The Blood They Called A Prop

At a charity gala hosted by my family, a violent coughing fit seized me mid-speech. Blood stained the silk handkerchief in my hand, and the ballroom descended into a hush, then chaos. My brother, Yzail Ricci, stormed the stage and hauled me away. Meanwhile, my fiancé, Fabian Gallo, told the press I had merely "lost my composure," insinuating I was desperate for attention. In that single moment, I became a joke to the entire New York underworld.

My art gallery was splashed with red paint.

But what no one knew was that I had Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.

And I only had three days to live.

On the day I died, I took one last look out the window as the heart rate monitor in my empty hospital room flatlined.

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1

I chalked up the bleeding in my lungs to too much champagne, or perhaps the air conditioning was just cranked too high. My health had been delicate ever since Papa died.

After the gala fiasco, I was confined to my room. I opened my tablet and stared at my gallery's dismal sales figures. A few paintings had sold. A small smile touched my lips; it seemed some people in this world still appreciated my work.

With this money, I would get a decent commission. Then, I could arrange a gravesite for myself, far away from my family.

Just as I was about to close the page, a sharp slap cracked across my face. The impact sent me stumbling to the floor, my vision blackening at the edges. My brother, Yzail Ricci, stood over me, his face contorted with fury.

"She's just faking sick at the gala to get more attention," Fabian Gallo's voice sliced through the silence.

When I looked at him, his expression was frigid.

"That's right, just ignore her. Look at how Gloria handles things. She'd never stoop to such tactics and shame the family."

Unbelievable. I had coughed up blood, and they were still defending Gloria Caruso.

"I'm not faking," I managed, clutching my chest against a stabbing pain.

But by then, their expressions had hardened. Any flicker of hesitation they’d had vanished, replaced by pure contempt and disgust.

The whispers turned to accusations. I'd almost fallen for her pitiful act. So vain, faking a bloody cough just for attention. We shouldn't waste time on someone like her. We should all learn from Gloria how to properly support the family.

Within minutes, the last shred of my dignity was ground to dust. And because I was deemed "unrepentant," my gallery was shut down.

With it went my commission, and my dream of a peaceful gravesite shattered.

"Wipe that blood off your mouth. It's disgusting," Yzail said, his gaze full of revulsion.

Fabian couldn't even be bothered to look at me anymore. In their eyes, the blood was just a prop for my performance.

"Margaret, Gloria's mother is unwell," Fabian said, his tone glacial. "Gloria is exhausting herself for this family. She needs support, not you causing more trouble. So don't blame us for being harsh."

Who would have thought this was the fiancé I had been with for five years? He was once the man who pursued me relentlessly, promising to make me his one and only. Now, he was defending my supposed best friend.

After they left, I coughed up another mouthful of blood. The crimson splattered across the white carpet. I suddenly remembered what my private doctor had told me two months ago.

"Don't you have any family?" Dr. Alistair Finch had asked.

"They don't want me anymore," I had replied with a bitter smile.

He seemed surprised. He wasn't the first to react that way. Every time I said it, people thought I was joking.

After all, everyone knew that the Ricci family's Principessa was doted on by her entire family. How could they possibly not want me?

But in my heart, I knew. Though my family and fiancé had never explicitly disowned me, their actions spoke louder than words. My supposed best friend, Gloria, had quietly stolen the affections of my brother and my fiancé.

She had them convinced I’d made a scene at the gala just to steal her spotlight and humiliate her. They bought every word, their sympathy pouring out for Gloria.

Even my mother believed Gloria was more of a daughter to her than I was—the daughter who only knew how to hide away and paint. Gloria was slick and sophisticated; I was a useless artist.

To make matters worse, I had indirectly caused my father's death a few years ago. So they wished I would just disappear. I used to have Fabian, but now he, too, was gone.

"You have Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis," Alistair had said gravely. "At most, you have two months left."

I swallowed a cough suppressant to keep myself from breaking down. Just then, my mother sent me a text.

"The anniversary of your father's death is approaching. I don't want to see you. Stay away from the house."

I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. I would forever be the sinner in their story. They would probably celebrate when I died.

Later, Gloria somehow found out about my illness. On my birthday, she came to my room with a malicious smile.

"You have a terminal illness, don't you? Are you going to tell them? Just you wait. I'll make sure everyone despises you!"

Then, at dinner, she announced she’d seen me forging a diagnosis for Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. To prove it, she produced a clean bill of health—one she'd bribed the family doctor to create.

I insisted mine was real, that the diagnosis wasn't forged. For a fleeting moment, I saw panic in their eyes, but it vanished as my mother said, "Margaret, you're an adult. A diagnosis from some stranger can be faked, but an official report from our family doctor cannot."