Cleo woke to the sharp bite of disinfectant.

She blinked, staring at the hospital ceiling.

Someone was holding her hand.

She turned her head. Damian sat beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, eyes closed. Shadows hung under them.

He felt her move and opened his eyes instantly.

Their eyes met. He let go of her hand.

The fatigue—and that flicker of concern—vanished, replaced by his usual cool control.

"I already spoke to your father. He won't take this further. But Cleo, you need to promise me you won't hurt Nora again. She's your sister."

"Who asked you to apologize for me?" Her voice came out rough, dripping with mockery. "And that side-piece bastard thinks she's my sister? Please. In another life, she wouldn't mean shit next to me."

His brows pulled together, like he wanted to say more.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in.

"Mr. Joubert, the patient next door is unstable. She keeps asking for you."

Damian stood, smoothing his perfectly straight cuff.

"I'll check on Nora. She got hurt because of you. As your fiancé, it's only right I go see her."

Cleo's lips twitched. She turned toward the window.

"Go ahead. She's the one who fits you."

His steps stalled. He turned back, frowning. "What did you say?"

Cleo didn't repeat it. She yanked the blanket over her head, done.

Damian stared at her shut-down posture, pressed his fingers to his temple, then followed the nurse out.

Over the next few days, Cleo stayed in the hospital, healing.

Nurses came and went, swapping IVs, checking vitals, talking like she wasn't there.

"Damian Joubert's all over Nora Carrington. He's with her every day."

"Seriously. I heard she hates bitter meds, so he had imported fruit gummies sent over."

"If you ask me, they look perfect together. That's what a real match looks like."

They all assumed sweet, well-behaved Nora was the real fiancée.

Cleo listened, not even a flicker.

If anything, she almost laughed.

She wished they'd keep thinking that.

***

The day Cleo got discharged, Damian showed up.

He took the paperwork from the nurse, then looked at her—leaning back against the headboard, scrolling her phone.

"Get ready. I'll take you home."

"I'm not going back there." She didn't even look up.

His face darkened. "Stop being difficult."

He didn't wait for another no. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist—not hard, but controlled—and pulled her off the bed. Half guiding, half dragging, he got her out of the room and into the car.

The car pulled up at the Carrington house. Cleo shook off his hand and headed straight upstairs.

She pushed her door open—and froze.

Nora sat at her vanity, holding a sapphire necklace up to the mirror, light flashing off it.

The only thing her mom left her.

"Who the hell said you could touch my stuff?" Cleo's voice went ice-cold. "Put it down. Get out."

Nora flinched, then smiled. Instead of putting it back, she let it dangle between her fingers on purpose. "Your stuff? Let me tell you something—everything in this house is gonna be mine sooner or later."

"Guess that fall didn't teach you shit." Cleo stepped closer, eyes sharp.

"I slipped up last time." Nora let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm still scared of you?"

Before Cleo could fire back, Nora's gaze turned hard. She snatched a vase and slammed it on the floor. It shattered.

At the same time, she dropped right into the shards and screamed.

The crash had Harold and Rosalind running in.

"What happened?" Harold rushed in. He saw the broken shards, Nora sitting in the mess, tears shaking in her eyes—his face went dark.

Nora looked up, eyes glossy.

"Dad... I just wanted to look at Cleo's necklace. I didn't think she'd... push me..."

"Cleo!" Harold snapped. He didn't wait for an explanation. He stepped in and slapped her—hard.

The crack rang through the room.

Her cheek swelled fast, burning.

Cleo tilted her head, tasting blood where her mouth split.

She didn't cry.

She let out a low laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" Harold snapped, her laugh getting under his skin.

Cleo lifted her head, eyes sharp, cutting straight to Nora—still playing weak.

"You love putting on a show, huh? Fine. I'll give you one."

Before anyone could move, she grabbed a metal pen off the vanity and drove it straight into the back of Nora's hand, pinning it to the floor.

"Ahhh!"

A sharp scream ripped through the room. The pen punched clean through her hand, blood spilling fast.

"You—You've lost your mind! You're insane!" Harold shook with rage, pointing at the door. "Get out! Get out of this house! There's no place for you here!"

He called the servants. They dragged her out, tossed her and her small suitcase past the gates.

Cleo stumbled, then steadied.

Face blank, she rubbed her sore arm, then crouched and pulled out her mom's sapphire necklace—the one she'd taken back earlier—and clenched it tight.

She gave the grand, cold mansion one last look, then turned and walked away. No hesitation.

She hadn't gone far before the sky just opened up.

Rain slammed down out of nowhere, soaking her in seconds.

The early spring chill cut through her clothes, straight to the bone. Shivering, she ducked under a shop awning, half-running.

Water dripped from her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blur of rain.

Her chest felt empty.

Just then, a familiar black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her.

The window slid down, revealing Damian's sharp profile.

The second he saw her—soaked, a mess under the awning—his brows tightened.

He shoved the door open and walked over. "Get in."

"I don't need you."

Damian didn't argue. He grabbed her arm, grip tight, and hauled her into the passenger seat.

The car was warm, heat chasing off the cold clinging to her.

He handed her a clean towel, then drove in silence back to his place.

Inside, he gave her one of his shirts and a pair of pants to change into. Then he brought out a first-aid kit and dabbed at the faint bruise on her cheek.

"What happened?" His voice stayed low, eyes on her swollen face, her damp hair making her look almost fragile.

Cleo pressed her lips together. Said nothing.

The doorbell rang.

Damian got up and opened it. Nora stood there—hand wrapped in thick bandages, face pale.

"Damian..." Her eyes went red the second she saw him. "Dad kicked Cleo out. I was worried... I mean, yeah, she almost killed me last time, and this time she stabbed my hand with a pen, but... we're still sisters. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so I came to take her home..."

From the living room, Cleo heard every word. Nora made her sick.

She walked over and stared her down. "Try that disgusting act in front of me again, and I'll rip your mouth apart."

"Cleo." Damian's face darkened. "How long are you gonna keep this up? Hitting people. Shoving them. Driving a pen through someone's hand. Which part of that screams 'proper lady'?

"Nora didn't hold it against you. She even came to take you home, and this is how you treat her?"

Nora rushed forward and grabbed his sleeve. "Damian, it's okay. As long as Cleo comes back with me..."

"Cleo, apologize to her."

"Not happening."

They started arguing right there in the doorway. Damian reached for Cleo. She shoved him off.

His arm hit a tea tray a maid had just set down.

Crash.

The porcelain pot shattered. Scalding tea splashed everywhere.

In that split second, Damian moved on instinct. He turned and pulled Nora tight against him, his back shielding her from the worst of it.

Cleo stood on the other side. No time to move. Boiling tea soaked half her body.

Pain tore through her—from calf to arm.

She doubled over, face white as paper.

Damian checked Nora first. Just a few red spots on her hand.

He let go, then finally saw Cleo curled on the floor.

Her skin was already swelling, flushed an angry red.

His pupils tightened. He stepped toward her.

"Damian!" Nora grabbed his arm, voice shaking. "I'm fine, it just stings... But Cleo... she looks really hurt. Shouldn't you check her first?"

He stopped.

His gaze flicked between Cleo's twisted face and Nora's soft, understanding look. Then he remembered Cleo's earlier "outburst," and his eyes hardened.

He looked away.

He bent down, scooped Nora into his arms. His voice went cold. "Forget her. Let her suffer. Maybe next time she'll think before hurting you."

He carried Nora out without a glance back.

Cleo collapsed onto the cold floor.

Her body burned, but inside felt hollow—like something had been ripped out, leaving nothing but cold rushing through.

She clenched her teeth, fighting the pain and the spin in her head. With her good hand, she dragged out her phone and called an ambulance herself.

***

Cleo got discharged from the hospital the same day as Nora's birthday banquet.

The Carrington house was glowing, packed with people.

As the so-called eldest daughter, Cleo had to show.

She stayed off to the side, out of sight, watching Harold grin as he held Nora's hand—showing her off, calling her his perfect daughter, announcing most of his assets would go to her.

Praise and envy buzzed around them.

Cleo watched, her heart flat and frozen.

All these years, she'd never had a real birthday.

Her mom died early. Her dad didn't care.

Every year, it was just her and a cold cake, making wishes no one heard.

The party hit its peak as gifts started rolling in.

Harold transferring property was already wild. Then Damian stepped up—velvet box in hand. He opened it, revealing a diamond necklace worth a fortune, and clasped it around Nora's neck himself.

The room gasped.

Nora lit up, glowing with pride. Her smug eyes flicked toward Cleo.

Cleo looked away. She walked to the bar, grabbed a drink, and downed it in one shot, trying to drown the noise in her head.

But trouble never missed her.

A pack of Nora's friends rolled up and "accidentally" slammed into her.

"Well, look who it is—Cleo. It's Nora's birthday. Everyone's vibing. Why do you look so pissed? Can't handle her winning?"

Cleo wasn't playing. She set her drink down and turned to go.

"Hey. We're talking to you. You deaf?" A girl grabbed her arm.

That did it.

Cleo ripped free, shoving her hard enough to make her stumble.

She grabbed a half-full wine bottle off the table, eyes cold as hell.

"I gave you a shot. You blew it."

No pause. No warning.

She swung.

The bottle cracked against the nearest girl's head.

Bang.

The bottle shattered—wine and blood spilling together.

Screams ripped through the room. Everything went chaotic.

Cleo didn't stop. She swung again and again, fast, brutal—until Damian rushed in and grabbed her wrist.

"Cleo, what the hell are you doing now?"

He took in the mess—the girls clutching their bleeding heads—his face going dark.

Cleo let out a cold laugh. "You saw it. They tried me. I hit back."

"You hit back?" Disappointment and anger burned in Damian's eyes. "That was straight-up assault. Revenge. And if they're talking about you, maybe fix yourself. Apologize."

"In your dreams."

That was it—his patience snapped.

He knew exactly what she feared: the dark, tight spaces.

"If you won't admit it, then think on it." He nodded to the guards. "Lock her in the basement. No one lets her out without my permission."

His voice went ice-cold. "Fear might teach you."

They dragged Cleo out of the party and tossed her into a narrow, windowless room.

The door slammed.

Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything.

Memories hit—being locked in the dark as a kid. She curled into the corner, shaking, cold sweat soaking her back.

Time dragged. Endless.

Hunger. Thirst. Cold. And that pitch-black pressure clawing at her nerves.

By day three, she was barely holding it together.

Then the door cracked open.

A thin slice of light cut through the dark.

Nora stood there, smiling like she won.

"I thought Damian would go harder. Guess locking you up was too soft."

She clapped. Two guys in black stepped in, faces blank.

"What are you doing?" Cleo's voice came out rough, barely there.

"Making it stick." Nora's smile went sharp. "Tie her to the chair."