Ch.15: The Wife Awakens

Dinner was a formal affair, even for a Tuesday. The dining room was a cavern of mahogany and crystal, lit by a chandelier that cost more than my entire nursing education.

I stood in the corner, "on call" in case Daisy—who was sleeping in a bassinet nearby—needed attention. But my real job was to watch the show.

Thorne sat at the head of the table, cutting into a rare steak with surgical precision. Opposite him sat Isabella.

She was beautiful in a terrifying, ethereal way. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She wore a high-collared silk dress that hid her neck, but I knew what was underneath—the injection sites.

She lifted a glass of red wine to her lips. Except it wasn't wine. It was the "serum." My saline cocktail, mixed with pomegranate juice to mask the taste.

I held my breath.

She took a sip. Swallowed.

"Excellent vintage, Julian," she said, her voice raspy.

"Only the best for you, my love," Thorne replied, smiling.

She took another sip. Then she frowned.

She touched her chest, a look of confusion clouding her perfect features.

"It feels... thin," she murmured.

"Thin?" Thorne paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Weak. I feel..."

She tried to stand up. Her legs buckled.

The wine glass shattered on the marble floor, spraying red liquid across the pristine white rug.

Isabella collapsed. She didn't fall gracefully like a movie star. She crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She hit the floor hard, her head bouncing with a sickening thud.

"Isabella!"

Thorne was out of his chair in a second. He vaulted over the table, landing beside her.

"Pulse is thready!" he shouted. "Get the kit! Now!"

I ran to the sideboard where the emergency bag was kept. I grabbed it and ran back, dropping to my knees beside them.

Thorne was frantic. The cool, collected sociopath was gone. In his place was a terrified husband.

"She's crashing," he yelled, checking her pupils. "Why is she crashing? She just had the treatment! The levels should be peaking!"

He glared at me, his eyes wild.

"What did you do?" he hissed. "Did you contaminate the sample?"

"I followed protocol!" I lied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "I prepped it exactly as you said. Maybe her tolerance has increased. Maybe the baby's blood isn't enough anymore."

He looked back at his wife. She was seizing now, her body convulsing on the floor.

"Stabilize her!" he roared. "I need to get to the lab. I need to check the batch."

He scrambled up and ran toward the West Wing, leaving me alone with the woman who was drinking my daughter's life.

I looked down at Isabella. The seizure was stopping. Her eyes fluttered open.

They weren't glazed or vacant. They were sharp. Clear. Terrified.

She grabbed my wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a dying woman.

"He's gone?" she rasped.

"Yes," I whispered. "He went to the lab."

She pulled me closer, until her lips were brushing my ear.

"You switched it," she whispered.

I froze.

"I... I don't know what you mean."

"It tasted like salt," she hissed. "Like the ocean. Not like iron."

She looked at me, and I saw the truth in her eyes. She knew. She knew everything.

"You're trying to kill me," she said.

"I'm trying to save my daughter."

She stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then, a tear leaked from the corner of her eye.

"Good," she whispered.

I stared at her, stunned.

"Help me," she begged, her voice breaking. "He won't let me die. He keeps bringing me back. Please... just let me die."

The villain's wife isn't a villain. She's a prisoner too.