The Fiancé's Treachery: A Dancer's Vengeance

April Thomas POV:

Their version of "making it up to me" was a pathetic and suffocating circus of overcompensation. Douglas filled my hospital room with so many expensive bouquets that it looked like a funeral parlor. He bought me jewelry, designer clothes I couldn't wear, first-edition books I had no interest in reading. Each gift was a brick in the wall of his guilt.

Connor was worse. He became my shadow, a handsome, remorseful ghost. He refused to leave my side, sleeping on the uncomfortable cot in my room, reading to me for hours, feeding me my meals as if I were an infant. He spoke of our future, of a house he would build for us, perfectly accessible, of a life where he would dedicate every waking moment to my happiness.

They acted as if Isla had never existed. Her name was never mentioned. It was as if their decade-long obsession had been a collective hallucination.

I watched their frantic, clumsy attempts at redemption with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing insects. My heart was a dead thing in my chest. I was just waiting. Waiting for the call from the research institute in Switzerland, the one Cyrus Carter had arranged. Waiting for my real life to begin.

The day of my discharge, they hovered around me like nervous hens. Douglas had the entire staff of our townhouse lined up in the foyer to welcome me home. Connor, having just returned from his own family's home, fussed over the blanket on my lap, his brow furrowed with a ridiculous level of concern.

"I have to go to the office for a few hours," he said, his voice soft with apology as he leaned down to kiss my forehead. "But I'll be back before dinner. Promise."

I didn't respond. I just stared ahead, my expression blank. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and then he was gone.

Douglas disappeared into his study to take a series of "urgent" business calls, leaving me alone in the silent, cavernous living room. I was just beginning to feel the first flicker of peace when a shadow fell over me.

Isla.

She had slipped into the house like a wraith. The sweet, fragile mask was gone. Her face, in the dim light of the library, was sharp and cold, her eyes filled with a chillingly familiar venom.

"You just don't know when to die, do you?" she said, her voice a low snarl.

I simply leaned my head back against the leather of my wheelchair, watching her.

"I've envied you my entire life," she hissed, pacing in front of me like a caged animal. "Your perfect face, your perfect body, your talent, the way everyone adored you. It should have been me."

She began to move around the room, her movements jerky with rage. She picked up a small porcelain ballerina from the mantelpiece-a gift from my grandmother-and smashed it on the floor. "I took it all from you," she gloated, her chest heaving. "Your career, your brother, your fiancé. They were mine."

She spun back to face me, her eyes wild. "But it's still not enough! As long as you're here, with that pathetic, broken look on your face, they're obsessed with you! Their guilt is more powerful than their love for me. You're still winning, even like this!"

She lunged forward, her fingers like claws, and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at her. "I won't let you," she spat, her face inches from mine.

"Are you going to kill me, Isla?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.

A slow, cruel smile spread across her face. "No," she whispered. "Death is too easy. I want you to suffer. I want you to live every day in a fresh hell."

She straightened up and clapped her hands twice. Two brutish-looking men I'd never seen before stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. My blood ran cold. This was her plan.

Isla looked at them, then at me. Then, in a move of breathtaking audacity, she ripped the collar of her own dress, mussed her perfect hair, and let out a piercing, terrified scream.

"HELP! SOMEONE, HELP ME!"

The front door slammed open. Douglas was there, a bag of takeout from my favorite restaurant-sesame balls, a childhood treat-in his hand. The bag dropped to the floor, the white puffs scattering across the marble like fallen pearls.

Connor burst in right behind him, his face a mask of confusion and alarm.

Isla launched herself into their arms, sobbing hysterically. "It was awful!" she cried, pointing a trembling finger at me, and then at the two thugs. "April… she… she hired these men… they were going to… to hurt me!"

Douglas's face, which had been softening with concern for me, instantly hardened into a mask of pure fury. He strode towards me. The slap was so hard, my head snapped to the side. A strange numbness spread across my cheek. I hadn't felt a thing.

"You vile, jealous creature!" he roared, his face contorted. "After everything we've done for you, this is how you repay us? By trying to hurt the one person who has only ever shown you kindness?"

Connor stared at me, his eyes filled with a deep, bottomless disappointment that was somehow worse than Douglas's rage. "April… how could you?"

I looked at the three of them, a perfect tableau of righteous indignation and crocodile tears. I looked at the two hired actors standing awkwardly by the door.

A slow, cold smile touched my lips. "There's a security camera in this room," I said, my voice clear and calm. "Why don't we just check the footage?"

Douglas and Connor froze.