Pain pulsed through my leg in relentless waves, each throb a cruel reminder of my fall. The harsh fluorescent lights of Cedars-Sinai's general ward buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. I shifted against the thin hospital mattress, wincing as another spike of agony shot up from my fractured femur.

"Nurse?" My voice came out as a rasp. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lips cracked from dehydration. "Could I please have some water?"

The nurse at the station glanced up, then quickly averted her eyes. It was the third time I'd asked in the past hour. The same response—nothing.

I pressed the call button again, watching the light illuminate above my bed. The fever that had started as a low simmer was now burning through me, my hospital gown clinging to my sweat-soaked skin.

From somewhere down the hall, I could hear the soft murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. The private wing—where Gabriel was undoubtedly fussing over Scarlett's "emotional distress" while I lay here with actual broken bones.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Sterling left specific instructions," a nurse had whispered earlier, her eyes full of uncomfortable pity. "You're to remain here until... until other arrangements can be made."

Other arrangements. As if I were luggage to be stored away, an inconvenience to be managed. I closed my eyes, feeling a tear slide down my temple and into my hair.

Eight years. Eight years of my life given to a man who couldn't even ensure I received proper care after an injury sustained working for his production.

The ward door swung open with such force it slammed against the wall. The sound cut through the quiet hum of medical equipment like a thunderclap.

"Where is she?" The voice was deep, commanding—and achingly familiar.

I struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain that tore through my leg. "Alex?"

My brother's tall figure strode down the corridor, his tailored suit at odds with the utilitarian hospital surroundings. The staff scattered before him like leaves in a storm. His face, so like my father's, was set in hard lines I recognized from Morgan Tech boardroom photographs—the expression he wore when someone was about to be destroyed.

"Isabella." His eyes found mine, softening for just a moment before hardening again as he took in my condition. He flashed something at the nurse who had materialized at his side—his credentials, the weight of the Morgan name making her step back.

"Sir, this area is—"

"My sister will be moved immediately." His tone left no room for argument. "Prepare to transfer her to the private wing."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the nurse stammered. "Mr. Sterling specifically requested—"

"I don't give a damn what Sterling requested." Alexander's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "Either you move her now, or I'll have my legal team here within the hour to discuss patient neglect."

The nurse paled, nodding quickly before hurrying away. Alexander moved to my bedside, his expression softening as he gently took my hand.

"You're burning up," he murmured, pressing his cool palm against my forehead.

"How did you know?" I whispered.

"Frank Miller called me. Said you'd been injured and..." His jaw tightened. "And that your husband seemed more concerned about his co-star's feelings than your broken leg."

Before I could respond, commotion erupted in the hallway. Gabriel's voice carried through the ward, sharp with indignation.

"You can't just barge in here! This is a private medical facility, and I have every right—"

"Your rights end where my sister's begin." Alexander's voice was ice as he stepped into the corridor.

I could see them through the doorway—Gabriel blocking the entrance to what must have been his private suite, his perfect face flushed with anger. Alexander towered over him, the cold fury in his stance making Gabriel step back despite himself.

"Your sister?" Gabriel's confusion was genuine. "What are you talking about?"

"Isabella Morgan." Alexander enunciated each syllable with precision. "Daughter of William Morgan, heiress to Morgan Tech. My sister."

Gabriel's face drained of color. "That's impossible. Isabella is—"

"Not the nobody you've been treating like disposable property." Alexander moved forward, forcing Gabriel to step aside as he pushed past him.

I couldn't see what happened next, but moments later Alexander returned, his expression grim. He sat carefully on the edge of my bed, taking my hand in his.

"Bella," he said softly, using my childhood nickname. "Why didn't you call me?"

The tenderness in his voice broke something inside me. Tears spilled down my cheeks as the fever and pain and years of silent suffering converged.

"I thought..." My voice cracked. "I thought he loved me once. I thought if I just waited, if I was patient enough, supportive enough..."

"Oh, Bella." Alexander's eyes were pained.

"He doesn't even see me, Alex," I whispered, the truth I'd been running from finally catching up. "Today, when I fell... he ran to her. He didn't even look at me."

Alexander's hand tightened around mine. "No one knows, do they? About who you really are?"

I shook my head slightly. "Only you. I wanted to be loved for myself, not the Morgan name or fortune. And now..."

"Now you're lying in a general ward with a fever while your husband comforts another woman." Alexander's voice was gentle but firm. "This ends today, Bella. I'm taking you home."

As the words left his lips, the door to the private suite opened. Gabriel stood there, his expression unreadable as he stared at us, the truth of who I really was clearly sinking in—and with it, the magnitude of how he had treated the daughter of William Morgan all these years.

The door to my hospital room swung open with a soft click, pulling me from my feverish half-sleep. Gabriel stood in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway lights. For one foolish moment, my heart leapt—had he finally come to check on me? To apologize?

The illusion shattered as he stepped into the room. His face was composed, almost business-like, devoid of the warmth he so easily manufactured for cameras and co-stars. Under his arm, he carried a sleek leather portfolio.

"You're awake. Good." His voice was cool, detached. "This won't take long."

Alexander had stepped out to make arrangements for my transfer back to New York. The timing wasn't coincidental—Gabriel had waited until my brother was gone.

"How's Scarlett?" The words escaped before I could stop them, bitter and sharp.

Gabriel's expression didn't change. "She's resting. The doctor gave her something for shock." He placed the portfolio on the rolling table beside my bed and opened it, revealing crisp legal documents. "I've had my lawyers draw these up."

I stared at the papers, the bold heading swimming before my fever-blurred vision: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

"You want a divorce." My voice sounded distant, as though it belonged to someone else.

"It's for the best." Gabriel straightened his designer jacket, not quite meeting my eyes. "This situation has become... complicated. A liability."

"A liability," I repeated, the word hollow in my mouth.

"The studio is concerned about potential media leaks. If word gets out about our arrangement while Scarlett and I are promoting the film..." He cleared his throat. "The optics would be problematic."

The optics. Not my broken leg. Not the years I'd given him. The optics.

"I've ensured the settlement is generous." He slid a pen across the table. "My team has already spoken with the hospital. They'll release you to a private recovery facility once you've signed."

I looked at the pen, then at the man I'd once believed would love me forever. In his perfect features, I searched for any trace of the person who had once whispered promises under starlight, who had held me as though I were precious. There was nothing—just the polished facade of Gabriel Sterling, A-list actor, protecting his image and his precious Scarlett.

With surprising steadiness, I reached for the pen. The movement sent pain shooting through my body, but I didn't flinch. I was done flinching.

Gabriel blinked, clearly surprised by my lack of resistance. "You're... agreeing?"

"Did you expect me to beg?" I asked quietly, flipping to the signature page. "To plead for another chance to be your secret?"

"Isabella—"

"Eight years, Gabriel." The pen hovered over the signature line. "Eight years of watching you love her in public while I existed in shadows."

His jaw tightened. "It wasn't like that."

"It was exactly like that." With a swift, decisive motion, I signed my name—my real name, Isabella Morgan—to the document. "And now it's over."

I handed him back the papers, our fingers not touching. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps even regret—but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'll have these filed immediately," he said, returning the documents to the portfolio. He hesitated at the door. "For what it's worth, I never meant for things to end this way."

I turned my face toward the window, where the first hints of dawn were breaking over Los Angeles. "They ended long before today, Gabriel. I just finally stopped pretending otherwise."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, the sound of one chapter of my life ending and another beginning.

Three days later, I limped into the modest apartment Gabriel's team had arranged—a temporary residence until I was well enough to travel. The place was sterile, impersonal, like a mid-range hotel suite. I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa, my cast a heavy weight on my leg.

With trembling fingers, I unwrapped the bandages around my thigh, grimacing at the angry red skin surrounding my stitches. The hospital discharge had been rushed, the aftercare instructions minimal. I cleaned the wound carefully, redressed it with supplies Alexander had insisted on purchasing, then reached for my phone.

It was time.

The line rang twice before my father's voice filled the speaker. "Isabella?" The worry in his tone made my throat tighten.

"Dad," I whispered, the word breaking on a sob I hadn't known was building.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was warm, solid—the voice that had guided me through childhood scrapes and teenage heartbreaks. "Alexander told us everything. We've been so worried."

"I'm sorry," I managed. "I should have called sooner. I should have—"

"None of that matters now," he interrupted gently. "What matters is that you're coming home. Where you belong."

Home. The word resonated through me, stirring memories of the Morgan estate overlooking the Hudson, family dinners in the grand dining room, the security of belonging somewhere—to someone.

"Yes," I said, strength returning to my voice. "I'm coming home."

As I hung up, my gaze fell on a magazine someone had left on the coffee table. Gabriel's perfect face smiled up at me from the cover, his arm around Scarlett at some premiere. The headline read: "Hollywood's Perfect Pair."

I picked up the magazine, studied it for a long moment, then deliberately dropped it into the trash can beside me. That life was over. Isabella Sterling was gone.

Isabella Morgan was ready to reclaim her life.