Clara POV

I traced the contours of my family's faces, seeking to memorize their final expressions.

My mother stroked my cheek, calling me her precious canary.

She promised that once this surgery was over, she would cook my favorite meals and help me put my ballet shoes back on.

I looked at her gentle, exhausted face and remembered the grueling sacrifices she had supposedly made for me.

She would hold my hand during every single injection, her grip a counterpoint to the needle's sting.

The reflection from a nurse's stainless steel tray would catch the light, and a sour bile would rise in my throat, summoning the memory of all those mornings I was made to swallow fistfuls of bitter pills.

The foul taste of the drugs left a constant, gnawing nausea in my stomach.

I had endured the agonizing pain for two years, never uttering a single complaint.

I would force a lighthearted smile, comforting them by pretending to be strong.

I recalled the relentless vomiting that left me gasping for air over the toilet bowl, my throat raw.

I recalled coughing up blood into my cupped hands, terrified that I was dying too fast.

My beautiful hair—the very hair my mother used to brush every night—fell out in massive clumps.

I had to hide my baldness beneath a cheap woolen beanie.

I suffered from severe insomnia and bone-deep agony.

I would bite down on my blanket at night to muffle my whimpers, desperate not to wake my hardworking father in the next room.

I watched my own body wither away.

I transformed from a vibrant ballet dancer into a bedridden invalid.

My vision blurred.

The letters on my schoolbooks twisted into unrecognizable shapes, stripping away my ability to learn.

I slowly lost touch with all my friends at school because I was confined to this sterile prison.

I looked at Mateo, who was currently choking back fake sobs.

I recalled the day a particularly brutal round of chemo had broken me, leaving me in a heap of tears.

I had asked him if I would ever get better.

I had begged them to stop the treatments because we had no money left.

My mother had held me, weeping and repeating the lie that I would definitely recover.

My father—the man I now knew was a hardened mafia Capo—had red eyes and a trembling voice as he swore he would never give up on me.

Mateo had brought me cheap hair clips and plush toys that day.

When he tried to pin a clip to my hair, he realized I had almost none left.

His hands shook as he pinned the clip to my beanie instead.

He called me the best sister in the world and begged me not to speak nonsense.

They had taken turns caring for me.

They had cooked nutritional meals, wiped my sweating body, and offered relentless encouragement.

They seemingly wasted away themselves from the stress of my illness.

I had hugged my mother, crying and begging them to abandon me.

I blamed myself for not being strong enough to fight the cancer.

My mother could not stop her tears, apologizing in return, claiming it was their fault I was suffering.

I had believed their words were born of genuine heartbreak.

Only now did I understand they were born of twisted, guilty confessions.

They were apologizing because they were the ones poisoning me.

I did not doubt they loved me.

But knowing what I knew, that love was a mouthful of ash.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my abdomen.

The poison was eating through my stomach lining.

And the worst part was that I could feel it spreading—slowly, deliberately, the way their lies had spread through every corner of my life.

Clara POV

The pain in my gut was a sharp, tearing sensation, but I kept my smile frozen on my face.

My thoughts drifted back to yesterday afternoon in my small bedroom.

The tang of rust from the large metal lockbox hidden deep beneath my bed seemed to cling to my fingertips still. When the screwdriver finally pried its heavy iron clasp open, a rusted spring had scraped the flesh of my thumb.

I had sat on the floor with a bleeding nose, counting the worn stacks of bills, totaling exactly ten thousand, eight hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty cents.

It was every dime I had saved from birthdays, holidays, and tutoring gigs over the years.

I had sealed the cash and a handwritten letter inside a thick manila envelope, then crept into my brother's room and slipped it under Mateo's pillow.

I had planned for the money to buy a massage chair for my parents, because I thought their backs ached from manual labor.

I had wanted Mateo to buy new sneakers, because he always wore the same scuffed pair.

I had only wanted to silently watch over my family from heaven after my death.

My body had ached terribly while I had written that note, and tears had stung my eyes.

I had written about my boundless love for them.

I had written that I refused to be a financial burden anymore.

I had written that the chemo hurt too much and I just wanted to sleep.

After I had sealed the envelope, I had walked to the garage.

A memory, cold and sharp, surfaced from a month ago: my father bringing home a small, dark vial, his face unusually grim. He had placed it in his locked cabinet, his voice grave as he forbade me from ever touching it, explaining that it contained something lethal—a substance so dangerous that even a single drop would kill in unspeakable agony, a thing he claimed he was merely storing for someone else to help pay our mounting debts. I had been terrified of it ever since, my nightmares haunted by the thought of what kind of desperate people my family had become entangled with.

I had learned in biology class of the ruinous mechanics of corrosive toxins, and knew precisely the excruciating death it caused.

But yesterday, I had picked the lock on that cabinet with hands that barely trembled, believing I was saving my family from financial ruin. I had decanted the deadly liquid into a small travel vial, keeping it hidden against my skin. It was not until ten minutes ago, alone in the hospital restroom, that I finally unscrewed the cap and drank it all in one gulp.

I had deliberately severed any chance of my own survival.

As I lay on the hospital bed now, I admitted to myself that the discovery that my agonizing illness had been entirely orchestrated by my family broke my heart.

But I did not hate them.

I believed their past affection was genuine.

I was taken from an orphanage at age five, named Clara, and raised with overwhelming indulgence.

I had deduced that their immense wealth was hidden to keep me dependent, and that their love was a projection of their grief for their missing biological daughter.

Elena.

The name echoed in the hollows of my mind.

Elena was a name I had found on a faded missing person flyer locked deep inside my father's desk drawer, a ghost who had been kidnapped by traffickers five years ago.

I understood now that my family had a desperate need to compensate her.

They had prioritized her when the conflict over the betrothal to the supreme Don arose.

I firmly believed my family did not truly want to kill me.

Their guilt had blinded them, making them sideline me with the intention of compensating me later.

But they had no idea I had ingested poison.

They had no idea I would die on the operating table today.

They would be forever robbed of their chance to make amends.

The anesthesiologist signaled that it was time to move.

My mother cried out, promising to stay right by my side through the doors.

My father chased the gurney, promising to buy me delicious food and beautiful dresses.

He promised to take me on a vacation to the beach once I was out.

Mateo leaned down, his eyes bloodshot, and told me they were all right there with me.

I nodded through my tears.

"I know," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Dad, Mom, Mateo. I will always love you."

My family wept harder at my words.

As the nurses pushed my bed through the heavy swinging doors of the operating room, my stomach violently contracted.

I opened my mouth to draw a breath—