He Chose Her Lies, I Chose Revenge

Seraphina Vitiello POV I woke up to the rhythmic, relentless beeping of a machine. My body felt pulverized, as if I had been dragged miles over asphalt and left to rot. My left arm was encased in a heavy plaster cast. My ribs were taped tight enough to restrict my shallow breaths. My head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache that synced perfectly with the monitor's pulse. I opened my eyes. The room was white. Blindingly sterile. And completely empty. No flowers. No cards. No parents. A nurse bustled in, checking a clipboard. She jolted slightly when she saw me awake. "Oh, you're up," she said. Her voice was kind, but her eyes held a heavy, suffocating pity. "You've been in a coma for two days." Two days. "Where is my family?" I rasped. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper. The nurse hesitated. She fiddled with the IV drip, avoiding my gaze. "They're... down the hall," she finally admitted. "In the VIP suite." "Isabella?" "She's being treated for shock," the nurse said, her tone carefully neutral. "And a minor abrasion on her knee." I almost laughed, but the spasm hurt my ribs too much. Shock. I had been crushed by a neon sign, and my sister was in the VIP suite for shock. "I need to walk," I said. "You shouldn't—" "I need to walk." I forced myself up. The pain was blinding, white-hot and jagged, but I welcomed it. It made me feel real. I dragged my IV pole down the hallway, the metal wheels squeaking against the linoleum like a dying animal. I heard them before I saw them. Laughter. Bright, unburdened laughter. The door to the VIP suite was open. My mother was peeling a grape. My father was pouring wine. Isabella was sitting up in bed, looking radiant in a silk robe, holding Dante's hand. "Poor baby," my mother cooed. "That sign could have killed you." "Dante saved me," Isabella said, looking at him with practiced adoration. "He's my hero." Dante smiled at her. It was a soft smile. The kind he used to give me in the dark, back when I thought I mattered. "Always," he said. A waiter wheeled in a cart. A silver tureen of soup. "Seafood bisque," the waiter announced. "With caviar." Isabella wrinkled her nose. "I don't want it. It's too rich." She looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, a broken ghost in a hospital gown. Her eyes lit up with a sharp, glittering malice. "Oh, Seraphina!" she chirped. "You're awake! Look, Dante, she's fine." Dante turned. His expression hardened instantly, the warmth vanishing as if doused by ice water. "You're walking," he noted, his voice flat. "Clearly not that injured." "Isabella doesn't want her soup," my mother said, waving a hand dismissively. "Give it to Seraphina. She looks pale. She needs the protein." I stared at the soup. Creamy. Pink. Lethal. "I'm allergic to shellfish," I said quietly. The room went silent. "Don't be ungrateful," my father snapped, slamming his wine glass down. "It's fifty dollars a bowl." "She's always been picky," Isabella sighed, leaning back against her pillows. "Just like when she refused to eat the leftovers at Christmas." Dante looked at me with disgust. "Your sister offers you kindness, and you throw it in her face? Eat the soup, Seraphina." "It will kill me," I said. "Stop being dramatic," Dante said, his jaw clenching. "You're just trying to get attention because I saved her and not you." I looked at him. Really looked at him. "You're right," I said, my voice hollow. "I am dramatic." I turned and walked away. I navigated the corridors in a haze, forcing my broken body to the pharmacy counter myself to get my pain meds. Later, I sat by the hospital fountain in the courtyard. The water was cold and clear. I just wanted five minutes of peace. "You look like a corpse," a voice said. Isabella stood there. She was wearing her silk robe, smoking a slim cigarette, looking entirely out of place against the sterile backdrop. "What do you want, Isabella?" "I want you to know that he's mine," she hissed. She stepped closer, smoke curling from her lips. "He chose me. He saved me. You were just roadkill." "I know," I said. "You can have him." "Liar," she spat. "You still want him. I see it in your eyes." "I don't want garbage," I said. Her face twisted, the pretty mask slipping. She lunged at me. She grabbed my shoulders and shoved. I was weak. My balance was gone. I had nothing left to fight with. I fell backward into the stone fountain. The water was freezing. My cast soaked it up instantly, dragging my arm down like an anchor. My stitches tore. A cloud of red blood bloomed in the clear water, swirling like smoke. "Help!" Isabella screamed. She ripped her own robe, scratched her own neck with manic precision. "Help! She's trying to drown me!" Dante burst into the courtyard. He saw me in the water. He saw the blood. Then he saw Isabella screaming. He didn't ask. He didn't think. He ran to Isabella.