At a charity gala hosted by my family, a violent coughing fit seized me mid-speech. Blood stained the silk handkerchief in my hand, and the ballroom descended into a hush, then chaos. My brother, Yzail Ricci, stormed the stage and hauled me away. Meanwhile, my fiancé, Fabian Gallo, told the press I had merely "lost my composure," insinuating I was desperate for attention. In that single moment, I became a joke to the entire New York underworld.

My art gallery was splashed with red paint.

But what no one knew was that I had Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.

And I only had three days to live.

On the day I died, I took one last look out the window as the heart rate monitor in my empty hospital room flatlined.

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1

I chalked up the bleeding in my lungs to too much champagne, or perhaps the air conditioning was just cranked too high. My health had been delicate ever since Papa died.

After the gala fiasco, I was confined to my room. I opened my tablet and stared at my gallery's dismal sales figures. A few paintings had sold. A small smile touched my lips; it seemed some people in this world still appreciated my work.

With this money, I would get a decent commission. Then, I could arrange a gravesite for myself, far away from my family.

Just as I was about to close the page, a sharp slap cracked across my face. The impact sent me stumbling to the floor, my vision blackening at the edges. My brother, Yzail Ricci, stood over me, his face contorted with fury.

"She's just faking sick at the gala to get more attention," Fabian Gallo's voice sliced through the silence.

When I looked at him, his expression was frigid.

"That's right, just ignore her. Look at how Gloria handles things. She'd never stoop to such tactics and shame the family."

Unbelievable. I had coughed up blood, and they were still defending Gloria Caruso.

"I'm not faking," I managed, clutching my chest against a stabbing pain.

But by then, their expressions had hardened. Any flicker of hesitation they’d had vanished, replaced by pure contempt and disgust.

The whispers turned to accusations. I'd almost fallen for her pitiful act. So vain, faking a bloody cough just for attention. We shouldn't waste time on someone like her. We should all learn from Gloria how to properly support the family.

Within minutes, the last shred of my dignity was ground to dust. And because I was deemed "unrepentant," my gallery was shut down.

With it went my commission, and my dream of a peaceful gravesite shattered.

"Wipe that blood off your mouth. It's disgusting," Yzail said, his gaze full of revulsion.

Fabian couldn't even be bothered to look at me anymore. In their eyes, the blood was just a prop for my performance.

"Margaret, Gloria's mother is unwell," Fabian said, his tone glacial. "Gloria is exhausting herself for this family. She needs support, not you causing more trouble. So don't blame us for being harsh."

Who would have thought this was the fiancé I had been with for five years? He was once the man who pursued me relentlessly, promising to make me his one and only. Now, he was defending my supposed best friend.

After they left, I coughed up another mouthful of blood. The crimson splattered across the white carpet. I suddenly remembered what my private doctor had told me two months ago.

"Don't you have any family?" Dr. Alistair Finch had asked.

"They don't want me anymore," I had replied with a bitter smile.

He seemed surprised. He wasn't the first to react that way. Every time I said it, people thought I was joking.

After all, everyone knew that the Ricci family's Principessa was doted on by her entire family. How could they possibly not want me?

But in my heart, I knew. Though my family and fiancé had never explicitly disowned me, their actions spoke louder than words. My supposed best friend, Gloria, had quietly stolen the affections of my brother and my fiancé.

She had them convinced I’d made a scene at the gala just to steal her spotlight and humiliate her. They bought every word, their sympathy pouring out for Gloria.

Even my mother believed Gloria was more of a daughter to her than I was—the daughter who only knew how to hide away and paint. Gloria was slick and sophisticated; I was a useless artist.

To make matters worse, I had indirectly caused my father's death a few years ago. So they wished I would just disappear. I used to have Fabian, but now he, too, was gone.

"You have Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis," Alistair had said gravely. "At most, you have two months left."

I swallowed a cough suppressant to keep myself from breaking down. Just then, my mother sent me a text.

"The anniversary of your father's death is approaching. I don't want to see you. Stay away from the house."

I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. I would forever be the sinner in their story. They would probably celebrate when I died.

Later, Gloria somehow found out about my illness. On my birthday, she came to my room with a malicious smile.

"You have a terminal illness, don't you? Are you going to tell them? Just you wait. I'll make sure everyone despises you!"

Then, at dinner, she announced she’d seen me forging a diagnosis for Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. To prove it, she produced a clean bill of health—one she'd bribed the family doctor to create.

I insisted mine was real, that the diagnosis wasn't forged. For a fleeting moment, I saw panic in their eyes, but it vanished as my mother said, "Margaret, you're an adult. A diagnosis from some stranger can be faked, but an official report from our family doctor cannot."

My mother, furious, slapped me on the spot. Fabian threw my birthday cake in the trash and spat, "You're disgusting."

"The medical report says you're perfectly healthy!" my mother slapped me again, her voice trembling with anger.

"You killed your own papa, and now you're faking an illness for attention? How can you be so selfish!"

From that moment on, they all saw me as a pathological liar. I tried to explain, but they refused to believe me. I didn't understand why my medical report would show I was healthy, until Gloria later gloated to me about her secret deal with the family doctor.

"I paid him a fortune to forge a perfect bill of health for you!"

The memory faded, and I dragged my weary body up from the floor. Fabian suddenly walked in.

"Let's go. To the family meeting. And stop testing my patience with this little act."

He saw the blood on the floor and his words faltered, his brow furrowing. "Margaret, can you just stop pretending? You're just making us despise you more."

I looked up and met his deep blue eyes, now filled with crushing disappointment.

We grew up together, navigating the treacherous pressures of our families side-by-side. After my father died and my mother and Yzail turned on me, it was Fabian who held me and said, "It's okay if they don't understand you. I will. I'll always love you and cherish you."

"And Gloria? The way she bullies you... I'll make her pay for it one day!"

But at some point, Gloria started joining our dates. He said she was like a little sister who needed looking after, that we should include her. Our world for two became a crowded three.

Then, whenever Gloria and I argued, he went from defending me to lecturing me, saying Gloria came from nothing and that I, a Ricci, should be more charitable. The Fabian who promised to love me unconditionally had vanished.

"Fabian, let's call off the engagement," I said calmly, wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth.

Something unreadable flashed in his eyes. He rushed over and gripped my shoulders.

"Is this because I didn't protect you at the gala? Margaret, can't you be kind for once? You're already so fortunate!"

"You're a Ricci. You have a brother, and you have me. Gloria is just some girl your family took in out of pity."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Fortunate? My own brother despised me. The man I was supposed to marry was slipping away. My mother wouldn't even believe I was sick. If this was fortune, I wanted no part of it.

"I still want to call off the engagement."

The pain in my chest was intensifying. Last week, Alistair told me I only had a week left. The strong painkillers he prescribed could only dull the agony enough to make me appear normal.

This past week, I had been trying to sell my paintings to afford a decent burial plot. I wanted to leave this world with some dignity. It would be the last gift I gave myself.

"Fine. If that's what you want, then the engagement is off," Fabian said, storming out in a rage.

At least the engagement between us was just a political alliance. Our breakup would be clean, a simple severing of a political tie.

A moment later, I received an anonymous message from Gloria.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Haha! How does it feel to watch your precious fiancé stop defending you?"

I didn't reply. I just screenshotted the conversation. My phone was already filled with our chat history. I hoped that one day, everyone would see the truth.

…

I composed myself and went to my other home—the sanctuary I always retreated to when the world became too much. My six-year-old adopted sister, Layla Rossi, lived there.

She was the daughter of one of my father's most loyal, deceased men, and I saw a reflection of my younger self in her. So I adopted her and made her my sister.

"Margaret, you're here! I won first place in the school art competition!" She threw herself into my arms the moment I opened the door.

I ruffled her hair.

"You're so clever. How about I take you out for a celebratory treat?"

She didn't know I was terminally ill. And I didn't want her to. Telling her would only bring more pain.

"Yay! Let's go get tiramisu!"

"Okay."

We always went to that dessert shop whenever I rewarded her. But I would never take her to the restaurant my father had loved most. I wouldn't go there. Not ever again.

After we arrived, I placed our order. Before long, Yzail and Gloria suddenly strode in. When Gloria saw me, her hand flew to her mouth in a theatrical gasp.

"Oh, my God! Margaret, is that your child?"

I wanted to stitch her poisonous mouth shut.

Yzail strode over, his voice sharp. "Whose child is this?"

"Hello, I'm Layla Rossi, Margaret's adopted sister," Layla replied politely.

They fell silent. But Yzail quickly found a new angle for his mockery. "You claimed you were sick at the gala, and yet here you are, eating dessert."

"Margaret, you don't even blink when you lie anymore."

With that, he and Gloria left.

Halfway through my dessert, a sharp pain shot through my chest, and I coughed up a mouthful of blood.

"Margaret! What's wrong?" Layla cried out, grabbing onto me.

The pain made my head spin.

"I... I'm fine," I stammered, trying to hold myself together.

Just then, I saw Yzail, who had already left, rushing back toward our table.

How ridiculous. Didn't he think I was faking it? Why the sudden concern?

When I woke up again, I was in the family's private hospital. The moment I opened my eyes, another stinging slap cracked across my face.

I blinked, my focus landing on Yzail glaring down at me.

"Are you done with your act? You knew Gloria and I were going to that dessert shop, so you coughed up blood and fainted in front of us on purpose, didn't you?"

"Don't hit Margaret!" Layla rushed over and pushed him away.

"Layla, come here," I called out softly.

Layla obediently took my hand. Then, I looked up at this brother who shared my blood. The place he had hit stung, and my heart shattered.

He was the family's Underboss, for God's sake. If he had bothered to do a shred of real investigation, or even just looked—truly looked—at my face, he would have seen the deathly pallor clinging to my skin. But he didn't.