The sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils as consciousness slowly returned. My shoulder throbbed with dull pain, the memory of cold metal piercing my flesh still vivid. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to orient myself.

"Ms. Lawrence." A deep voice came from my right. "You're awake."

I turned my head to see a doctor checking my IV. Something about him seemed familiar—the set of his jaw, the intensity of his dark eyes.

"Where..." My voice came out as a rasp.

"Seattle Memorial Hospital." He leaned closer, adjusting my monitors. "I'm Dr. Rivera."

Zander. The name clicked into place. But he wasn't dressed as I remembered from our meeting at the gala. His white coat and stethoscope were convincing—too convincing.

"You're not a doctor," I whispered.

A slight smile curved his lips as he checked my vitals. "Not officially. But I know enough to ensure you're receiving proper care."

He glanced toward the door before leaning closer. "Your husband is currently giving a press conference outside. Would you like to see?"

Zander pulled out a tablet and turned up the volume. Ian's face filled the screen, his expression grave but controlled.

"My wife has been struggling with mental health issues," he was saying, his voice dripping with false concern. "This unfortunate accident on set was the result of her erratic behavior. We're grateful no one else was seriously injured."

The reporters murmured sympathetically as Ian continued spinning his web of lies.

"An accident?" I choked out, my hand clenching the bedsheet. "He's saying I did this to myself?"

Zander's eyes met mine, steady and certain. "He's saying whatever serves his purpose."

"He's going to kill me," I whispered, the realization settling like ice in my veins. "If I stay here, he will kill me."

---

The door to my hospital room swung open hours later. I expected a nurse, but instead, Yara glided in, elegant in a cream pantsuit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

"Look at you," she said, her voice honey-sweet with poison underneath. "All alone."

I tried to sit up straighter, wincing as pain shot through my shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Just checking on family." She perched on the edge of my bed, her weight barely making an impression. "Though perhaps not for much longer."

Her perfectly manicured fingers traced the edge of my blanket. "I've moved Sophia."

My heart stuttered. "What?"

"To a lovely state facility." Her smile widened. "So much more... appropriate for her condition. And for your protection, of course."

"You had no right—"

"I had every right." Her voice hardened. "Ian signed the papers. He agrees you're not fit to care for her properly."

I lunged forward, forgetting my injury. Pain exploded through my shoulder as I grabbed her wrist. "Where is she?"

"Somewhere safe." Yara's eyes glittered with malice. "Somewhere you can't hurt her with your instability."

I released her, falling back against the pillows as dizziness washed over me.

"Oh, and Hazel?" She stood, smoothing her suit. "I sleep in Ian's bed when you're away. Have for years."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.

---

My phone rang at 3:17 AM. I fumbled for it in the darkness, hope flaring that it might be news about Sophia.

"Hazel?" The voice was unfamiliar, thick with tears. "Is this Hazel Lawrence?"

"Yes?" I sat up, suddenly alert. "Who is this?"

"I'm calling from Westlake State Facility." The woman's voice broke. "I'm so sorry to inform you that your sister, Sophia Lawrence, passed away an hour ago."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers. "No."

"Seizure activity," the voice continued, sounding distant through the roaring in my ears. "We did everything we could, but..."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room spun around me as sobs tore from my throat.

"Ms. Lawrence? Are you there?"

"She can't be gone," I whispered. "Please, no."

"Her last words were your name," the woman said gently. "She was asking for you."

Something inside me shattered. The last tether holding me to this life—to this fight—snapped like a thread stretched too thin.

I'd failed her. Just as I'd failed my parents.

"Ms. Lawrence?" The voice sharpened with concern. "Are you still there?"

I ended the call and stared at the darkness. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I had nothing left to live for.

Or perhaps, nothing left to die for.

The discharge papers felt like a death sentence in my hands. Three days after the prop knife incident, Ian had arranged for my early release from the hospital.

"You're fine," he'd insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The doctor says you're healthy enough to attend the Santa Monica yacht party tonight."

"I'm not fine," I'd whispered, wincing as I moved my bandaged shoulder. "I need rest."

What I needed was escape. But with Sophia gone—or so I believed—there was nowhere left to run.

"The car leaves in two hours," Ian said, already walking away. "Wear the blue dress."

---

The blue dress was a calculated choice. Its high neckline and long sleeves concealed my bandages, while the fabric clung to every curve of my body like a second skin. It was the kind of dress that screamed "perfect trophy wife"—exactly what Ian wanted the world to see.

"Beautiful," he murmured as I emerged from our bedroom, his eyes traveling over me with possessive hunger. "No one would ever guess you were hospitalized three days ago."

I forced a smile, though my shoulder throbbed beneath the careful makeup and strategically placed fabric. "Thank you."

His hand settled on the small of my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who was in control. "Tonight is important, Hazel. People are talking."

"About?"

"About us." His smile was tight. "About whether our marriage is falling apart."

The yacht party was in full swing when we arrived. Music drifted across the water as waiters glided between clusters of Hollywood elite and business moguls. Champagne flowed freely, and camera flashes popped like tiny explosions against the twilight sky.

"Hazel!" A producer I'd worked with years ago approached, his eyes darting between Ian and me. "You look... amazing. Considering everything."

"I'm resilient," I said, accepting a glass of champagne I had no intention of drinking.

Ian's grip on my waist tightened. "My wife is stronger than she looks," he told the producer, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear. "She's been through so much lately."

The pitying glances from others made my skin crawl. They all thought they knew my story—the troubled actress, the unstable wife. No one knew the truth.

---

I escaped to the deck as the party reached its peak, needing air that wasn't thick with perfume and pretense. The Pacific stretched before me, dark and vast under the moonlight. Freedom, if only I could reach it.

"Enjoying the view?"

I didn't need to turn to know who stood behind me. Yara's voice was like ice water down my spine.

"Leave me alone," I said quietly.

"Not until we talk." She moved beside me, her cream silk dress glowing in the moonlight. "You know, I've always wondered what you'd look like broken."

I kept my eyes on the horizon. "Congratulations. You've succeeded."

Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "Not quite."

She leaned closer, her perfume—expensive, cloying—filling my nostrils. "Do you know how your parents died, Hazel?"

My heart stuttered. "The accident—"

"The accident I caused." Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me. "I was seventeen. Drunk. High. I hit them head-on."

I turned to face her, unable to hide my shock. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Her smile was terrible in its beauty. "I remember everything. The sound of metal crushing. The smell of gasoline. Your mother begging for help as she held your father's broken body."

Bile rose in my throat. "Shut up."

"I drove away," she continued, her eyes glittering with malice. "But not before I heard them calling for help. Begging. Pleading."

I lunged toward her, my good arm raised, but she stepped back, laughing.

"Your sister isn't dead, by the way." The words hit me like a physical blow. "Sophia is very much alive. I just wanted you to think she was gone so you'd stop fighting."

Hope and rage surged through me in equal measure. "Where is she?"

"Somewhere safe." Yara's smile widened. "Somewhere I can visit whenever I want. She's so fragile, your sister. So easily broken."

Something inside me snapped. Across the deck, I caught sight of Ian, watching us with narrowed eyes. Beside him stood a security guard—one of his men, ready to intervene if needed.

But I had my own plan.

My fingers closed around the small signal device Zander had given me weeks ago. With a quick press of my thumb, I activated it, praying he was close enough to receive the signal.

"It's over, Yara," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

I climbed onto the railing, my movements deliberate. The party guests below froze, glasses halfway to lips, conversations dying mid-sentence.

"Hazel!" Ian's voice cut through the sudden silence. "Get down from there!"

I turned to face him one last time, balancing precariously on the edge. Our eyes locked across the distance—his wide with panic, mine calm with resolve.

Then I let go.

The fall seemed to last forever. The wind rushed past my ears, the party sounds fading to a distant hum as the dark Pacific rose to meet me.

As the cold water closed over my head, I made my choice.

Death was better than this life.