Ela Campbell POV:

King was gone. Isabel was gone. My parents, after a brief, exasperated glance, followed them, leaving me stranded in the deserted ballroom, the echoes of their disdain still ringing in my ears. Isabel's night. Always about you, Ela. Attention-seeking.

I let out a shaky breath, a weak, humorless laugh escaping my lips. Annul the contract, I had said. As if a piece of paper could sever the twisted roots that bound us. But it was a start. A final, desperate attempt to reclaim what little dignity I had left before the end.

The family lawyer, Mr. Thompson, a portly man whose loyalty lay strictly with the Campbell and Hayes empires, appeared moments later, summoned by some unseen force. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Miss Campbell. Are you quite sure about this?"

"Never more sure," I said, my voice stronger than I felt. "Make it happen. Tonight. I want nothing from them."

He gave a sigh, a puff of resignation. "Very well. I will initiate the proceedings. But understand, this is… unprecedented."

I didn't care about unprecedented. I just wanted out. I signed the preliminary documents, my hand trembling slightly, leaving a faint blood smudge on the pristine parchment. The ink felt cold beneath my fingertips, a chilling finality. I told him I would be unreachable after midnight. By then, it wouldn't matter.

Mr. Thompson left, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. I watched his retreating figure, then glanced out the window. The city lights glittered indifferently, a million tiny stars mocking my pain. King and Isabel were probably in a taxi by now, heading to some exclusive club, celebrating her promotion and my spectacular public meltdown. While they reveled, I would be quietly erasing myself from their lives.

I walked out of the ballroom, the cool night air a welcome relief against my flushed skin. My designated driver was already gone, dismissed, no doubt, by King's orders. I hailed a cab. "The old Hayes estate," I instructed, giving the address for the property King and I had shared, the place I supposed I still called 'home.'

I needed to collect my things. What few things were left for me, anyway.

When the cab pulled up to the sprawling estate, the house was dark, silent, a mausoleum. I let myself in with a key card that probably wouldn't work again after tonight. The grand foyer, usually buzzing with staff, was empty.

My steps echoed as I made my way to what used to be my room, the master suite. But when I pushed open the heavy oak door, a jolt went through me. It wasn' t my room anymore. The familiar minimalist decor had been replaced by vibrant colors, plush fabrics, and a distinct feminine scent that wasn't mine. Isabel's belongings were everywhere. Her silk scarves draped over a chair, her makeup scattered on the vanity, her glittering shoes lined up neatly in what used to be my closet. My heart sank. They hadn't even waited for me to leave.

My things, all of them, had been relegated to a small, dusty guest room at the back of the house, a room usually reserved for distant relatives or forgotten staff. My antique jewelry box, a cherished gift from my grandmother, was shoved haphazardly onto a shelf, its contents spilling out. My favorite books, once neatly arranged, lay in a disordered pile on the floor.

A wave of emptiness washed over me. Even my space had been taken. My identity systematically erased.

I started to gather my belongings, my movements slow and deliberate. My fingers brushed against a small, velvet-covered box. Inside, nestled on a silken cushion, was a delicate silver locket. It was a gift from King, given to me on our first anniversary. He had engraved it with our initials, intertwined. E.C. + K.H.

I picked it up, feeling the cool metal against my skin. A faint memory stirred-a younger, happier King, his eyes full of affection, placing it around my neck. "To remind you, Ela, that you're always with me."

I ran my thumb over the engraved letters, now faded and worn. The irony was a bitter pill. He had forgotten. Forgotten me, forgotten us.

I placed the locket into a small, nondescript travel bag. This wasn't a home anymore. It was just a house, and I was merely a fleeting guest.

As I surveyed the desolate room, the phone on the bedside table rang, startling me. I hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"

"Ela Campbell?" A professional, sympathetic voice on the other end. "This is Willow Creek Memorial. We're calling about your… arrangements. We have a beautiful plot available, overlooking the valley. Would you like us to finalize the details?"

Arrangements. My funeral arrangements. They were calling about my last resting place. A cold shiver ran down my spine, despite the fever. "How much… how much does it cost?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

There was a pause. "Miss Campbell, the package we discussed is quite extensive. It includes…"

"No," I interrupted, a sudden surge of defiance. "No, thank you. I don't need it." I hung up before they could protest. I wouldn't spend my last penny on a beautiful plot for a body that had been so unloved in life. I would disappear, unmourned, unremembered.

Just then, the door creaked open. King stood there, his shadow long and menacing in the dim hallway light. He had followed me.

His eyes swept over the cramped, dusty room, then landed on me, standing amidst the scattered remnants of my life. A flicker of distaste crossed his face. "What is this stench?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sniffed the air, as if searching for something familiar, something that belonged to the woman he thought he knew. "It smells like… decay."

He stopped himself, then seemed to push down his discomfort. "Who was that on the phone?" His voice was cold, accusatory. "Were you trying to stir up trouble again, Ela? Playing the victim for attention?"

My heart clenched. Even now, he thought the worst of me. "It was the funeral home," I said, my voice flat. "They were calling about my arrangements."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "Don't be absurd. You're not going anywhere." He strode towards me, his jaw clenched. "This contract, Ela, it's not simply an engagement. It's a merger. It binds our families, our companies. You think you can just annul it because you're having another one of your episodes?"

"I'm not having an episode," I said, my voice rising. "I'm dying, King. And I won't spend my last days tied to a man who despises me, to a family that sees me as a burden."

"Despises you?" He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Don't flatter yourself. I simply have no time for your dramatics. You were a means to an end, Ela. A necessary alliance. Nothing more." He took another step, closing the distance between us. "But you're not getting out of it. Not now, not ever. You belong to me, Ela Campbell. And everything you have belongs to me too."

His words slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. Belong to him. He had claimed my body, my name, my future. Now, he wanted to claim my past, my present, my very right to cease existing on my own terms. There was nothing left for me to lose.

"What about our child, King?" My voice was barely a whisper, ragged with the pain I had suppressed for so long. "Did that belong to you too?"

Ela Campbell POV:

King froze. His powerful shoulders tensed, and his eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to lose focus for a brief moment. His gaze drifted past me, landing on the small, silver locket I had placed on the dusty bedside table. The worn initials, E.C. + K.H., seemed to mock him from the tarnished metal.

Then, the moment passed. His eyes hardened again, the brief flicker of confusion replaced by a familiar cold indifference. "Don't try to manipulate me, Ela. We agreed. No children until the merger was fully integrated. It was a mutual decision." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Mutual?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "You told me it was 'ill-timed.' You said we needed to focus on the business. You said we had plenty of time after the deal was done." My voice cracked. "Remember when you promised we'd visit the seaside cottage every summer once we had a family? The one with the little garden you loved?"

He turned away, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Childish fantasies, Ela. We had important things to discuss. Business matters."

"Important things?" I felt a desperate need to make him see, to make him remember. "Do you remember the date of our engagement, King? Do you remember my birthday? Do you remember the first time you said you loved me?" My voice rose, a desperate cry against his impenetrable indifference. "You forgot them all. Every single one. But I bet you remember Isabel's promotion date, don't you? Her favorite flower? The exact shade of lipstick she wears?"

His head whipped around, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fury. "Enough, Ela! This self-pity is pathetic. I have a company to run, a legacy to uphold. I can't be bothered with trivial dates and sentimental nonsense." He jabbed a finger in my direction. "And as for Isabel, she's a valuable asset to Hayes Industries. She works hard. She doesn't spend her days wallowing in self-pity and fabricating illnesses for attention."

"You're right," I said, the fight draining out of me. My shoulders slumped. "I am pathetic. I am a burden. I am everything you say I am." I turned my back to him, the last sliver of hope shriveling and dying inside me. I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't bear the contempt in his eyes.

"The annulment papers are on the desk in the study," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Signed. Mr. Thompson has them. They'll be official by midnight. Read them then, if you care."

He stood there for a long moment, a silent, imposing presence. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps heavy and final. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dusty guest room, surrounded by the ghosts of my forgotten life.

The night stretched on, long and desolate. The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a countdown to my own quiet expiration. I lay on the narrow bed, the cheap mattress digging into my aching back, listening to the silence of the house. My body felt like a lead weight, heavy and unresponsive, my lungs burning with every shallow breath. I counted the seconds, the minutes, feeling my life force slowly ebb away. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes.

Just as the digital clock on my phone blinked to 12:00 AM, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the quiet house. Then, a loud bang as the front door burst open. My parents were home. And they were angry.

My door flew open, slamming against the wall with a force that made me jump. My father, Johnie, stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of rage. My mother, Clarissa, hovered anxiously behind him, her expression a mixture of fury and embarrassment.

"Ela! What have you done?" Johnie' s voice boomed, shaking the small room. "Isabel is in hysterics! King had to carry her out of the ballroom! She's terrified you're going to ruin everything for her!" He took a step into the room, his eyes blazing. "You need to apologize, Ela. Now."

I just stared at him, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Apologize for what? For dying? For wanting a moment of peace? I closed my eyes, a silent prayer for strength. Just a little longer, Ela. Just a little longer.

I remembered a time when my father's anger was a rare, terrifying thing, reserved for grave offenses. When I was small, he was my hero, my protector. He would sit by my bedside when I was sick, reading me stories, his voice a comforting rumble. He taught me to ride my first bicycle, holding on tight until I found my balance, his booming laugh echoing in the summer air when I finally pedaled away on my own.

But that was before Isabel. Before her brilliance eclipsed my quiet nature. She was the star athlete, the top student, the effortlessly charming socialite. My father, once so patient with my artistic pursuits, my love for quiet reading, slowly began to see them as weaknesses.

"Look at Isabel," he'd say, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "So strong, so ambitious. Why can't you be more like her, Ela?"

My illness, which had started subtly in my late teens, only deepened his disapproval. The constant fatigue, the chronic pain, the fragile immune system – they were all just further proof of my inadequacy. My doctors were baffled, attributing my symptoms to "stress" or "fibromyalgia," whispering about my "delicate constitution." My parents took their cues from these vague diagnoses, dismissing my suffering as a ploy for attention.

"Isabel gets promoted, she conquers the corporate ladder," my father continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "And what do you do, Ela? You lie around, you get sick, you cause scandals. You're an embarrassment!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "What good are you to us? To King? To anyone?"

His words were a physical blow, worse than any King had inflicted. What good are you? The question echoed in my mind, a cruel, familiar refrain. Isabel, his golden child, was everything I wasn't. Her successes were his triumphs, her charm, his pride. I was simply the shadow that dimmed their light.

Ela Campbell POV:

Isabel glided into the room, her eyes still red-rimmed from her "hysterics," but a subtle smirk played on her lips. She moved with an almost ethereal grace, her presence immediately commanding the attention of my parents. She saw me, of course, sprawled on the bed, my body aching, and a flicker of pure malice crossed her features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with a look of manufactured sorrow.

"Ela," she whispered, her voice laced with false concern. "I'm so sorry, truly. I didn't mean to upset you. Can we… can we just forget all this? Let's be sisters again. I know what will make you feel better." She took a step closer, holding up a small, intricately woven basket. "I brought you some more of that special chamomile tea you like. And I even started knitting us matching scarves, just like we used to do."

My parents' faces softened instantly. "That's so thoughtful, darling," Clarissa cooed. "Ela, isn't that sweet? You should try to be more like your sister."

I lay perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the basket, specifically on the knitting needles protruding from it. A cold dread seeped into my bones. Knitted scarves. Chamomile tea. The memories flooded back, sharp and painful.

Years ago, when Isabel first came to live with us, she' d insisted we knit matching scarves. She claimed it was a "sister bonding" activity. I, eager for her affection, had thrown myself into it, despite my clumsy fingers and the persistent cough that had just begun to plague me. The wool, a deep, vibrant crimson, irritated my skin, leaving tiny red welts on my wrists. I ignored it, focused on making the perfect scarf for my new sister.

The cough worsened, becoming a deep, hacking sound that rattled my chest. My hands, already weak, grew clumsier. One afternoon, as I struggled with a particularly intricate stitch, I felt a sharp prick. One of the knitting needles, thin and sharp, had pierced my palm. A tiny bead of blood welled up. I cried out, more from frustration than pain.

Isabel, who had been watching me with an unnervingly intense gaze, immediately dropped her own scarf and rushed over. "Oh, Ela! Are you alright? You're so pale!" She had fussed over my hand, then insisted I drink a special "herbal blend" she' d made, claiming it would "calm my nerves" and "boost my immunity." A few hours later, my throat constricted, my skin broke out in itchy hives, and I collapsed, gasping for air.

The doctors declared it a severe allergic reaction to the wool – a rare, life-threatening sensitivity. My parents were horrified, blaming themselves for not noticing my "frail constitution." Isabel, meanwhile, cried hysterically, blaming herself for suggesting the knitting, while secretly whispering to King that I was always "so delicate, so prone to melodrama."

King, then still just my boyfriend, had looked at me with a bewildered pity that slowly curdled into resentment when Isabel, through her tears, confessed to him, "I just wanted to make her happy. I never meant to hurt her. I guess I just don't understand how someone can be so… sensitive." He had gone from visiting me daily in the hospital to distant, infrequent calls. My forced confinement, labeled a "sensitive health issue," had kept me away from him, leaving a void Isabel was only too happy to fill. When I finally emerged, pale and frail, from my isolation, King' s eyes held a new, colder light. A look of ingrained suspicion.

"Still allergic to knitting wool, Isabel?" I asked, my voice flat, pulling myself up to a sitting position. The room suddenly felt charged, the air heavy with unspoken accusations.

Just then, the door opened again. King stood there, his eyes scanning the room, his gaze resting on me, then on Isabel. He must have heard my question. He had always been a master of timing, appearing just when a situation reached its boiling point. I wondered if he had been listening outside the door. He used to do that sometimes, in the early days of our engagement, when he still pretended to care, checking on my "meltdowns." Now, I knew his presence was not for comfort, but for control. He was here to ensure I didn't ruin Isabel's carefully constructed narrative.

Isabel' s sweet smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered. "Oh, King! You're back! Ela and I were just… catching up." She turned to me, her voice falsely bright. "Ela, darling, you know I overcame that silly allergy years ago. Remember how I made myself wear wool every day until my body adjusted? I'm much stronger now." She reached out, her hand hovering over my arm, then gently brushed my sleeve.

A sharp, stinging sensation immediately spread across my skin where she touched me. I flinched, pulling my arm back.

Isabel gasped, her eyes widening in feigned alarm. She stumbled backward, clutching her stomach, then collapsed to the floor with a soft cry. "Oh! My head… the dizziness… I feel so faint…"

A perfect performance. I saw her hand flash, a quick, almost imperceptible movement, as she scratched her arm before collapsing. The air in the room grew thick with tension.

"Isabel!" Clarissa screamed, rushing to her side. "What happened? Are you alright?"

My father, Johnie, glared at me, his face contorted with rage. "What did you do, Ela? Are you trying to hurt her again?"

Suddenly, red blotches began to appear on Isabel's exposed arm, spreading rapidly, angry and inflamed.

"Look!" Clarissa shrieked, pointing at Isabel's arm. "She's breaking out in hives! Just like before! Ela, you deliberately provoked her, didn't you, you evil girl?"

I stared at the spreading rash, a horrifying mosaic of red and white, rising quickly on Isabel's pale skin. It was impossibly fast, impossibly severe. Much faster than any natural allergic reaction I had ever witnessed. My mind raced, connecting the dots. The "chamomile tea," the "knitting wool," the sudden onset of symptoms. It was all a lie. A carefully crafted, long-term deception.

"No," I whispered, barely audible. "I didn't…"

Just then, King was beside Isabel, his face grim. He knelt, his strong hands gently supporting her head. His eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a cold, murderous fury. "What did you do to her, Ela?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You hateful, jealous witch, always trying to destroy her."

Isabel whimpered, burying her face in King's chest. "It's okay, King. I told her I was fine. I just wanted us to be sisters again. I should have known she'd never change." She lifted her head, her eyes, swimming with tears, met mine. It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph, a silent challenge. I win.