At dinner time, the staff said Donald and Diana had booked a private room at some hillside hotel and expected everyone there.

Sasha opened her mouth to bail, but Mira yanked her into the back seat before she could get a word out.

The whole drive, Mira kept talking, and Vincent just played along—every word.

"Vincent, after we get married, can we honeymoon in Eurphie? I wanna see the aurora, hit up fashion week, all of it. You'll have to take, like, a million pics of me. I want your phone, laptop, tablet—everything—set to my selfies. No repeats."

"Deal," Vincent said. "I'll even hire a few pros to sharpen my skills. Gonna catch you at your best, print every shot, hang 'em in my office and study. That way, anytime I miss you, I just look up."

"Then don't back out later. When we have kids, we'll flip through those albums with them. Hey, how many do you want? If it's a boy, he should totally look like you—tall and hot. But if it's a girl, she better take after me..."

They kept going, like Sasha wasn't even there.

She stared out the window, silent.

The day Vincent got his sight back, she'd been out cold on sleeping pills, trapped in a dream.

In it, she was the first face he saw when he woke. After that, no one else existed to him.

He stuck to her side, lined up surprise after surprise, took her everywhere, showed her a world bursting with color.

He dropped to one knee and proposed like he meant it. Walked her down the aisle hand in hand. Wrapped his arms around her and their kid for family photos.

In that dream, she had someone who loved her for real. A tiny family that was hers.

Then she woke up, and it all popped like a bubble.

She'd given everything she had—and still ended up dying a brutal death.

Her thoughts were spiraling when the sharp screech of brakes yanked her back.

A sports car was barreling straight at them, clearly out of control.

Then—boom. Metal crunched, glass exploded, and their car smashed headfirst into a bridge pillar.

Sasha felt like her whole body shattered. Blood poured from her forehead, arms, legs—everywhere.

The pain hit so hard she couldn't even breathe, like she was being ripped apart from the inside.

Through the blur of red, she forced her eyes open—just enough to see Vincent pulling a shaking Mira from the wreck.

The doors on both sides were crushed in. Flames were already licking up from the trunk.

Sasha bit down hard, lips splitting as she forced herself to stay awake. Her body screamed in pain, but she dragged herself toward the front seat anyway.

Every move left a trail—blood dripping on the seats, pooling on the ground.

She'd barely made it out and stumbled a few steps when the car blew.

The explosion roared behind her, flames shooting high, the shockwave slamming her into the pavement.

She stared at the wreckage, heart ice-cold.

If she'd hesitated, blacked out for even a second... she would've died in that fire. Again.

From the moment it all went down to the second she clawed her way out—five minutes passed.

And not once did Vincent look her way.

Even after Mira was safe in his arms, he never turned back. Never even thought to check if Sasha was still breathing.

Watching Vincent hold Mira close, whispering soft reassurances, Sasha let out a tired, bitter smile.

Her strength gave out. Eyelids heavy, like someone had dropped bricks on them.

Somewhere in the blur, ambulance sirens wailed. Nurses' voices cut through the haze.

"The other patient's in critical condition—she's already unconscious from blood loss. Mr. Scythe, she needs surgery first or she won't make it!"

"Mira's hurt too! Treat her first. I don't care what happens to Sasha—just save Mira!"

That voice. Cold. Familiar.

Sasha cracked her eyes open just enough to see Vincent's face—tight with panic, but not for her.

Donald and Diana showed up right after, crowding around Mira, tears streaming.

"Save Mira first. She's our treasure. If anything happens to her, how am I supposed to face my wife?"

"Exactly. We're their family. If Sasha doesn't make it, we won't blame the hospital. Just focus on Mira!"

Every word landed the same way—they chose Mira. Again.

Whatever hope Sasha still had snapped and went dark.

Blackness rushed in, pulling her under.

That old helpless fear from the moment she died before wrapped tight around her all over again.

Sasha hadn't expected to still be breathing.

That hospital stink—disinfectant and cold metal—hit her first. She blinked up at the ceiling, brain foggy, limbs dead weight.

The doctor hovered nearby, sounding way too relieved. "We fought over ten hours to keep you alive. Good thing you woke up."

Her eyes twitched. Voice rough. "Thanks for not giving up."

He nodded, then paused. "The people who brought you in... were they your real parents?"

Her lips parted like she might answer—then nothing. Just silence.

The doctor caught the look on her face and backed off. Didn't push it. Just sighed and walked out.

Two days passed. No visitors. No texts. Just her and the quiet hum of machines.

Then discharge day hit, and guess who finally showed? Donald and Diana. Not with flowers. Not with a "how are you." Just this:

"Mira's wedding's tomorrow. You said you'd leave, so don't be here when it starts."

Their voices? Flat. Like it was a business meeting.

Sasha just nodded.

When Sasha didn't argue, their faces finally relaxed.

"For your sister's sake, just step aside," Donald said. "Once things settle and they have a kid, we'll bring you back. The family'll be whole again. We transferred money to your card. Take care in Inglane."

Then they left. Off to dote on Mira.

Sasha watched them go, pulled the Inglane ticket from her pocket—and ripped it to shreds.

She grabbed her phone and booked a flight to Austerra instead.

They wanted her gone? Fine. She'd disappear. Just not the way they expected.

She'd leave so clean, they'd never find her again.

After leaving the hospital, Sasha went straight to a lawyer and filed a formal declaration of estrangement.

She signed it without shaking, slid the papers into a box, then added the old recording she'd made years ago—Vincent telling her stories back at the Scythe house.

She'd tried to give it to him so many times. He never listened. Not once.

Now she was done carrying it.

Whether he ever hit play wasn't her problem anymore.

She was erasing herself from their world.

And this time, no one would find her.

***

That night, the house buzzed with wedding prep. Laughter, music, clinking glass—Sasha barely slept.

She was up early, ate a quiet breakfast, then hauled her suitcase to the trunk.

Right as she was about to leave, the groom's motorcade pulled up.

There he was—Vincent. Sharp suit, cool expression, every inch the perfect groom.

Sasha met his eyes and gave a small nod. "Vincent."

First time she'd ever said his name like that—like a stranger.

Vincent's eyes cut to the car behind her, frown settling in. "You don't have to come to the wedding. Just stay home."

Yeah. They were scared she'd ruin it all.

Sasha didn't flinch. She handed over the gift box, voice even. "I'm not crashing your wedding. I'm not messing with your happiness. I just wanted to say... congrats. Goodbye."

She turned, got in the car, and shut the door without looking back.

Vincent stood there, heart pounding as the engine roared to life.

Something in him panicked—he wanted to stop her, ask where she was going, what she meant by 'goodbye.'

But before he could say a word, Mira's voice cut through the morning.

"Vincent, hold me!" she chirped, all dressed in white.

Through the rearview mirror, Sasha caught it—Vincent, grinning as he chucked the box to his assistant like it was nothing. Then he turned, all charm, and swept Mira up in his arms.

As the car eased out of the neighborhood, Sasha rolled down the window and flung her phone into the wind.

That version of her? Gone.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

The new Sasha was done waiting—and she was done being found.