a throbbing ache. My head was bandaged, my body a tapestry of bruises and stitches. I tried to sit up, but my muscles protested, weak and unresponsive.

A hand, surprisingly gentle, reached out, offering a glass of water. "Easy, Amelia," a familiar voice said. "Don't push yourself."

Blake.

The name was a curse on my lips. My eyes snapped open, blazing with a fury that momentarily eclipsed the pain. He was sitting by my bedside, his face pale, a haunted look in his eyes. He had a small bandage on his hand, a tiny cut compared to the wreckage of my body.

My hand flew up, striking the glass, sending it crashing to the floor. Water and shards of glass scattered across the sterile tiles. "Don't touch me!" I hissed, my voice raw and trembling. "Get away from me!"

He recoiled, his gaze falling to his bleeding hand, then to the broken glass. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of shock and something I couldn't quite decipher. "Amelia Levine," he said, his voice low, using my full name, a rare occurrence that always signaled his displeasure. "You are being irrational. I came to see if you were alright."

Irrational? He abandoned me to die on that mountain, prioritized another woman, and now he dared to call me irrational? The memory of his command to the doctors, "Keep her alive, if you can," echoed in my ears, a cruel mockery of his current pretense of concern.

"Alright?" I spat, tears of rage and agony streaming down my face. "Do I look alright to you, Blake? Is this what 'alright' looks like after your spiritual cleansing? After you left me for dead?" I pushed myself up, ignoring the searing pain, my eyes burning into his. "Get out! Get out of my sight! I don't want to see you, hear you, or ever breathe the same air as you again!"

He flinched, a subtle tremor running through his body. "Amelia, I understand you're upset, but you need to calm down. I came to check on you. What else do you expect?"

What else did I expect? An apology? Remorse for the shattered lives, for the deliberate cruelty? No. I expected nothing from him. "I expect you to disappear, Blake. Just vanish. You lost me the moment you chose Chyna. You lost me the moment you sacrificed our children for your sick guru's lies. You lost me the moment you let that boulder hit me."

A flicker of something-annoyance, perhaps, or a nascent fear-crossed his face. He stood there, frozen, staring at me, at the fury that blazed in my eyes. The woman who had once been so gentle, so compliant, was gone. Replaced by a shell of rage and brokenness. He seemed baffled by this transformation, by this Amelia who dared to defy him. He seemed accustomed to my quiet suffering, my silent submission.

He stood there, a strange sense of unease settling over him. He had always been in control, always had the answers. But now, facing my unbridled fury, my absolute rejection, he seemed adrift. His carefully constructed world, built on prophecies and power, was suddenly shaking. He remembered the quiet, gentle Amelia, always seeking his approval, always deferring to his decisions. This Amelia, spitting venom, demanding his absence, was a terrifying stranger.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression softening almost immediately. It was Chyna. His attention, once again, was completely diverted.

"Blake, my love," Chyna's voice, sickly sweet, chirped from the phone, loud enough for me to hear. "How is Amelia? I'm so worried about her. I hope she's not too upset about the house arrangements. We're thinking of redecorating the master suite, you know, for the boys' sake. More vibrant colors, less... muted."

Less muted. Her subtle jab at my artistic style, at the quiet elegance I preferred, was not lost on me. It was another calculated insult, another assertion of her dominance. Blake's face, a moment ago reflecting a flicker of something resembling confusion, now hardened into a mask of decision. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, his mind already far away, already planning new decor for the room that was once ours.

He pocketed his phone, his eyes meeting mine one last time. There was no apology, no remorse, only a cold, hard finality. "Amelia," he said, his voice devoid of all warmth, "I've made my decision. I am moving forward with Chyna and our children. You will, of course, remain my wife, for propriety's sake. But our intimate life, our shared spaces, they are over. I will send instructions regarding your continued residence here. You are no longer to enter the master suite without permission, and you will respect Chyna' s position in this family."

He turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the silent, sterile room. The words echoed in my ears, a death knell to everything I had once held dear. My intimate life. Our shared spaces. Over. He had not only left me for dead, but he had also sealed my fate, condemning me to a living hell, tethered to him as a trophy wife, while he lived his "destined" life with Chyna.