But I didn't get the chance to leave.

While Anabelle’s delicate condition became the center of whispered concern in Armand’s world, I was nothing more than a convenient fix—his personal blood reserve.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Armand said, his voice devoid of warmth. “She needs blood. You’re the only compatible donor.”

“I won’t,” I murmured, stepping back from the chair. “Armand, I’m barely standing. I haven’t eaten in days—my body can’t take this.”

“Then start eating,” he said flatly. “Sleep. Recover. Do whatever it takes. You’ll be strong enough when I say so.”

He scribbled his signature across the consent forms before I could object.

The doctor hesitated, pulling him aside. “Mr. Cavaliere, her vitals are unstable. If we draw this volume, we risk cardiac collapse. She could die.”

Armand didn’t flinch. “As long as Anabelle and the baby make it out alive, that’s all that matters.”

The needle dug into my vein. Cold spread through my arm. My limbs turned numb as the world tilted sideways.

“Don’t move,” Armand muttered. “You’re making this messier than it has to be.”

I wanted to speak, to curse him—but my voice was gone. So I stayed quiet.

By the time they drained 800cc, my fingernails were blue and my breath came in shallow bursts. Then a soft cough broke the silence—Anabelle’s, from the bedroom.

Armand’s gaze sharpened. He stepped forward, brushing the doctor aside. “Double the draw. Now.”

The doctor’s hands trembled. “Mr. Cavaliere she won’t survive that.”

A heartbeat passed.

“She’s not carrying my child. Anabelle is.”

The doctor hesitated.

“D-do it,” I cut in, my voice hoarse. “But once it’s done, I’m gone. For good.”

Armand’s eyes narrowed, jaw ticking with fury. I could see the insult forming on his tongue, something cruel about loyalty and weakness. He stepped toward me...

Then Anabelle’s voice floated through the door. “Armand...”

He didn’t look back at me. Just turned, and walked away. Left me bleeding. Barely breathing. Forgotten.

***

Two days later

I woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint decay of flowers someone forgot to throw away. My limbs were heavy, distant. Like they belonged to a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet.

Armand sat by the bed, scrolling through his phone like he was waiting for a taxi, not watching over the woman he'd nearly bled dry.

“You're finally up,” he muttered, not even looking at me. He stood and extended a cup of water like it was some grand gesture. “Drink. You look like hell.”

I turned my face away. “Don’t touch me.”

He scoffed, setting the cup down with a clink. “You’re always so damn dramatic.”

“I needed you,” I whispered, voice raw. “But you chose her. Again.”

“I made a decision,” he said coldly. “One that kept people alive. You don’t get to guilt-trip me for that.”

“No,” I murmured, eyes locked on his. “You didn’t save a life. You chose the one that mattered more to you.”

His jaw ticked, that familiar storm building behind his eyes. “You know what your problem is? You think everything’s about you. Always the victim. Always so delicate. Maybe if you weren’t so weak—”

I didn’t flinch. “Say it, Armand. Say it louder. Maybe then you'll finally hear yourself.”

He exhaled through his nose, frustrated, and sat back down, flipping through papers like the conversation bored him.

A knock broke the venomous quiet. A nurse stepped in with a tray of soup, avoiding eye contact.

“She hasn’t eaten since the transfusion,” she said softly to him.

“I’m aware,” Armand snapped. “Leave it.”

Once the nurse was gone, he picked up the spoon and walked over again.

“Eat,” he said curtly. “Unless you plan on making a career out of fainting.”

I stared at the spoon like it was poison. “You don't get to play caretaker now. Not after what you did.”

His expression turned cold—empty, even. He placed the spoon back on the tray with slow precision.

“You want to act like this is betrayal?” he said, voice low. “Fine. Play the martyr. Starve yourself. Throw another tantrum. It's all you seem to do lately.”

My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I reached for it, hand trembling.

Ten missed calls. All from Marco.

The most recent message blinked on the screen:

> Sof, where are you? This isn’t like you. I’m coming. This doesn’t feel right.

Armand’s eyes flicked to the phone. The shift in his face was instant.

“Who the hell is Marco?” he growled.

I looked at him, unblinking. “The only one who still sees me as a person, not a problem to manage.”

His mouth opened, ready to strike back—

But then his own phone vibrated. Anabelle.

He hesitated.

And I didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask him to stay. Didn’t ask who needed what now.

He grabbed his phone and walked out without a second glance. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was armor. And in that stillness—drained, hollow, invisible—I made myself a promise:

Next time, I wouldn’t survive this as Armand Cavaliere’s forgotten wife.

I’d survive this as Harriet. The woman he never saw coming.

“I just need a few more days, Marco,” I muttered, eyes glued to the pale linoleum floor, voice thin and fragile.

“Promise I’ll come home. Just… not yet.”

He didn’t argue. Just silence, then the line went dead. I slipped the phone back into my hoodie pocket like it had scalded me.

Armand walked in seconds later, all clean lines and cold indifference.

He didn’t even look at me properly—but I know he saw it. That little smile I’d accidentally let slip during the call. The first in weeks. Maybe months.

He didn’t ask who I was talking to. Didn’t need to. Maybe he already assumed it was one of the last people who still gave a damn about me after the disaster of our wedding. After Anabelle.

He picked up some files from the table, businesslike. Rushed. Like he was late for a deal—not visiting his wife recovering in a hospital bed.

“Something came up. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Then another.

And another.

He never came back.

Instead, I got updates the way everyone else did—through clips and stories, forwarded from friends who weren’t sure if I wanted to see them or if I needed to.

Armand and Anabelle, out on the town. Dinner at La Gilda. Private yacht party with fireworks.

Him, behind her on a white Vespa in Positano, arms wrapped around her waist like she was precious.

And then the real dagger.

I was sitting up in bed, about to sign my discharge papers, when I opened his profile.

There it was. Nine perfect squares. Golden hour by the sea. Him tying a scarf around her neck.

A picnic under hanging lanterns.

A bonfire where she sat in his lap, his arms all around her. And the center square—the one that made my chest cave in—

Her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, Armand brushing a kiss against her temple like she was the only girl left in the world.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just scrolled down.

Comments flooded in, syrupy and sweet.

“This is love.”

“Armand finally found his person.”

“They’re glowing—Anabelle deserves this.”

“The way he looks at her? Movie stuff.”

And then—Anabelle’s post. A 4D ultrasound scan, all golden and soft. The baby’s face, clear as day.

His nose. His damn jawline.

Captioned:

“Can’t wait to meet our little prince. Just like daddy already.”

Hundreds of hearts. Thousands of comments.

“A Armand mini-me!”

“That baby’s already winning in the genetics game.”

“She’s going to be such a beautiful mama.”

I sat there for a long time, phone heavy in my hands, heart heavier in my chest. Then I typed one comment under Armand’s perfect grid:

[Congrats. Hope this one sticks. And hey—best of luck with the bambino.]

Then I turned off my phone.

And I finally, finally asked for the discharge papers.

I was done being the ghost in someone else’s fairytale. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Armand. I scoffed and ignored it. Like he ignored me. Like he ignored the baby I lost.

Thirty minutes later, discharge papers signed, bag over my shoulder, I walked out alone. Then fate decided to slap me.

Right outside the OB clinic, I saw them.

Armand standing tall in his tailored black coat. Anabelle beside him in designer maternity wear, glowing like the queen of the damn underworld.

A nurse at the front desk giggled as she looked at them.

“Mrs. Cavaliere, your husband is something else. Always comes with you, even warms the gel so it’s not cold on your belly.”

The waiting room full of pregnant women turned to her like she was some damn fairytale.

I froze. My hand moved to my stomach on instinct. There’d been a baby there once.

The day of the accident, I bled out on the pavement. I video-called Armand, crying.

But what I saw?

Anabelle, naked, smirking into the camera.

“Oh hey, Mrs. Cavaliere. Armand lost a bet. He’s tied up right now. Need something?”

I hung up without a word. He called back fast.

Real fast. And there he was—arms around Anabelle, looking like I was the dirt under his shoe.

“You always gotta be dramatic, huh Harriet? Petty as hell.”

Then came the knife:

“You couldn’t even keep your own kid alive. What good are you, huh?”

He scoffed. “Sometimes I think that truck should’ve finished the job.”

I bitterly smiled.

Back in the present, I tried to sneak past them, but Armand clocked me.

“What’re you doing, lurking around like a damn stray?”

I stiffened. “I wasn’t following you. Just passing through. Chill.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Wait.”

Anabelle tightened her grip on his arm like she felt the shift in his tone. Then she flashed me a sugary smile.

“Thanks again for the blood, Harriet. I probably would’ve passed out without it. You saved me and baby Cavaliere.”

Then she looked at Armand. “Babe, why don’t we give Harriet a ride home? Yeah?”

He smiled like she’d asked for the moon.

“Anything for you, princess.”

I needed to grab my stuff from the house anyway. So I got in the car. Silence choked the ride until something caught my eye—jammed between the seats. Lace. Black. Still damp.

Anabelle gasped like she didn’t just plant the damn thing there herself.

“Oh my God. How did that end up here?”

She turned to Armand, fake innocence dripping from her voice.

“Didn’t you say you handled all this?”

I didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to. Their circus didn’t need another clown.

Anabelle threw herself into Armand’s arms like a damn soap opera star, and she giggled as she smacked his chest like he was the love of her life and not just the latest prize. He laughed—low and smooth—and yet his eyes? They flicked right to me.

He was waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. Jealousy, perhaps. Anger, even.

But I gave him nothing, and that... That pissed him off more than any slap ever could.

“You’ve been glued to that phone since we left the hospital,” Armand said, and his voice was cold, sharp like a blade sliding slow across skin.

“You texting your cousin or someone I need to know about?”

I did not even blink. I had just booked my one-way out of this circus and locked the screen.

“Just the news,” I replied, and I was cool as ice.

Wrong answer.

His jaw clenched like he was biting back a growl, and then he lunged and snatched the phone from my hand.

“What’s the password?”

“My birthday.”

Five damn years married, and he still did not know it by heart.

He tried and failed, and the phone locked itself, and the tension inside the car thickened into silence.

When we got back to the house, like clockwork, Armand turned into the doting daddy-to-be. He guided Anabelle into the master bedroom like she was royalty, and his eyes were soft, and his hand was resting on her back.

He told the cook to whip up all her cravings like she ran the place now.

I was already halfway to the guest room when I heard him mutter behind me,

“Make a few of Harriet’s favorites too. Set the table for three.”

For three. Right.

Like I had not just been erased in public, in private, and in every damn way.

In the guest room, I popped open my suitcase.

Slashed.

Every piece of clothing was ripped to shreds like some jealous brat with scissors had gone on a spree. But my passport was untouched, and that was smart. Even snakes have limits when it comes to international crimes.

As I turned to leave, there she was.

Anabelle stood there like she owned the damn world, leaning against the doorway with one stiletto heel hooked behind the other, a silver lighter twirling between her fingers like a loaded weapon.

“Aw,” she cooed, voice dipped in mock pity. “Still here, Harriet? I figured you’d finally crawl back to whatever dusty hole you came from. But look at you—still pretending this is your house. Still playing wife like the credits didn’t roll on your sad little story.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t flinch. That alone seemed to piss her off. She pushed off the frame and sauntered in, slow and smug.

“You know,” she continued, circling me like a predator, “I used to wonder what Armand ever saw in you. Then I met your grandma—saintly, boring, sentimental. And it all made sense. You were just a placeholder. A charity case with a wedding ring.”

I clenched my fists, jaw tight.

“Oh, don’t do the whole tragic silent act,” she laughed. “He hates that too, you know. Told me once, in bed, that it was like screwing a ghost. So quiet. So polite. So dull. He said he used to fake exhaustion just to get away from you.”

I stayed silent.

“But me?” Her lips curled. “He begs. He pleads. Sometimes he cries. It’s actually pathetic, but sweet. He says I make him feel alive. That I light him up. That he was starving with you.”

She stepped closer, face inches from mine.

“You were a routine. I’m the addiction.”

I still said nothing. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. But my heart was hammering hard enough to crack bone.Her smile slipped just slightly. She hated that I wasn’t breaking.

“Oh, right,” she added, tapping her temple like it just occurred to her. “Your precious nonna. Dead, right? That must’ve been hard. All alone in that hospital while you were screaming at Armand to come.”

She pulled out her phone and shoved it into my face.

“Wanna see why he didn’t?”

I didn’t want to—but I looked.

The photo: her and Armand on the beach. His hands tangled in her hair. Her legs in his lap. Sun dipping low behind them like a damn postcard.

“My idea,” she said sweetly. “I wanted to see the ocean. He wanted to say no—but I told him you’d understand. After all, you’re so reasonable. Right?”

I saw red.

My hand moved on instinct—I slapped the phone out of hers, sent it crashing into the wall.

And then I grabbed her by the collar.

Her eyes widened for a split second before she grinned.

“I knew you had it in you,” she whispered. “Too bad it’s too late.”

She lifted the lighter, flame flickering.

“You think you’re the storm, Harriet?” Her grin stretched. “I am the wildfire.”

She tossed it backward—into the sheer curtains. They exploded into flames like paper.

I turned toward the door—locked.

The smoke came fast, thick and heavy. Anabelle backed up into the corner, laughing through the growing haze.

“Let’s see who he saves,” she crooned. “I told him I couldn’t breathe without him. Let’s see if he believes it.”

I coughed hard, stumbling. The room was heat and choking ash.

“Don’t worry,” she called out through the crackling flames. “He’ll bury you like he did your love. With guilt. Quietly. In the past.”

I kicked the window—jammed. But then I remembered. The old vent behind the dresser.

I shoved the nightstand aside—once, twice, until it scraped far enough. The vent cover was rusted, but loose. My fingers worked at the screws, burning, shaking.

Behind me, the fire howled.

And then—

“Harriet!”

His voice. Desperate. Panicked.

Servants screamed, “Sir, wait—”

“She’s still in there!”

I froze. For one second, I let hope in.

But when he kicked down the door, when the smoke parted... He didn’t even look at me.

Anabelle collapsed into a perfect heap by the bed.

“L-Armand,” she gasped, like she’d rehearsed it.

He ran to her. Scooped her up like some tragic goddess.

“She’s not breathing!” he shouted to no one.

He turned. He walked out.

He left me.

I forced myself into the vent. It scraped my skin raw, sliced my arms, burned my knees—but I kept crawling. I could hear the walls collapsing behind me, the fire consuming everything. My lungs screamed. My vision dimmed.

But then I saw it—light.

Grass.

I clawed my way out, fell into the cold dirt, coughing and covered in soot, but alive.

I saved myself.

And that? That would haunt him more than the fire ever could.

Thirty minutes later, after Anabelle was calmed down, Armand finally noticed I was missing.

Too late.

--

That night, I made it to the airport with Marco.

I coughed the whole damn time, wrapped in someone else’s coat, and I reeked of smoke and gasoline.

I dropped a package at the counter.

And we boarded the next flight out to the UK. Right before takeoff, my phone buzzed. A message from Armand.

[I don’t have time to play hide and seek, Harriet.]

Neither do I.

[Anabelle’s got her check-up tomorrow at ten. Go with us. And get your lungs looked at while you're there.]

Armand… from this moment on, we’re done. You’ll never ever see me again.

I didn’t bother replying.

I popped the SIM card out, snapped it and threw it away.