A Hundred Million Reasons to Leave

After hitting send, my hand dropped to the blood-soaked floor.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a storage room.

No one had tended to my wounds. Blood was still seeping out, warm and thick, crusting over my left eye.

I tried to stand, to find a doctor, but the door was locked from the outside.

I pounded on the wooden door, screaming until my throat was raw.

I don't know how much time passed before a sympathetic housekeeper heard my cries and unlocked it.

That was how I found out what had happened.

My parents had come home to find me unconscious in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

My mother hadn't even glanced at me. She had the maids handle it.

"Look what she did to Camilla. She is no daughter of mine. Put her somewhere out of sight—just don't let her die in the living room and disgrace us all."

Pressing a hand to the throbbing wound on my forehead, I struggled to my feet.

I checked my phone. A new message glowed on the screen.

"On my way. Three days."

The tension in my body instantly eased.

Three days. I just had to hold on for three more days.

Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I stumbled out of the storage room.

I limped down the hallway to the family infirmary and pushed the door open.

Camilla was lying comfortably in bed, her arm wrapped in a ridiculously thick bandage.

Lynn sat by her bedside, holding her hand and murmuring something low and gentle.

My father stood by the window, giving quiet instructions to the family doctor.

My mother sat on the other side of the bed, lovingly stroking Camilla's hair.

I knew the truth. Camilla's arm was barely scratched—it was probably almost healed by now.

I stood in the doorway, watching this picture of domestic bliss.

Four people, filling the entire room.

Not one of them looked at me, as if I didn't exist.

I slowly let go of the doorknob.

I turned and limped back to the storage room to find some expired ointment.

I crouched on the cold floor, doing my best to treat my own wounds.

As I bit down on a strip of gauze, the door was thrown open.

Camilla strode in.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching me for a moment with an air of leisurely amusement.

"Lynn was just holding my hand. He's going to buy me the most expensive penthouse in Manhattan after we're engaged. All for me."

Her tone was light, filled with smug satisfaction.

She paused deliberately, her eyes full of mockery.

"You spent all that time in that villa taking care of him like a nanny. What did he ever give you?"

I didn't look up, focusing on cleaning the gash on my forehead.

My lack of reaction seemed to annoy her.

She took a step closer and crouched in front of me.

"I'm warning you—back off. Stop doing all these pathetic, pointless things. Save your energy. No one is ever going to be on your side—"

She stopped mid-sentence. A vicious smile spread across her face.

She reached out and clawed open the nearly healed scratch on her own arm.

Before I could react, she lunged, smearing her blood all over my hands.

Then she screamed and scrambled backward.

"Let go of me! Somebody help! She's crazy!"

I froze, staring at my blood-covered fingers.

I didn't have time to say a single word.

My parents and Lynn burst into the storage room.

Camilla was backed into a corner, sobbing hysterically.

Blood dripped from her arm.

"I just came to see if she was okay..." she accused between sobs.

"And she just—she grabbed my arm—she tore it open—"

My mother shrieked and rushed to hug Camilla.

She was shaking at the sight of the blood, looking like she might faint.

My father lunged forward and grabbed me by the collar.

He hauled me off the ground with brute force.

"Are you trying to kill your sister?"

"You think if she's gone, Lynn will finally be yours?"

"You signed the agreement. Have you forgotten already?"

He was holding me so tightly my feet were almost off the ground. I could barely breathe.

I looked at my father's face, twisted with rage.

I looked at my mother, cradling Camilla, wailing over her precious darling.

I had had enough.

I grabbed my father's wrists with both hands.

I looked him dead in the eye. "Lynn was mine," I forced out through gritted teeth. "You locked me in the wine cellar. You helped her steal him from me. Do you really think he'll spare any of you when he finds out the truth?"

The room fell silent.

Then, from the doorway, came Lynn's voice—as sharp as a knife's edge.

"What truth?"

The blood drained from all three of their faces at once.