The stench of disinfectant burns my nostrils.

I open my eyes to blinding white ceiling tiles. Turning my head, I meet Damian's bloodshot gaze.


"Lori, you're awake…" He clutches my hand like I might evaporate if he loosens his grip.

My body feels strangely weightless. The constant stomach pain and ear-ringing have vanished.

I recognize this for what it is—the final surge of energy before death claims me.


"I'm dying…" The words slip out.

Damian weeps openly.


He sobs, shaking his head like a madman. "No, no…"

"Lori, you're not dying. We'll fly to Switzerland—the best oncologists in the world. I'll cure you! I swear I'll cure you…"

I pull my hand away. Looking at him, I feel a dark satisfaction bloom inside me.

"Damian," I ask quietly, "do you know why I developed stomach cancer?"

His lips quiver, fingers curling into fists—a guilty man awaiting sentence.

"When we divorced, your prenup left me penniless. You even took the paintings that were legally mine."

He makes a strangled sound deep in his throat.

"I developed severe anxiety disorders. Couldn't even hold a brush steady. Tried finding work, but on your orders, not a single gallery or art institution in New York would touch me."

"Stop… please stop, Lori, I'm begging you…" He covers his ears like a child hiding from thunder.

"Finally found work dealing cards at that underground club in Brooklyn. One night, for extra tips, I downed twenty shots of whiskey for some high-roller. Ended the night puking blood and bourbon."

"So I surrendered," I enunciate each word like a separate knife, "crawled back for remarriage. Did that make you feel powerful, Damian?"

I erupt suddenly, channeling every ounce of my remaining strength into a primal scream.

"You destroyed my mother's portrait! Are you fucking satisfied now? You WON, Damian Blackwood! YOU WON!"

He mumbles "I'm sorry" over and over. That iron spine that intimidated Wall Street's elite now crumples. He can't even meet my eyes.

The doctor walks in. He recognizes me, then shoots a disgusted glance at Damian's expensive suit.

"You're her husband?" the doctor asks, not bothering with politeness. "Nice threads. Clearly not hurting for cash, are you?"

"I remember asking this young woman why she was drinking herself to death. She said it was the only way to make rent."

The doctor's words shatter whatever composure Damian had left.

His shoulders convulse. Then, like a coward fleeing battle, he bolts from the room.

Minutes later, Sienna storms in. Her head and face swathed in bandages, only her eyes visible—burning with hatred. "You psychotic bitch! You've ruined my face! My entire career!"

I'd aimed for her face deliberately.

Wasn't her face her greatest pride? Hadn't she used that face to steal my husband?

So I destroyed it.

When the vase shattered, I'd made sure the jagged edges found her perfect skin. The satisfaction was worth every consequence.

Sienna's lips twist into a smug smile, her eyes wild with triumph. "You think scarring me means you've won? Guess what—I'm carrying Damian's baby!"

"With his heir growing inside me, your pathetic existence means nothing! Face it, Aurora Vance—you've lost! You've been nothing but a loser from day one! Hahahahaha!"

Sienna's manic laughter cuts off mid-breath.

Damian stands in the doorway. He lunges forward, seizing her hair, his voice dripping with hellfire.

"Didn't I tell you to keep your fucking mouth shut?"

"Didn't I warn you to stay away from Lori!"

He drags her out by her hair, her body stumbling behind like a broken doll. Her screams echo down the corridor.

I sink back against the pillows and turn away. My heart feels nothing.

Everything seems utterly meaningless now.