I don’t care whether it was reckless driving or a genuine mistake. Someone nearly killed my sister, and I will accept nothing less than blood.
I’m sitting in a chair beside her bed now.
Machines hum softly. The room smells sterile and wrong. My sister lies motionless, her skin too pale on top of the white sheets.
Markev is at my side. He hasn’t left once.
And I can’t stop the tears. They keep falling from my eyes no matter how hard I try to contain them.
I should be stronger than this, especially with Adelaide and Isaak here—an heir to the Bratva watching every crack, and every weakness. I shouldn’t let them see me break.
But I can’t.
I can’t stop crying, and I can’t make them go away.
For some reason, Adelaide refuses to leave my sister’s side, which means Isaak doesn’t leave Adelaide’s.
Not long ago she threatened my sister’s life, and now she stands here as if she cares.
I don’t understand it.
I clench my fists as confusion turns into anger.
Arlo is a mess. Anyone with eyes can see it. He looks completely gone, struggling to keep himself together. His eyes are bloodshot, his temper gone, snapping at everyone around him.
When the nurses and doctors tried to keep him away from Ophelia, he bought the entire damn hospital.
And then there is my family.
My father still isn’t here.
My mother texted once, and then disappeared. I know what that means. He must have taken her phone.
I don’t expect her to be here, even though I know how desperately she wants to be near her daughter. But he would never allow it.
I still don’t understand the extent of his control over her. He dictates where she goes, what she says, even who she can speak to.
He controls her phone, her movements, her fuckinglife.
She lives in a gilded cage, and my chest hurts when I think about it.
But what can I do?
Ophelia and I used to talk about it, about the day he would finally step down, about how we would help her then. We told ourselves it would be different. That we would make it different. I don’t know anymore if that was hope or self-deception.
My father was informed about the accident. I told him myself. I told my mother as well. She fainted while still on the phone with me.
Heonly asked whether Ophelia was alive.
That was all.
I grit my teeth every time someone asks where he is. I keep repeating the same lie, over and over.
He’s on his way.
But is he?
What kind of father takes this long when his daughter lies unconscious in a hospital bed?
