Cracked After My Fake Death

Frederick's patience finally ran out. "Get on your knees and apologize to Sophia. We'll call it even."

Pushing through the burning pain in my leg, I hauled myself up from the deck. The crowd expected me to cry, scream, or beg for mercy, but I did none of those things.

Instead, I simply straightened my wrinkled skirt and dropped to my knees right in front of them. My knees hit the hard deck with a resounding thud, sending a wave of pain that was even worse than the kick.

The deck fell into dead silence.

I raised my head and locked eyes with Frederick, who seemed to be stunned by how quickly I had given in. Forcing a smile that looked uglier than a grimace, I declared, "Consider this my way of repaying you for five years of putting me up, Frederick. But my apology doesn't come cheap, and neither does my pride. $30 million, pay up."

Shock twisted into rage on his face in an instant. "Damn you!"

He yanked out his checkbook, tore off a check, and hurled it at my face. "Take your money and get lost!"

The paper's edge sliced my cheek, leaving a thin streak of blood. I ignored it, snatching the fluttering check and planting a light kiss on it. Then I looked up with a wide grin. "Thanks, boss."

Just then, my phone started vibrating wildly in my pocket. The screen flashed with the caller ID: Samuel York, the doctor who'd used me as a lab rat.

Limping on my injured leg, I made my way to his private clinic. The air inside reeked of strong disinfectant, creating a cold and impersonal atmosphere.

Samuel stood at the sterile lab door in his spotless white coat, holding a vial of liquid. His eyes were colder than the hallways themselves. Through the large glass window, I could see his true love, Charlotte Hayes, lying in the isolation ward.

She looked perfectly healthy, with color in her cheeks and steady breathing—far better off than I was with all my injuries. Samuel had claimed she suffered from a rare inherited disease that required fresh clinical data for treatment, and I was the only matching live sample they could find in Arirwatch.

Sliding a consent form and a pen toward me, he said in a flat tone, "Sign it. This is an improved version with minimal side effects. Perhaps just some nausea and vomiting."

I eyed the blue liquid, and my stomach began to churn. He had said the same thing last time, but I had ended up confined to bed for three days, too weak to even stand.

Taking a deep breath, I looked up and forced a pleading smile. "It's my birthday today. Can we skip this one?"

I hoped, just this once, that he might show a spark of kindness and maybe even wish me a happy birthday. Instead, he frowned in annoyance. "Charlotte can't afford any delays. Don't be dramatic."

Those few words shattered any illusions I still held.