The thin hospital blanket offered zero warmth against the aggressive air conditioning.

Anabelle walked in soft hospital slippers down the stone path of the private hospital's indoor glass conservatory. The cool air-conditioning seeped through the thin fabric. The doctor had just finished examining her lungs-mild aspiration pneumonia. She was ordered to stay for observation.

A light, melodic laugh drifted through the manicured hedges.

Anabelle stopped. Through the gap in the rosebushes, she saw the garden pavilion.

Britany was sitting on a wicker chair, wearing a loose, silk hospital gown. Her hair was half-dry, framing her face in soft waves. Antoine sat beside her, pouring tea into a porcelain cup.

"Antoine, you're being too good to me," Britany pouted, leaning closer to him. "Sister is definitely going to misunderstand."

Antoine set the teapot down. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Britany's ear. "You went through a shock. You need to be taken care of. Anabelle should understand that."

Anabelle stood frozen behind the bushes. Her stomach violently contracted, pushing bile up her throat.

Britany shifted her gaze. Her eyes locked onto Anabelle through the leaves. The innocent expression vanished from Britany's face, replaced by a predator's gleam.

Britany deliberately rested her head on Antoine's shoulder. "I feel so dizzy, Antoine," she murmured.

Antoine immediately wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her flush against his side. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, his touch lingering, intimate.

Anabelle's fingernails bit into her palms. The pain was sharp, grounding.

Britany lifted her head slightly. Looking straight at Anabelle, she exaggerated the movement of her lips, making sure Anabelle could read them perfectly.

He's mine.

The last shred of Anabelle's breaking heart turned to ash. The agonizing grief evaporated, leaving behind a terrifying, crystal-clear coldness.

She didn't turn and run. She stepped out from behind the bushes and walked directly toward the pavilion. Her slippers made no sound on the stones, but her posture was rigid, her chin held high.

Antoine looked up. His brow instantly furrowed. "What are you doing out here? Are you done with your tests?" His tone was clipped, annoyed.

Britany shrank back against Antoine's chest, her eyes widening in mock terror. "Sister, I didn't mean to fall... please don't be mad."

Anabelle stopped two feet away from the table. She didn't look at Antoine. She stared dead into Britany's eyes.

"You don't need to apologize, Britany," Anabelle said. Her voice was completely flat, devoid of any inflection. "Because starting right now, he belongs entirely to you."

Britany's fake tears stopped. Her pupils contracted in shock.

Antoine frowned, standing up halfway. "Anabelle, what kind of nonsense-"

Anabelle didn't wait for him to finish. She turned on her heel and walked away.

"Anabelle! What is wrong with your attitude?" Antoine shouted after her.

She didn't slow down. She let his voice bounce off her back like useless static.

She walked back into the main hospital building. At the end of the long corridor, an elegant elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window.

A middle-aged woman stood beside the wheelchair, leaning down to whisper, "That girl is calmer than I expected."

The elderly woman nodded slightly. "To maintain her dignity after being betrayed like that... she has a spine. Look into her background."

Anabelle didn't hear them. She walked back into her private room and sat on the edge of the bed.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Antoine.

Britany is terrified. I'm staying with her tonight. Get some rest.

Anabelle stared at the glowing screen. A harsh, dry laugh scraped its way out of her throat. She pressed her thumb to the screen, swiped left on his name, and hit delete. Eight years of messages, photos, and promises vanished into the digital void.

She tossed the phone aside. The door opened, and a nurse walked in with a small paper cup of pills. Anabelle took them dry, swallowing the bitter taste.

Anabelle sat on the hard plastic bench in the VIP corridor, staring blankly at the sterile white tiles between her feet. She was waiting for her final discharge papers.

Footsteps clicked against the linoleum.

Anabelle looked up. Britany was walking toward her, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. The innocent, worried mask was back on her face.

"Sister, are you okay?" Britany stopped a few feet away, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Was I too emotional earlier?"

Anabelle didn't move. "Save it, Britany. Keep your acting for Antoine."

Britany's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, she took a step forward, pretending she was going to sit down next to Anabelle.

As Britany shifted her weight, her ankle deliberately rolled. She let out a piercing scream. She threw her body weight toward Anabelle, simultaneously tipping the cup of scalding coffee directly onto her own arm and chest.

Anabelle's reflexes kicked in. She reached out her hands to catch her falling sister.

Britany grabbed Anabelle's wrists, pulling Anabelle forward so it looked like they were struggling, before collapsing onto the floor.

"Ahhh! It burns!" Britany shrieked, clutching her reddened arm. Tears streamed down her face instantly.

Nurses and patients poked their heads out of nearby rooms.

Britany looked up at Anabelle, her face twisted in agony. "Sister, why... why did you push me?"

Anabelle froze. Her hands were still suspended in the air. Her lungs seized.

Whispers erupted from the onlookers.

"Did she just push a sick patient?"

"That coffee was boiling!"

Heavy, frantic footsteps thundered down the hall. Antoine sprinted around the corner, his face dark with fury.

"Anabelle! What the hell are you doing? !"

Antoine lunged forward. He shoved Anabelle hard in the chest.

Anabelle stumbled backward. Her spine slammed into the concrete wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, sending a sharp jolt of pain down her ribs.

Antoine dropped to his knees, pulling Britany into his arms. He frantically examined the red, blistering skin on her arm.

"Antoine, it hurts so much," Britany sobbed into his shirt. "Sister is just mad that you stayed with me... so she..."

Antoine snapped his head up. His eyes were black with disgust as he glared at Anabelle. "You are completely unreasonable! She is already hurt, and you're still bullying her?"

Anabelle looked at the steaming coffee on Britany’s arm, then at Antoine’s predictable fury. A thin, cold smile touched her lips—not of guilt, but of liberation. She didn't even bother to look at the "burn."

"Nice theatricals," Anabelle said, her voice devoid of the usual tremor. "But you're bleeding your own resources, Britany. That's a genuine burn for a very temporary audience."

She didn't wait for Antoine to convict her; she had already acquitted herself from his life.

"Think whatever you want," Anabelle whispered. The exhaustion in her bones was suddenly heavier than gravity.

She pushed off the wall and turned to leave.

Antoine grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising. "You are not going anywhere! We are going to have a serious talk after the doctor treats her!"

She didn't yank her arm away in pain; she pried his fingers off one by one with a look of profound disgust, as if touching a piece of rotting fruit.

"Talk about what?" Anabelle’s voice was flat, like a judge reading a closed case. "No thanks, Antoine. Keep your 'talks' for your patient. You two deserve each other’s company—and each other’s lies."

Antoine's jaw tightened. "Your behavior right now is only making things worse!"

Ten feet away, the heavy wooden door of the VIP lounge was cracked open.

Beatrice Beck sat in her wheelchair, peering through the gap. Martha Ward stood silently behind her. They had a perfect, unobstructed view of the entire hallway. They had seen Britany's deliberate trip, the calculated arc of the coffee, and the way she pulled Anabelle down.

Beatrice's eyes narrowed, tracking the way Anabelle dismissed the man without a single tear. "What a pathetic performance," she murmured to Martha. "The younger one is a clumsy actress."

"And the young man is a lost cause," Martha agreed.

Beatrice’s gaze sharpened on Anabelle’s retreating back. "A spine is a start, but she has something better now—contempt. Martha, find out if she’s looking for a new battlefield. I’m tired of watching amateurs."

In the hallway, Antoine scooped Britany up into his arms and carried her toward the burn unit, leaving Anabelle standing completely alone.

Anabelle didn't cry. She stood frozen for ten seconds. Then, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, turned her back on the direction Antoine had gone, and walked away.