I woke up to the steady, insistent beep of machines and the sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic burning my nose.
My mouth felt like sandpaper; my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. Every nerve in my body throbbed. My head pounded with a relentless hammering—thump, thump, thump—as if someone were inside, smashing it from within.
Everything felt off. Heavy. Wrong. Like my body wasn't mine anymore, like I was a stranger trapped inside skin that refused to obey me.
A hand squeezed mine. Hard. Familiar. Tight.
I turned my head slowly. Cynthia. Sitting beside the bed, eyes red and puffy, pale as if she hadn't slept in days.
"Lys?" Her voice cracked, trembling. "Oh God… you're awake."
I tried to speak. Words refused me. Only a hoarse croak came out. "Cyn… what…?"
She leaned closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. Her hand was cold. Shaking. "You scared the shit out of me. You… you collapsed. They brought you in. You… you're in the hospital."
The room finally started to come into focus. White walls. Harsh fluorescent light bouncing off surfaces. Tubes snaking into my arm. Monitors blinking numbers I didn't understand, each beep hammering faster, louder—beep, beep, beep—synchronizing with the frantic rhythm in my chest.
"Collapsed?" I croaked again, voice small, distant. "How… why?"
Before she could answer, the door swung open. A doctor stepped in, brisk and professional. Mid-forties, white coat, clipboard in hand, serious eyes. No panic, but all authority. He nodded at Cynthia, then looked down at me.
"Miss Alyssa. Good, you're awake." He flipped through the papers clipped to his board. "I'm Dr. Harlan. Your test results are back. You were brought in yesterday unconscious.
Dehydrated. Low blood pressure. Organ stress. You're lucky we got you in time."
I tried to swallow. My throat felt raw, tight, as if sandpaper had been pressed against it. "What… what's wrong with me?
He paused. Just long enough for the air to thicken, for my stomach to twist in anticipation.
"You've been poisoned."
The words hung in the air, heavy, impossible, like a stone dropped into my chest.
"Poisoned?" I whispered, almost too afraid to say it aloud. Maybe if I didn't speak it, it wouldn't be real.
He nodded solemnly. "Slow-acting compound. Thallium. Rat poison levels, basically. Odorless. Tasteless. Builds up over time—weeks, maybe months.
Causes fatigue, hair loss, nerve damage, liver and kidney failure. You collapsed when you did, or… another week or two and you might not have made it."
The rest of what he said blurred. Treatment. Antidotes. Monitoring.
Words I couldn't process. Only one thing kept looping in my head: thallium. Poison. Someone… someone fed me poison. Slowly. On purpose.
My mind raced. Flashes. Fragments.
The teas. Every single day. Elena and nanny Charlotte bringing me tea . But most times it had been my sweet sister.
"You look so pale, little sis. Drink this. It'll help you sleep." Her hand steady, her eyes soft, watching me sip.
Victor's "stomach ache" that day—the one that kept him home so we could…
Was that the start?
The shadow at the gate when I drove away. Tall. Silent. Watching me leave.
My breathing came in short, ragged bursts. It felt like the walls were closing in, pressing down on me.
Cynthia's hand tightened around mine. "Lys? Hey, stay with me. Don't go anywhere."
I couldn't think straight. My thoughts spun out of control, wild and chaotic.
Seventy miles away—Cynthia had said I collapsed seventy miles away from the mansion. I remembered throwing clothes into bags, cramming them in hastily, my hands trembling, heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst.
I had driven like the world was on fire behind me, the gates clanging shut with a metallic finality as if the mansion itself were marking my escape. And then… nothing. Black. Everything after that had been nothingness, a void that swallowed me whole.
The doctor stepped out, door clicking softly behind him. Silence fell heavy, suffocating.
Cynthia's eyes were wide, disbelief etched across her pale face. "Poisoned? Lys… who… who would…?"
Then my phone buzzed. Loud. Insistent.
Again. And again.
I grabbed it with numb, trembling hands. The screen lit up. Notifications. Messages.
Elena: You weren't in your room this morning. I'm worried sick. You left without saying goodbye to Lily? She's crying. Call me when you can. Love you.
Victor: Lys? Where are you? Leaving was the best option.
Robert: Told you. Last chance is gone. Your mum's getting the full story today. Think about her heart.
And then it hit me—the cruel, sickening irony.
Poor mum. If only she knew. Her own daughter… fucking her son-in-law.
Old threats felt like nothing compared to this.
Because the real one… the one texting hearts and "love you"…
I stared at Elena's message. "Love you." After feeding me poison, slowly, day by day, with that fake, angelic smile.
The room tilted, spun. Monitors beeped faster, urgent.
Cynthia took the phone from my hands gently. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she read the texts. "Get some rest, Lys," she murmured softly, holding it toward me, trying to calm me.
I couldn't speak. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, unchecked.
Everything crashed in at once—the affair, Victor's hands on me, his cock inside me while she slept just down the hall, the note, the hanging thing, bells in the night.
All of it. Games. Tests. Leading to this. Poison.
She knew. She had chosen this. Quiet death. All while hugging me. Calling me little sis. Tucking Lily in. Smiling. Pretending.
I wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Rip out the tubes. Run back. Grab her throat. Make her admit it.
But I was weak. Body failing. Poison coursing through my veins.
Rage mixed with terror, grief for the sister I thought I had.
Cynthia held me as I shook uncontrollably. "Talk to me. Please," she begged.
And I let it spill.
Tears poured. All the shame. The lust. The lies. The hanging cock with his name. The bells in the night. The poison.
In one broken, trembling whisper, it left my mouth:
"Victor's cock… has ruined me." i whimpered.
Cynthia didn't understand anything I said.
Even as I said it—curled on that hospital bed, every ounce of strength drained—something shifted deep inside me.
I wasn't running anymore. I wasn't the victim.
Not yet.
Elena wanted to play slow? Fine.
I would play too.
I'd go back. Smile bigger. Drink her tea. Watch closer. Take Victor—harder. Deeper. Right under her nose. Confirm it was her.
And when I did…
I would make her feel every drop of what she had tried to feed me. Every last second.
Because if she wanted war…
I was ready.
And Victor? He was mine now. More than ever.