Chapter 3

I burned with fever for three days. When I finally opened my eyes, the skin below my collarbone screamed with pain.

I tried to sit up, but a nurse caught me by the shoulders and pressed me back down. Only then did I realize I was in the family hospital.

Her brow was furrowed, voice tight with concern.

"You just had a skin graft procedure. The pain is normal—you were running a high fever during surgery. You've been unconscious for seventy-two hours."

She dabbed a wet cotton swab across my cracked lips as she spoke.

"The Don Declan, though—so sweet to his wife. I never expected that. He stayed by her side for three straight days. Didn't sleep. Eyes completely bloodshot. And assigned six bodyguards to guard her room closely."

"He was worried the skin on her forehead wouldn't heal pretty enough, so he insisted we use the patch from just below your collarbone. We told him multiple times it would cause you excruciating pain, but he wouldn't budge."

She glanced back at me.

"You're really selfless, though. Are you one of his subordinates?"

The pain from the wound drilled straight into my chest. My fingers twisted into the sheets until my knuckles went white.

"They're... a couple?" My voice came out like sandpaper.

The nurse nodded cheerfully. "Last night when the girl woke up, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. If that's not his woman, what is?"

Something inside me cracked open.

Declan has never been demonstrative. Public affection—kissing, hand-holding, embracing—he finds it undignified. In ten years, he never once kissed me where anyone could see.

But Isabelle became the exception.

After the nurse left, the tears finally came. I bit into my lip until I tasted iron, refusing to let a single sob escape.

Everything Declan said that night while I was delirious came rushing back with brutal clarity.

I'll never do anything you don't like again.

I was the only one who believed it.

I waited until well past midnight. Then Declan came in, startled to find me awake. Something guilty flickered across his face.

"Family meeting ran late. Sorry I'm only just getting here—how do you feel? Still hurting?"

The lie came so naturally. He even touched his nose—his tell. Always has been.

I looked at him calmly and felt nothing but the absurdity of it all.

This was the fourth lie this month.

The first time: Working late at the office. Actually shopping for lingerie with Isabelle on Madison Avenue.

The second: Drinks with Marcus. Actually fixing a leaking pipe in her apartment.

The third: Business trip to Chicago. Actually flying to Palm Beach to buy her a bracelet she'd admired.

Beneath the blanket, my nails carved half-moons into my palms. I couldn't even feel it.

I lowered my gaze, a bitter smile forming.

"Declan. I never agreed to give Isabelle my skin."

The air crystallized. His guilt vanished, replaced by something harder.

He studied me for a long moment, then rubbed his brow with weary exasperation.

"Sera, how old are you? You're a decade older than her. Are you really going to compete with a teenage girl?"

"Her life is just beginning. You're supposed to be sisters—not enemies."

"Another scar means nothing on you. But for Belle—one scar and her entire future is over. Her dream is Hollywood. Her face is everything."

He looked at me the way you'd look at a child throwing a tantrum.

"When are you going to grow up?"

I almost laughed—a broken, incredulous sound.

Grow up?

Wasn't it him who promised, before we married, that I'd never have to?

Another scar means nothing on me? Isabelle's dream is to be an actress?

What about my dream? What about the seven scars already carved into my body?

Is that just my bad luck?

He saw the tears and immediately softened—reached out to brush them away.

I flinched back. His hand hung frozen in the air between us.

"Declan... sometimes I really wish I'd never traded seven stab wounds for your hands."

He went silent. Something like panic flashed through his eyes.

"Just let me go. Please."