The Fleeing Princess

The first thing I registered when I opened my eyes was silence.

I was alive—but barely. My body ached, seared with pain, as if every rib had been splintered. The room was empty, sterile, lonely.

From the hall outside, I heard whispers.

“That man… God, he’s gorgeous. The way he hovered over his girlfriend, so tender, so protective…”

“I know. And for just a sprained ankle, too. Her parents won’t leave her side. Meanwhile, this poor girl in here—broken, bleeding—and not a soul visits her.”

The words sliced me open more cruelly than the chandelier had.

I yanked the IV from my arm and dragged myself down the corridor, clinging to the wall.

At the VIP ward, I stopped cold.

Behind the glass doors, Adrian sat by Elena’s bed, adjusting her pillows, murmuring soft questions.

My father poured her water, blowing gently before holding the glass to her lips. My mother dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief, cooing like she was the crown jewel of the family.

Elena pouted, smiled, let them adore her.

The sight stole my breath. The pain in my chest was sharper than any broken bone.

I told myself not to cry. I tilted my head back, forcing the tears down. No one here would care.

No one ever had.

When Adrian finally came to me later, he looked worn, shadows bruising his eyes. “Are you in pain?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking over me with unusual tension.

If this had been before, I might have demanded why he saved her instead of me. Screamed, begged, clawed at him until I got an answer.

But now—I turned my face away. Silent.

He frowned, mistaking my stillness for exhaustion. He said nothing else.

For days, he lingered, postponing business to sit in my room. But I stayed quiet. Ate when told. Slept when I could. Waited.

Waited for my chance to leave.

Three days before my discharge, I stepped out onto the balcony, craving air. That’s when I heard it.

Elena’s voice. Sweet and low, drifting around the corner.

“…Don’t worry. They treat me like a princess now. They’ll never figure it out. The real Elena’s been dead for years…”

My blood ran cold——Her words mean she's not my sister? She's an impostor!

I turned the corner, rage igniting every nerve.

She froze, phone still in her hand. Then her eyes narrowed, a flash of calculation behind them. “What are you doing here?”

“You—” My vision blurred red. “You impostor. You’re not Elena. You’re a fucking fraud!”

Her lips curled into a cruel smile. “So what if I am? You found out—good. Then let’s make this interesting.”

Before I could move, her voice rose, shrill, rehearsed. “Sister, I only came to check on you! Why would you—No, don’t hit me—ah!”

And with a theatrical gasp, she hurled herself down the stairwell.

The sickening thud of her body hitting the marble floor below echoed through the ward.

Gasps filled the hall. Heads turned—toward me.

I froze. My father’s and mother’s eyes burned into mine, blazing with fury.

“Adrian!” my mother screamed.

He was already there, scooping Elena into his arms like she was made of porcelain. His gaze met mine over her trembling body—cold as a blade.

I staggered back.

“No—she’s lying! She’s not my sister!” My voice shook, raw with desperation. “She’s a fraud—an impostor—”

“Shut up!” My father’s roar cut me off.

The whispers from the family’s soldiers around us were sharp as knives:

“Christ, she tried to kill her own sister.”

“How vicious can one woman be?”

“She’s unhinged. Ungrateful. Needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Bring the whip,” my father ordered, voice shaking with rage. “Restrain her.”

Hands grabbed me, rough, unyielding. I fought, kicked, screamed. “Let me go! Listen to me—she’s not Elena! She’s not—”

No one listened.

Every pair of eyes around me glared with contempt. Every word was poison, every whisper a knife carving deeper into my already-broken heart.

And Adrian—he walked away with her in his arms.

Without a single glance back.