Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

I woke to the sterile sting of antiseptic and the oppressive weight of silence.

There were no flowers brightening the gray room.

No get-well cards lining the windowsill.

There was only the steady, rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor, counting away the seconds of my isolation.

My left leg was encased in a heavy cast, elevated on a sling. My shoulder throbbed beneath thick bandages.

I pressed the call button, my fingers trembling slightly.

A nurse bustled in a moment later. She looked exhausted, her uniform rumpled.

"Where is my family?" I asked, my voice scraping against my dry throat.

Her eyes darted away, avoiding mine.

"Mr. Moretti and your sister are in the VIP suite down the hall," she said, smoothing the sheets unnecessarily. "Miss Vitiello was treated for shock."

Shock.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my chest, but I choked it down as agony flared in my bruised ribs.

I had broken bones. She had shock.

And they were with her.

"I need pain medication," I rasped.

"The doctor hasn't signed off on the new dose yet," she said apologetically. "He is with your sister right now."

Of course he was.

I waited an hour. The pain in my leg transformed from a dull ache into a throbbing, living thing that gnawed at my sanity.

Finally, the heavy door swung open.

It wasn't the doctor.

It was Dante.

He strode in, his broad shoulders instantly making the small hospital room feel claustrophobic. He didn't look concerned; he looked irritated.

"Isabella is very upset," he said without preamble, his voice clipped.

I stared at him, unable to process the callousness.

"The sign almost killed her," he continued, pacing to the foot of the bed. "She is traumatized."

"It fell on me, Dante," I whispered, the injustice burning hotter than my injuries.

He glanced briefly at my elevated leg, his expression unreadable.

"You have a fracture. You will heal. Isabella is delicate. Her kidneys... stress is poison to her."

He walked to the bedside table and dropped a plastic takeout container onto the metal surface with a loud clatter.

"Mother wants you to eat," he said. "We ordered from the seafood place Isabella likes. She didn't want the shrimp scampi, so she said you could have it."

I stared at the condensation on the lid.

Shrimp.

"I am allergic to shellfish," I said, my gaze snapping back to his.

Dante frowned, a line appearing between his brows.

"Stop lying, Seraphina. Isabella said you love it. She told me you're just being difficult because you want attention."

"I'm allergic," I repeated, panic rising in my chest. "My throat closes up. I can't breathe."

Dante leaned over the bed, invading my personal space. His hands gripped the metal railing with white-knuckled force.

"Isabella is trying to be nice to you after you ruined her evening. You will eat it. Consider it discipline for your attitude."

He popped the lid open. The pungent aroma of garlic and shellfish filled the air, turning my stomach.

"Eat," he ordered.

I looked into his eyes—dark, demanding, and utterly devoid of mercy.

The eyes of the man I had saved.

He was a monster.

Realizing that fighting him would only expend energy I didn't have, I made a calculation. I picked up the plastic fork.

I took a bite.

I swallowed, feeling the slide of it like a stone down my gullet.

Dante watched me for a moment, satisfied that his will had been imposed.

"Good," he said, straightening his suit jacket. "Stop the drama."

He turned on his heel and walked out.

The second the door clicked shut, I dragged myself upright.

Ignoring the screaming pain in my leg, I hopped on one foot to the cramped bathroom.

I shoved my fingers down my throat.

I retched until my stomach was completely empty, until I was dry heaving nothing but bitter bile and saliva.

My hands shook violently as I gripped the porcelain sink.

I splashed cold water on my face, gasping for air.

I needed to get out. I was suffocating.

I found a wheelchair folded in the hallway and managed to collapse into it, wheeling myself away from that room.

I made my way to the hospital courtyard.

It was deserted. A stone fountain bubbled in the center, the water looking black in the moonlight.

I sat there, shivering in my thin, open-backed hospital gown, trying to stabilize my breathing.

"Well, look who it is."

My head snapped up.

Isabella was standing there. She was wearing a luxurious silk robe, looking perfectly, infuriatingly healthy.

She sauntered over to me.

"Dante is so protective, isn't he?" she mused, trailing her manicured fingers through the fountain water.

"He thinks you're the one who saved him," I said quietly, the words hollow.

Isabella smiled. It was a cold, sharp expression that didn't reach her eyes.

"I know," she said.

She leaned in close, her perfume cloying.

"I know about the safe house, Seraphina. I know about the vanilla candles you lit for him. I know about the prayers you whispered."

My breath hitched. She knew everything.

"But he prefers the beautiful lie," she whispered, her voice like venomous silk. "He doesn't want a savior who looks like you. He wants a queen."

She glanced back toward the glass doors of the hospital.

Then she looked at me, her eyes gleaming with malice.

"You really should be more careful," she said.

She stepped back.

Then she lunged.

She didn't push me.

She grabbed my injured arm and yanked me forward.

I lost my balance. The wheelchair tipped violently.

I hit the stone pavers hard. My heavy cast dragged me down, anchoring me to the ground as pain exploded in my shoulder.

Isabella screamed.

It was a performance—a piercing, bloodcurdling shriek of terror.

"Help! Dante! Help me!"

She threw herself backward into the shallow water of the fountain.

She splashed wildly, thrashing as if she were drowning in two feet of water.

The hospital doors burst open.

Dante sprinted into the courtyard, his face a mask of panic.

He saw me on the ground.

He saw Isabella flailing in the water.

He didn't ask questions.

He saw exactly what he expected to see.

The unstable, jealous sister attacking his fragile fiancée.