When I woke, a card sat on my bedside table, a note tucked beneath it. “Your father’s surgery will have to wait a little longer.” That single line spoke volumes. For Lilith, Thorne could pause the world. For me and my father, we were always secondary.
My chest ached so fiercely I could barely inhale. Then laughter erupted—bitter, broken, the kind that emerges when your heart is in pieces. Clutching my chest, I grabbed my phone and called Thorne’s grandfather, the one who had always wanted me gone.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll divorce him. But I need your help. Help me fake my death. I want my father and brother with me. I want us gone. Forever.”
Two days later, after discharge, the divorce papers were ready. My lawyer had everything in order.
When I returned to the villa, Thorne was just leaving to fetch Lilith. He froze when he saw me. “You’re back? You look… pale,” he said, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
Pale? Of course I was pale. My father lay in a hospital bed like a vegetable, my brother was in prison, and he thought I could look vibrant? I didn’t answer.
I handed him the papers flatly. “Sign this.”