A chill ran through me. My body felt like it had turned to ice.

“Gio… what… what is this?” My voice barely left my throat, trembling.

He stepped down from the stage and gripped my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “You really don’t know?” His voice was low, venomous. “You killed my twin. You killed Sabrina. Did you think I’d ever love you? I married you so you’d rot beside me, suffer forever by my side.”

Something inside me cracked. I laughed—bitter, jagged, and hollow—and, without thinking, I smashed the nearest champagne bottle against his head right there, in front of everyone.

After that night, our marriage became nothing more than punishment. That’s when I finally saw the truth. The man I had married wasn’t my savior. He was my jailer. Every time I tried to escape, every time I dared to whisper the word “divorce,” he’d punish me until my body forgot how to move and my voice forgot how to speak. In his world, love was not love. Love was possession. And I was his property. For eight years, we destroyed each other, piece by piece.

Now, the end was near.

I stared at the cancer report in my hands. “Gio,” I said quietly, voice almost swallowed by the pain in my chest, “can we… just stop fighting for once? Just for half a month? That’s all the time I have left anyway.”

He looked at me as if I’d cracked a joke. “Oh, now you’re lying? Do you really think death absolves you of what you owe me?”

I dropped my gaze. “In half a month, you’ll see. I’ll give you your answer then.”

He laughed, low and cruel, like a blade scraping stone. “Fine. Half a month. Let’s see how you plan to pay for two lives.”

Then, without another word, he took Isolde’s hand and strode out of the auction hall. He didn’t come home that night.

---

The next morning, every news outlet carried the same images: Gio Ramirez, the feared mafia lord of the Eastern Quarter, leaving a hotel hand-in-hand with Isolde. She wore white, a serene smile curving her lips the same way Sabrina’s once had.

Of course they would. Isolde had never been born looking like Sabrina. She had carved herself into that shape. Surgery. Every angle, every curve copied from photographs and gossip magazines.

Isolde had been my enemy back in school. She hated me, always wanted what I had: Gio, money, power, attention. I had tried once to tell Gio the truth. That Isolde wasn’t naturally like Sabrina; she had shaped herself to crawl into my sister’s shadow. He didn’t believe me.

“You’re jealous,” he said. “Pathetic, for measuring yourself against a dead woman.”

After that, I never spoke of it again.

I put my phone down and ate slowly, my stomach twisting, dull pain gnawing at me like it always did. Pain had become familiar.

The front door slammed. Gio entered, dark suit sharp, presence heavier than the air itself. His men waited outside, heads bowed, silent sentries.

He frowned when he saw me at the table. “Why are you still here?”

I stayed quiet.

He smirked, that cruel, calculated smirk. “Didn’t you say you’d give me your explanation in half a month? Why aren’t you preparing for that?”

Before I could respond, my stomach clenched violently. A sharp, metallic taste coated my tongue. I shoved my chair back and ran to the bathroom, barely reaching the sink before vomiting. And then blood came. Panic flared. I tried to hide it.

The maid’s gasp cut through the room. “Madam! Are you… pregnant?”

Gio’s expression shifted instantly. He stormed forward and gripped my wrist with a force that made me wince. “Pregnant?” His voice dropped low, hard, lethal. “Two months ago… that night. Don’t tell me this is your plan—to use a baby to make me forgive you?”

I pulled free. “I’m not pregnant! And even if I were, I’d never keep your child.”

He didn’t believe me. His jaw clenched tight. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

“I said no!” I spat back, fear and fury tangled.

He grabbed my arm again, rougher this time. And in that moment, I realized it didn’t matter how little time I had left—Gio would never let me go in peace.

His brows drew together, that same dangerous look he gave men before ordering their execution. “Since when are you afraid of hospitals? What’s wrong with you today? Truly sick in the head.”

I laughed weakly. “Yeah… you finally got that right. I am sick.”

He studied me, cold and calculating. “Fine. Don’t want to go? Then don’t.” He turned to the maid, voice flat and deadly. “Bring the abortion pills.”

My heart dropped. “Gio, don’t—”

But the maid was already moving. She returned with a dark, thick, bitter-smelling liquid.

Gio grabbed my chin. “Drink.”

“I told you, I’m not pregnant!” I shouted, trying to push him away. He shoved the rim of the bowl to my lips, and the liquid burned as it slid down my throat before I could even spit it out.

The pain came instantly. Sharp. Twisting. Unbearable. My hands clutched my belly as sweat ran down my back. Then the metallic taste returned. Blood. Everywhere. My vision swirled. Darkness edged into my sight.

Distantly, I heard him shouting my name, muffled and underwater.

When I woke, I could barely move.

“She’s not pregnant,” a man said urgently. “Why did she take the pills? Her stomach is badly damaged. We need to pump it immediately.”

The cold tube slid down my throat. I tried to scream. Only a strangled sound emerged. The pain tore through me, inside and out. My stomach cramping, burning, twisting.

“Hang in there,” a nurse whispered near my ear. I bit my lip until I tasted blood and gripped the sheets like they were my lifeline.

By the time they rolled me out of the operating room, half-conscious, the lights above blurred into streaks. I heard the doctor’s voice again, cautious this time.

“Mr. Ramirez… your wife’s condition is far worse than we expected.”

A cold shiver ran through me, settling into my bones.

“What… what is worse?” Gio’s voice was sharp, annoyed. “It’s just some pill. You pumped her stomach, didn’t you? She’ll live.”

The doctor hesitated, uneasy. “It’s more than that… tests show signs of late-stage—”

“I already know,” I croaked, cutting him off. “Don’t bother telling him. He doesn’t care.”

I turned my head, unwilling to meet Gio’s eyes.

He let out a small, humorless laugh. “You’re right. I don’t care. As long as you’re alive, that’s all that matters.”

He started to leave, but his phone rang. Through the speaker, I could hear her voice—sweet, soft, the kind that made me want to tear something apart.

“Gio? Where are you? I miss you.”

He glanced at me, lips twitching into a faint, cold smile. “At the hospital. Come see me if you miss me so much.”

After he hung up, he turned back to me, smirking. “You wanted me around for the next two weeks, didn’t you? Looks like your wish is coming true.”

I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes, my body shaking with exhaustion and fear.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Isolde walked in. Her eyes froze when they landed on me in the bed, then she quickly lowered her gaze and moved straight to Gio.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Come here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to hers, right in front of me.

She kissed him back, deeper, and the sound of it made my stomach twist sIsolde than any medicine could. Something inside me broke.

I grabbed the vase on the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out! Get the hell out of my room!” My voice cracked and rattled with rage.

The vase shattered against the wall. Gio turned quickly, using his arm to shield Isolde, but a shard still sliced across her cheek. A thin line of blood appeared.

She gasped and clutched him like a frightened child. “Gio… my face—it hurts…”

I watched him freeze. His expression shifted, panic flashing through him—the kind of desperate panic I had never been allowed to see.

He rushed to her, lifting her as if she might break. “Don’t touch it! You’ll make it worse!”

Then he barked orders at his guards. “Get the head of dermatology. No—call the top international specialists. Use the helicopter if you must! Now!”

The men scattered instantly, obedient as ever.

I leaned against the cold metal bedrail, watching him disappear down the hall with Isolde in his arms. His voice echoed behind him. “Make sure she heals clean. No scars. Do you hear me?”

The sound cut through me like a slow, grinding knife. I looked down at my hands. Tiny purple bruises dotted the backs, evidence of countless injections. My fingers shook, but I laughed anyway—quiet, dry, bitter.

Isolde was only a shadow of Sabrina. Just enough to make him lose his mind. And me, the woman he married, could bleed, scream, collapse in front of him—and he wouldn’t even blink.

My stomach twisted, sharp pain radiating through me. I curled up, waiting for it to pass, the thin hospital gown clinging to my sweat-slicked skin.

The days that followed blended into one another: pills, injections, unbearable pain. My body wasted away until my ribs jutted sharply under my skin. Hair fell in clumps. Even the nurses looked at me with quiet pity, sometimes slipping extra painkillers into my IV. I accepted nothing, thanked no one.

Then, one afternoon, the door slammed open. Gio stormed in, thunder incarnate.

Before I could even lift myself, he yanked me upright by the arm. “Isolde almost lost her face because of you!” His voice was icy, cutting through me. “Are you proud of yourself?”

I barely managed to stand. “It was just a scratch,” I whispered.

His grip tightened. “Shut up! You think you can hurt her and get away with it?”

He dragged me down the hall. My legs trembled, too weak to resist. Two guards followed close, silent and imposing.

When we reached the staircase, broken glass glinted on the steps. My chest dropped.

“Gio—what are you doing?”

He didn’t even glance at me. “You like causing pain, don’t you? Let’s see how it feels when it’s your turn.” He nodded to the guards. “Do it.”

I clutched the railing, breath ragged. “She’s not Sabrina! You’re losing your mind!”

Finally, he looked at me, eyes wild. “She doesn’t have to be Sabrina. She only has to look like her.”

“Gio—”

He gestured, and the guard shoved me hard.

Pain exploded through me as I hit the stairs. Glass tore into my skin. I couldn’t scream, only choke out sounds that tasted of blood. Each push, each fall, left me weaker, until I couldn’t move. My chest burned, my mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. The world dissolved into pain and ringing.

When I awoke, I was back in the hospital, every inch of my body screaming. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt.

Outside the curtain, two nurses whispered.

“Miss Isolde’s fine already,” one said softly. “President Ramirez’s been by her side every day. Treats her like she’s made of glass.”

The other sighed. “And the woman in bed 302… look at her. Covered in bruises. No one even visits her. Isn’t she his real wife?”

“Shh, don’t speak so loud… you’ll get in trouble.”

Their voices faded. I closed my eyes. My throat ached, but no sound came. Tears slid down my face, soaking into the pillow.

I lingered there for days. Painkillers barely dulled the agony. The doctors could do nothing more.

So, one morning, I signed myself out.

If I was going to die, I refused to do it alone, under the harsh glare of white lights, waiting for him to remember I existed.

When I returned home, Gio lounged on the couch, scrolling through his phone. His eyes flicked to me briefly, flat and unreadable, then he rose and strode toward his study as if I weren’t even in the room.

“Gio,” I called softly, leaning against the wall for support. My voice cracked. “It’s my birthday in two days.”

He paused, tilting his head. “So?”

“I… I just want to spend it with you. One last time.”

His brow twitched. “Last time? What, are you dying or something?”

I forced a weak smile. “Maybe. Can I?”

He snorted and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll give you a surprise you’ll never forget.” His tone was thick with sarcasm. I knew that look. He was plotting something cruel.

Two days later, I found myself at the hotel he’d texted me about. The moment I stepped through the door, my legs nearly gave out.

The entire hall was stark white and frigid, draped in wreaths of chrysanthemums. A coffin sat at the center. My photo hung on the wall, framed with black ribbon. Guests in black suits turned to look at me, silent. Not a single word.

“Do you like it?” Gio’s voice slithered from the corner. He stepped forward, smirking. “A funeral for your birthday. Thought it would suit you.”

I stared at the photograph, lips trembling, then laughed—a broken, hollow sound. “Y-yeah. I love it.”

For a moment, he froze. “If you love it that much, stay still,” he said, his voice icy, waving his hand.

His friends approached, incense sticks in hand, grinning like predators.

“The sooner you go, the better.”

“Don’t haunt Evander in your next life, okay?”

“Have a safe trip.”

Their laughter echoed in the hall. I just stood there, smiling through it, feeling nothing—or maybe everything. Pain had become a companion.

When it ended, I tried to leave, but Gio’s hand clamped onto my arm.

“What’s your game?” he hissed.

“My game?” I repeated softly.

“Why aren’t you fighting back? You always scream, break things, cry. Why act pathetic now?”

I met his eyes steadily. “It’s not humiliation anymore. I actually… like what you did.”

This time, it felt real. A rehearsal for what was coming.

He stared at me, confusion flickering, then scoffed. “You’re getting creative. But it won’t work, Liora. I’ll never forgive you.”

I said nothing, simply held his gaze until he looked away and stormed off.

---

Back at home, the pain hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless. I stumbled into the bathroom, barely reaching the sink before blood began spilling from my mouth, splattering across the tiles like scarlet paint.

I rinsed my mouth, took my pills with trembling hands, and sank into the bathtub. The hot water soothed me for a few fleeting moments.

Later, as I tried to comb my hair, a clump came away in my hand. Staring at my reflection, hollow cheeks and pale lips stared back. Bitterly, I smiled. Was this really me? Could I last another two weeks?

The next morning, I went to a small downtown photo studio. It smelled of aged wood and old film.

The old man behind the counter blinked, startled. “You want what?”

“A memorial photo,” I said simply. “Something nice. Something that shows me when I was still alive.”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I’ll make it beautiful.”

I wore a red dress I hadn’t touched in years, painted my lips, and smiled at the camera as I used to: proud, bright, pretending the world hadn’t broken me.

When it was done, he asked, “Take it home after it’s developed?”

I shook my head. “No. Just fix it a little and send it to this address.”

I wrote down my home address. I wanted my photo beside my sister’s… so even in death, I’d still belong somewhere.

---

The ancestral hall smelled of dust and fading incense. I stood before Sabrina and Evander’s portraits, fingers resting on the black frames as if they were the only thing tethering me to them. Sabrina’s smile was soft, the kind that made the world slow down. Evander’s eyes held the calm I had once hidden in as a child.

“I’ll be with you soon,” I whispered. Pressing my forehead against the glass, I let a single tear fall onto the altar. “This stupid feud… it’s almost over.”

“You think you can come in here whenever you want?” Gio’s voice cut through the quiet like a slap. He was behind me before I could turn. I jumped, my elbow smashing against the frame. Glass shattered with a sharp crack that echoed endlessly.

He didn’t look surprised. He looked furious. His grip on my wrist bruised immediately. “You already killed them! Now you destroy their things too?”

“I-I didn’t mean to,” I stammered, pulling back. “You scared me. If you hadn’t snuck up—”

“Save it.” He shoved me forward. “You have no right to touch any of it.”

“I came to see them. Is that a crime?”

He laughed, sharp and bitter. “See them? You don’t deserve to look at them.”

Before I could regain my footing, two guards stepped up. I slammed into the doorframe with my knee, almost collapsing. “Let me go! Gio, are you insane?”

“You’re the crazy one,” he said, and before I could brace myself, one of the guards forced me down to the center of the hall.

“Since you want to stay, stay here. And atone.”

“I’ll atone in my own way. This isn’t how—”

He didn’t let me finish. His boot slammed down on my knee so fast and hard that the breath was knocked from me.