That so-called ‘helping hand’ was a clever ploy to steal the land my father had left me.
“Once the transplant is done, we’ll just give this sickly waste a little extra dose.”
Amaris’s voice cut through the hospital room, sharp and cold, like a blade meant to wound.
“By then, all the land that old man left behind will be ours!”
Silas rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with excitement.
My heart clenched a storm of hatred and suffocating fear threatening to swallow me whole.
I steadied my breath and forced a mask of indifference over my face.
“I’m not dead yet. Stop wailing like you’re mourning me.”
Amaris froze, clearly not expecting my response.
But, like a switch, she quickly regained her composure, slipping back into her façade of simplicity and sincerity.
She brought a bowl of dark, murky herbal medicine to me.
“Here, drink this while it’s hot. It’ll make you feel better.”
She reached for my forehead and the coolness of her fingertips jolted me back to reality.
A faint, cheap scent of cosmetics and lingering traces of cigarette smoke clung to her, marking her in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
I turned my head slightly, avoiding her gaze and spoke hoarsely.
“I’m fine. I’ll drink it later…”