Ch.33: Enemy of my Enemy

Aris leaves. He takes the Proxy with him to finalize the paperwork in his office.

Isabella is left alone in the lab.

She is still sitting on the exam table, clutching her face. Blood seeps between her fingers. She is shaking.

"He's going to kill me," she whispers. "He's going to take it back."

I watch her from my wheelchair in the corner. My restraints are tight, cutting into my wrists. I can't move. I can't run.

But I can see. And for the first time in weeks, I can see the truth clearly.

Isabella isn't the villain. She's the distraction.

She's the shiny object Aris dangled in front of me to keep me jealous, to keep me distracted, while he built his empire on my bones.

And now, she’s just trash.

I feel a strange, cold pity for her. It isn't forgiveness. It’s just the recognition of a fellow victim in the slaughterhouse queue.

I need her.

If I'm going to survive tonight, I need an ally. And Thorne is locked in the furnace.

I look at the wall panel. The intercom system.

It connects the lab to the observation room, but it also has a local broadcast function.

I can't reach the button. My hands are strapped down.

But my foot is free. Aris, in his arrogance, didn't bother to secure my ankles to the wheelchair. He thinks I'm too weak to walk.

He's right. But I can kick.

I swing my leg. It’s a clumsy, heavy movement.

My heel connects with the metal leg of the instrument tray. I drag it closer.

*Scrape.*

Isabella jumps. She looks around the room, her eyes wide with terror.

"Who's there?"

I kick the tray again. Harder.

It tips over.

Instruments—scalpels, clamps, scissors—clatter onto the floor.

Isabella screams. She scrambles off the table, backing away until she hits the wall.

"Aris?" she calls out. "Is that you?"

I look at the intercom button on the wall, just above the fallen tray. It’s low. Accessible.

I stretch my leg out. My toes brush the button.

*Push.*

The red light flickers on. The channel is open.

I take a deep breath. My throat is dry, ravaged by disuse and screaming. My vocal cords feel like sandpaper.

But I have to speak.

"Bella," I croak.

The sound is hideous. It’s a rasp, a growl, a voice from the grave.

Isabella freezes. She stares at the speakers mounted in the ceiling.

"Who... who is that?"

"Look at me," I whisper.

She turns. She looks at the wheelchair in the corner.

She sees me.

Really sees me. Not as a piece of meat. Not as a rival.

She sees the woman whose face she is wearing.

"Elena?" she breathes.

She takes a step closer. She is trembling so hard her teeth are chattering.

"You're... you're awake."

"I've always been awake," I say. My voice is gaining strength, fueled by hate and necessity. "I saw everything. The kiss. The dinner. The slap."

She flinches. Her hand goes to her bruised cheek.

"He hit me," she whimpers, like a child telling on a bully.

"He's going to do worse than hit you," I say. "He's going to skin you."

Isabella shakes her head. "No. No, he loves me. He said—"

"He said you were the masterpiece," I interrupt. "But you're just the packaging. You're the bubble wrap."

I lean forward as far as the straps allow.

"The client is here, Bella. She's upstairs signing the check. Fifty million dollars. Do you think Aris cares about you? Do you think he cares about *us*?"

Isabella stares at me. The denial is crumbling in her eyes. She remembers the coldness of the Proxy. She remembers the way Aris looked at her when the graft failed.

"He's going to take the face back," I say, driving the knife in. "Tonight. He's going to strap you down to that table, and he's going to cut it off. And he won't use anesthesia, because he doesn't want to damage the merchandise."

"Stop it!" she screams. She covers her ears.

"And then," I continue, relentless, "when you're just a raw, bleeding skull... he's going to throw you in the furnace. Just like he did with the others."

"What others?"

"The orphans," I lie. Or maybe it’s the truth. I don't know anymore. "The girls he 'saved'. Where do you think he learned to do this? He practiced."

Isabella sinks to the floor. She is hyperventilating.

"I don't want to die," she sobs. "I just wanted to be pretty."

It’s such a pathetic, shallow wish. But it’s human.

"Then help me," I say.

She looks up. Her mascara is running, black tears tracking through the blood on my stolen cheeks.

"Help you?"

"Cut me loose," I say. "There's a scalpel on the floor. Cut the straps."

She looks at the scalpel. It’s lying in a pool of light.

She looks at the door.

"He'll kill me," she whispers.

"He's going to kill you anyway," I snap. "At least this way, you have a chance. We can fight him. We can take him down."

"I can't fight him," she says. "He's... he's Aris."

"He's a man," I say. "A small, greedy man with a god complex. And he's alone right now. The guards are outside."

I soften my voice. I channel the mother I used to be.

"Bella. Look at me. Do you want to end up like this?"

I gesture to my ruined face. To the eye that isn't there.

Isabella stares at me. She sees her future written on my skin.

She crawls toward the scalpel.

She picks it up. Her hand is shaking.

She stands up. She walks toward me.

She holds the blade up.

For a second, I think she’s going to stab me. I think she’s going to finish what Aris started, just to silence the voice of her conscience.

But then she lowers the blade to my wrist.

She saws at the leather strap.

*Saw. Saw. Saw.*

The leather parts. My right hand falls free.

I grab her wrist. My grip is weak, but desperate.

"The other one," I command.

She cuts the left strap.

I am free.

I try to stand. My legs wobble, but they hold.

"Thank you," I say.

"Don't thank me," she spits, pulling away. "I hate you. I still hate you."

"Good," I say. "Hate keeps you alive."

I look around the room. I need a weapon. The scalpel is too small.

I see the oxygen tank in the corner. The empty one.

"Grab that," I point.

Isabella looks at it. "It's heavy."

"Adrenaline is a hell of a drug," I say. "Pick it up."

She drags the tank over.

I hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Confident.

Aris is coming back.

"Hide," I whisper. "Behind the door."

Isabella scrambles into the shadows. She clutches the tank to her chest like a teddy bear.

I sit back in the wheelchair. I put my hands behind my back, mimicking the restraints.

The door opens.

Aris walks in. He is smiling. He is holding a bottle of champagne.

"The deal is done," he announces. "The wire transfer cleared."

He walks toward me. He pours a glass.

"A toast, Elena. To your final contribution to science."

He holds the glass out to me.

"Oh, wait," he mocks. "No hands."

He laughs. He tilts his head back to drink.

He doesn't see Isabella.

He doesn't see the shadow detach itself from the wall.

He doesn't see the green steel cylinder swinging toward his head.

My voice, rasping through the speakers, made Isabella drop her wine.

But now, her actions are going to make him drop his guard.