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.