The roar swallowed the air, the ground beneath us trembling violently. My survival instincts screamed. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my bag, my precious art supplies, and bolted, scrambling over the loose rocks, my gaze fixed on the higher ground.

Frida, however, let out another ear-piercing shriek and, in a moment of pure panic, grabbed my arm. Her grip was like a vice, digging into my already bruised flesh. "Help me!" she screamed, her nails tearing at my skin. The sudden pull threw me off balance, and I twisted my ankle on a loose stone, sending a jolt of pain up my leg. She was going to drag me down with her.

I managed to shake her off, biting back a cry, and limped frantically forward, finding a small, shallow overhang that offered a momentary reprieve from the cascading debris. My body throbbed, every muscle protesting, but I ignored it. The world outside roared, a symphony of destruction. The path I' d just taken was now a river of mud and rock. We were trapped. The distant hum of cell service was gone, swallowed by the sheer force of the mountain. All we could do was wait.

Time stretched, thick and slow, until a familiar voice cut through the lingering echoes of the slide. "Adelle! Frida! Is anyone there?" It was Bentley.

Frida's head snapped up, her eyes widening with a predatory gleam. She shot me a quick, jealous glare, as if my mere presence was an affront. I just stared at the sound, a strange mix of dread and a flicker of the old hope battling within me. The last time he saved me, it led to this nightmare. Would it happen again?

Then, a figure emerged from the dust and gloom, Bentley, disheveled and covered in grime, his face etched with worry. He looked exhausted, but his eyes, sharp and searching, found us.

Frida didn't wait. She scrambled out from the overhang, throwing herself into his arms, sobbing dramatically. "Bentley! Oh, Bentley, I thought I was going to die! It was so terrifying! Adelle just left me to fend for myself!" She clung to him, her voice a theatrical wail.

Bentley' s arms automatically went around her. His gaze, however, flickered to me, still under the overhang. "Frida, are you hurt? Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, carefully examining her for injuries.

"Just a few scrapes, darling," she sniffled, burying her face into his chest. "But I was so scared! Don't leave me, Bentley! Please don't leave me!"

Bentley held her close, murmuring reassurances. He then began to lift her, carefully, gently. He was going to carry her out of here. He was going to carry her away. He looked at me then, a brief, fleeting glance, as if he had just remembered I was there. But his focus remained solely on Frida. The realization struck me with a chilling force: he had forgotten why he came here. He was looking for me. But he found her, and again, I became invisible.

"Bentley!" I cried out, my voice raw, desperate. "Bentley, wait!"

He paused, a slight hesitation, and turned his head, his eyes meeting mine. They held a flicker of something, perhaps concern, perhaps annoyance.

With a surge of adrenaline, I pushed myself out from under the overhang, ignoring the searing pain in my ankle, and stumbled towards him, my hand outstretched. "Bentley, please! My ankle is twisted, I think it's broken!" I pleaded, my voice cracking. "I can't walk!"

Frida, still clinging to him, stiffened. She tightened her hold, her head turning to glare at me, her eyes flashing a silent warning. Then, she pulled at his shirt, her voice muffled but insistent. "Bentley, my head is spinning. I think I'm going to faint."

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking between my outstretched hand and Frida's pale, "distraught" face. The internal battle was brief, almost imperceptible. Then, he secured his hold on Frida, his jaw tightening. "I'll be right back, Adelle," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I need to get Frida to safety first." And with that, he turned his back on me, carrying Frida away, disappearing into the fading light and the rising dust.

"Bentley! No! Don't leave me!" I screamed, my voice raw with desperation. "Please!" But he didn't stop. He didn't look back. He was gone.

The silence that descended after they left was absolute, broken only by the distant drip of water and the thudding of my own desperate heart. The sun had completely set, plunging the mountain into an inky blackness. He had left me. Again.

I hobbled back to the small overhang, my twisted ankle screaming in protest. The cold seeped into my bones, matching the chill in my soul. How many times had he left me? How many times had he chosen her? I thought about my mother, how alone she must have felt in those final moments. And now, I was utterly alone too.

Hours passed. The cold grew more intense. My ankle throbbed with a dull, incessant ache. Bentley never came back. The darkness became oppressive, alive with unseen rustlings. A long, mournful howl echoed through the trees. A wolf. Then another. My blood ran cold.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. I couldn't stay here. I wouldn't. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, using the rough rock face for support, and began to drag myself down the treacherous path. Each movement was agony, but the thought of staying, of being utterly helpless, was worse.

The howls grew closer. A pair of glowing eyes, then another, emerged from the darkness. They were circling. I screamed, a desperate, hoarse sound, and tried to run, but my ankle buckled. I fell, pain exploding through me. One of them lunged. I felt a sharp, tearing pain as teeth sank into my leg. I kicked, screamed, fought with a primal fury fueled by terror. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to break free, scrambling blindly, desperately, down the slope. I could feel the hot, sticky blood soaking through my jeans. I finally collapsed at the base of the mountain, the last vestiges of my strength draining away.

My mind, hazy with pain and exhaustion, replayed Bentley' s face as he carried Frida away. He saves her, and leaves me to die. He cares for her, and abandons me to the wolves. The irony was a cruel, final punch. My last thought before darkness claimed me was of my mother's kind, smiling face. Mama, I'm coming home.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the muted beeping of machines. Hospital. Again. My leg throbbed, heavily bandaged. My arm still ached. My head pounded. I tried to sit up, a groan escaping my lips.

"Adelle!" A familiar voice, laced with frantic concern. Bentley. He stood over me, his face pale, his eyes wide. He grasped my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Thank God! You're awake! I was so worried!"

I stared at him, my eyes empty. Worried? He was worried? The word tasted like poison on my tongue. "Where were you?" I croaked, my voice rough.

He winced. "I'm so sorry, Adelle. The rescue teams were overwhelmed. The path back up was blocked. I tried to get to you, I swear. But Frida... she needed me." He squeezed my hand harder, his eyes pleading. "It was chaos. Pure chaos. I just couldn't get back."

I looked at his face, at his manufactured concern, and something inside me, the last fragile thread of hope, snapped. He was lying. Or, if not lying, then desperately clutching at excuses. He hadn't tried to get back. He had chosen. He had chosen her. The memory of her snuggling into his arms while he carried her away, leaving me to the mercy of the mountain, was a vivid, burning image.

I remembered when I'd accidentally burned my hand on a hot pan, years ago. Bentley had rushed me to the emergency room, his face green with worry, convinced I was going to lose my hand. He'd stayed by my side for hours, holding my uninjured hand, murmuring reassurances. That Bentley was gone. Replaced by this hollow shell of a man, full of excuses.

"Don't," I said, my voice barely a whisper, pulling my hand away from his as if his touch was toxic. "Don't touch me."

His face fell. "Adelle, please. Don't be like this. I know you're angry, but it was an accident. My father explained everything. The mountain was unstable. You were just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time." He reached for my hand again. "That talk about breaking up... that was just anger, right? We can fix this, Adelle. We can still get married."

I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze cold and unwavering. "No, Bentley," I said, my voice clear and firm. "We can't. We are over."

His face contorted, a mixture of disbelief and fury. He paced the small room, his movements agitated. "Adelle, don't be ridiculous! I saved your life! I'm here for you!"

Just then, the door creaked open. Frida, dressed in a delicate silk robe, her hair a perfect cascade, her face a picture of innocent concern, peeked her head in. "Bentley, darling? Are you coming? The doctor said I need my pain medication."

Bentley's head snapped to her, his agitation instantly replaced by concern. He held her gaze for a moment, then turned back to me, his eyes now cold, hard, and filled with a chilling finality. "Are you really sure, Adelle?" he ground out, each word a stone. "Are you really sure you want to end this?"

I met his gaze, my own eyes holding nothing but contempt. My silence was my answer.

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He turned from me, his back rigid. He walked to Frida, put an arm around her, and pulled her close. "Frida, darling," he said, his voice sickeningly sweet, "I think it's time we made our relationship official, don't you?" He looked at her then, his eyes a cold promise. "Let's get married."

My breath hitched in my throat, a sharp, ragged sound. The air in my lungs felt like shards of glass. Married? He was asking her to marry him? In front of me? My mind reeled, trying to process the sheer audacity, the brutal cruelty of his words. Frida's face lit up, a triumphant, sickeningly sweet smile spreading across her lips. "Oh, Bentley! Of course! Yes! A thousand times yes!" She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest.

Bentley' s gaze, cold and triumphant, found mine. "There, Adelle," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Are you happy now? Is this finally enough for you?"

I stared at him, my heart a frozen lump in my chest. What could I say? What was there to say? "It has nothing to do with me," I finally managed, my voice a hollow whisper, devoid of all emotion.

His jaw clenched. He released Frida, his eyes still locked on mine, then, with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, he lowered his head and kissed Frida. A long, lingering kiss, right there, in front of me, in my hospital room. It was a kiss of triumph for her, of bitter retaliation for him, and of utter annihilation for me.

They pulled apart, Frida beaming, and Bentley, with one last cold, assessing look at me, led her out of the room. The door clicked shut, leaving me in a terrifying silence.

My hands, which had been clenched so tight they ached, released their death grip on the hospital sheets. My body felt heavy, numb, yet strangely light. It was done. Truly, irrevocably done. And in a bizarre way, a sense of perverse relief washed over me. This was what I needed. This public, brutal execution of our relationship. Now, there were no more illusions, no more 'what if's. He had made his choice. And it solidified mine.

Bentley did not return to my room. Not that night, not the next morning. My phone, still shattered from my outburst at the funeral, lay broken on the floor. No messages, no calls. Silence.

The next day, as I tried to make my way to the hospital bathroom, leaning heavily on crutches, I saw her. Frida. She emerged from her lavish suite, her hair gleaming, a silk scarf draped just so around her neck. She was talking animatedly on her phone, then noticed me. Her eyes narrowed into slits of malicious pleasure.

"Well, well, Adelle," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Still here? I thought you'd have run away by now. Bentley and I are celebrating our engagement." She gestured around her with a flourish. "He's arranged for my entire family to stay on this floor. It's truly a celebration."

I ignored her, making my way towards the bathroom, my crutches awkward and slow.

She followed, her voice a low, taunting whisper. "You know, Bentley just told me all about your little attempts to expose me. He thinks it's hilarious. Said you're desperate. He's so sweet, constantly reassuring me. He says he'll take care of everything." She then thrust her wrist forward, displaying a delicate, intricately carved bracelet. "Look, Adelle. This was the first gift he ever gave you, wasn't it? The one you said was so special?"

My eyes widened. It was the bracelet. The one he' d given me on our first anniversary, a small silver charm of an artist's palette. He'd painstakingly chosen it, telling me it symbolized my dreams, our future. He' d told me it was unique, handcrafted just for me.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Unique, indeed. He had given it to her. The ultimate insult. He hadn't just moved on; he had desecrated our past, twisted our shared memories into a weapon against me.

We reached the end of the corridor, near a large, empty lounge area with a short, unguarded balcony. Frida's eyes, blazing with triumph, met mine. She had expected a reaction, tears, despair. My calm, blank stare infuriated her. Her smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. "You think you've won something, don't you? With your little recordings and your sad, pathetic revenge plot?" She took a step closer, her voice laced with pure venom. "You're nothing, Adelle. You always have been. And now, you have nothing." Her hand shot out, pushing me with unexpected force.

My crutches clattered to the ground, my injured leg buckled, and I felt myself falling, falling backwards, over the low railing, towards the hard tiles of the hospital's ground floor lobby. My mind went blank with terror, a primal scream caught in my throat.

The impact was brutal. A searing pain shot through my spine, my head cracking against the polished marble. I gasped, curling into a fetal position, every nerve screaming in agony. My vision swam, lights dancing before my eyes.

Through the haze of pain, I heard a familiar voice, sharp with anger. "What the hell was that, Frida?!" Bentley. He was here.

I looked up, my eyes barely focusing. Bentley stood over me, his face a mask of fury, but his arms were wrapped around Frida, who was sobbing uncontrollably. "She tried to push me, Bentley! I swear! She's crazy! She tried to hurt me!" Frida wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me.

Bentley's eyes, cold and hard, turned from Frida to me. He looked at my crumpled form, at the blood slowly seeping onto the white floor from a fresh cut on my forehead. His face was devoid of pity, only hardened resolve. He believed her.

"No, Bentley!" I gasped, my voice thin and reedy. "She pushed me! She did it on purpose!"

He scoffed, his lips curling with disdain. "Adelle, stop this. I saw what happened. Frida would never. You' re just trying to get attention." He tightened his grip on Frida, pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Don't worry, angel. I'll make sure she never bothers you again."

Then, he simply turned his back on me, pulling Frida with him, disappearing into the chaos of the hospital lobby. They left me lying there, a broken heap on the cold floor, just like they had on the mountain, just like he had after my surgery, after the kidnapping.

A wave of crushing despair washed over me, so potent it stole my breath. I remembered his passionate declarations of love, his unwavering trust in me. "I'll always believe you, Adelle. Always." His words, once a comfort, now mocked me. He was gone. The man I loved was gone, replaced by a stranger, a cruel parody of his former self.

My chest constricted, a sharp, agonizing pain, as if my heart itself was tearing apart. Tears, hot and silent, streamed down my temples, pooling on the cold marble floor. The dream was over. The nightmare was real. It was time to wake up.

The world swam in and out of focus as a team of medical staff rushed towards me, their voices a flurry of concerned murmurs. Strong hands carefully lifted me onto a stretcher, and I was wheeled away, the fluorescent hospital lights blurring into streaks above me. The doctor's grim face, speaking of "fractures" and "concussion," was a distant memory. I was patched up, bandaged again, and confined to a new room. A private room this time, a cold comfort.

Later that evening, I found myself in a wheelchair, meticulously navigating the quiet corridors of the hospital. My leg was in a cast, my head still throbbed, but I refused to stay cooped up. I needed fresh air, some semblance of control. As I rounded a corner, I saw a half-open door. Through the gap, I heard Bentley's voice. I paused, my hand instinctively going still on the wheel.

"Look, man, I told you, Fraser," Bentley's voice was low, agitated. "It's not what it looks like. Frida and I? We're just... playing a part. To satisfy my father, you know? For the Taner alliance."

I leaned closer, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"Adelle's still the one," he continued, his voice softer, almost pleading. "She's always been the one. All this 'engagement' stuff, it's just a show. A ninety-nine day repayment of kindness, remember? It's almost done. Then, I'll propose to Adelle properly. She'll come back to me. She has to."

My gaze fell to my bandaged leg, to the fresh stitches on my forehead, to the memory of him kissing Frida, leaving me to fall. A bitter, sarcastic laugh bubbled in my throat, quickly stifled. He still thought he could manipulate me, manipulate the situation. He still thought I was just a pawn in his game. He would propose? After all this? No. Never. The thought of marrying him, of spending another second in his presence, made my skin crawl. The illusion was gone. His words were just another layer of deceit.

That night, a nurse informed me I was being transferred to a shared room. "It's a more luxurious suite," she said, her tone apologetic. "Mr. Wise insisted you have the best care. And Ms. Tanner is already there."

My eyes widened. Frida. He was putting me in the same room as Frida. The audacity. Bentley himself appeared moments later, a forced smile on his face. "It's for your recovery, Adelle," he said, avoiding my gaze. "The best facilities. And Frida needed company. She's been so distraught."

I said nothing, merely nodding, my face a blank mask. No point arguing. No point in making a scene. I was tired, so terribly tired. I just wanted this all to be over. I wanted to escape. I would play along. For now.

The next two days were a chilling spectacle. The "ninety-nine days" on his calendar were dwindling.

On the third to last day, I watched as Bentley spoon-fed Frida a lavish meal, ordering the hospital staff around like they were his personal servants. He cooed over her, asked about her every comfort, her every whim. I lay in the bed opposite, ignored, invisible.

On the second to last day, I heard the sounds from Frida's side of the room, muffled but unmistakable. Bentley was giving her a sponge bath, his voice low and tender, her giggles echoing against the sterile walls. My stomach churned. I pulled the blanket over my head, burying my face, trying to block out the sounds, the images, the brutal reality of his betrayal. The humiliation was a physical ache.

Finally, the last day arrived. The ninety-ninth day. The day he had promised to marry me. I watched him, still doting on Frida, still oblivious to my presence, as I slowly, painstakingly, packed my small bag. My crutches lay beside me, a constant reminder of how I had arrived here.

I hobbled to the door, my cast making a soft thudding sound with each step. "Adelle! Where are you going?" Bentley's voice, sharp with surprise, pierced the air.

I didn't turn back. "I'm checking out," I stated simply, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.

His gaze, hot and possessive, burned into my back. I could feel it, a physical weight. But I kept walking, each step taking me further away from him, further away from the suffocating prison of his so-called love.

I made my way to a small, temporary apartment I had rented near the airport. My flight was for tomorrow morning. Paris. My new life. I carefully unpacked my bag, then took out my phone. The one with the recording, the video of Frida's malicious smirk just before she swerved into my mother's truck. The one with Frida's taunting messages.

I opened a burner phone, bought discreetly online, and carefully uploaded all the evidence. Frida's taunting messages, the video of the accident played in slow motion, Bentley's phone records showing he was with Frida during my emergencies, a recording of Frida proudly boasting about getting Bentley to cover up her 'little accident' during my kidnapping. I even added a brief, clinical account of my own surgeries and the moments Bentley abandoned me. I compiled it all, a damning dossier of their cruelty and his complicity.

I then created anonymous social media accounts, linked them, and began to post. I poured all my savings into promoting the posts, making sure they would be seen, shared, discussed. The truth, raw and unedited, was now out there. For everyone to see.

With a final click, I shut down the burner phone, removed the SIM card, and dropped both into a public trash bin. My revenge was set in motion. I walked towards the boarding gate, leaving behind the wreckage of my past. My flight was called. I was finally free.

Across the city, Bentley dropped Frida off at her penthouse, a forced smile on his face. He returned to our-his-empty mansion. The silence was deafening, the vast rooms echoing with an unfamiliar hollowness. He paced the living room, a strange sense of unease settling over him. Adelle can't be serious. She'll come back. He picked up his phone, ready to call his assistant. He needed to plan the perfect proposal. He would show Adelle he was serious, that he truly loved her.

His assistant's voice was frantic, breathless. "Mr. Wise! Sir, you need to see this! It's everywhere! Adelle... she's exposed everything!"

Bentley's blood ran cold. "Exposed what? What are you talking about?" He quickly grabbed his own phone, his fingers fumbling. The screen glowed with unfamiliar headlines, his name, Frida's name, trending topics, a storm of outrage. It couldn't be. Adelle. She had really done it.