I Faked My Death, He Lost His Soul

I woke again to the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant.

I opened my eyes to the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. My hand was warm, trapped in another. I turned my head. William Salvatore sat in a chair by the bed, holding my hand. His eyes were closed, faint shadows of fatigue beneath them.

He must have felt me stir. His eyes snapped open.

Our gazes locked. He released my hand immediately, the weariness and something that looked uncomfortably like concern in his eyes vanishing, replaced by his usual impenetrable calm.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “I’ve taken responsibility for the incident. He won’t press the matter further. But, Isabella, you must promise me you will not lay a hand on Seraphina again. She is your sister.”

“I never asked you to take responsibility for anything,” I croaked, my throat raw. The sound was laced with scorn. “And that bastard-born shadow has never been my sister. In our world, a girl of her… origins wouldn’t be fit to clean my boots.”

William’s brow furrowed slightly. He seemed about to argue when the door to the room opened softly. A nurse peered in.

“Don Salvatore, Miss Seraphina in the adjoining suite is distressed. She’s asking for you.”

William stood, smoothing his already immaculate suit sleeve. He looked down at me. “I must see to her. She was injured because of your actions. As your betrothed, it is my duty to offer… reassurance.”

I gave a brittle smile and turned my face to the window. “Go ahead. She’s your real fiancée, after all.”

William’s steps halted. He turned back, his frown deepening. “What did you say?”

I didn’t bother repeating myself. I just pulled the thin hospital blanket over my head, a clear dismissal.

I heard him exhale, a low, frustrated sound. After a moment, his footsteps retreated, following the nurse out.

The next few days passed in a blur of bland food and routine checks.

I stayed in that hospital bed, and the world came to me in snippets from the chattering nurses who changed my IV and took my vitals.

“Don Salvatore is so attentive to the younger Miss Caruso. He visits her suite every day.”

“Indeed. I heard she dislikes bitter medicine, so he had special candies imported from Sicily for her.”

“Between you and me, they make a more… harmonious pair. A proper Don and his lady.”

They had all decided the gentle, well-mannered Seraphina was the rightful companion to the powerful Salvatore Don.

I listened. I felt nothing. A hollow amusement, perhaps.

I wished everyone would believe it. It would make everything so much simpler.

On the day of my discharge, William came.

He took the paperwork from the nurse and looked at me where I sat propped against the pillows, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. “Get your things. I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not going back to the Caruso house,” I said, not looking up.

His expression darkened. “Isabella. Enough of this.”

He didn’t wait for further argument. In two strides he was at the bedside. His fingers closed around my wrist. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was absolute, an unyielding assertion of control. He pulled me from the bed, his other arm coming around to steady me, and guided me—half-dragged me, really—out of the room and into the back of his waiting armored sedan.

The car moved silently through the city, back to the Caruso mansion. I wrenched my arm free the moment we stopped and walked straight inside, up the grand staircase to my room.

I pushed the door open.

My blood turned to ice.

Seraphina was sitting at my vanity. In her hands was my mother’s sapphire necklace, the stones catching the light as she held it up to her own throat, admiring her reflection.

The last piece of my mother in this world.

“Who gave you permission to touch my things?” My voice was low, deadly cold. “Put it down. Get out.”

Seraphina jumped, startled by my sudden appearance. Then a smug smile spread across her face. She didn’t put the necklace down. Instead, she dangled it from her fingers. “Yours? Everything in this house will be mine one day, Isabella. Everything.”

“Did falling down the stairs not teach you enough?” I took a step forward, my gaze fixed on her.

“That was a lucky shot!” she sneered, emboldened. “You think I’m afraid of you now?”

Before I could respond, her eyes lit with malicious intent. She snatched a heavy crystal perfume bottle from the vanity and hurled it to the floor at her own feet, simultaneously throwing herself backwards onto the shards with a theatrical cry.

The crash brought running footsteps.

Victor Caruso and Giselle burst into the room. My father took in the scene—the shattered glass, Seraphina weeping artfully amidst the wreckage—and his face purpled with rage.

“Daddy!” Seraphina wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I only wanted to see the necklace… she pushed me!”

“Isabella!” Victor roared.

He didn’t ask for my side. He never did. He crossed the room in two strides and his open hand connected with my cheek.

The crack echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

My head snapped to the side. Fire blossomed across my face. I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

I didn’t cry.

A low, humorless laugh bubbled up from my chest.