Love Against the Bloodline

She opened her eyes.

It wasn't like waking up from a dream, not even close. It felt like her eyelids were being peeled apart with rusted knives.

A dull, persistent ache screamed through her skull as blinding white light poured in, stabbing at her strained pupils like a vengeful god.

The bed; if one could even call it that-felt like a gurney, cold, stiff, and unforgiving against her spine. There was no softness, no comforting weight of duvets, no familiar scent of lavender on the pillowcase.

Just sterile linen, the biting scent of antiseptic, and a stiff mattress barely wide enough for her to stretch an arm.

When she tried to move, just a little, maybe to adjust or understand, pain lanced through the left side of her neck-sharp, electric, nauseating.

It forced a choked gasp from her throat. She couldn't turn her head. Only her eyes moved-barely.

Rolling to the side, straining to take in whatever fragmented glimpse she could. White ceiling. White walls. Too white. It was oppressive. And those lights-long, buzzing, fluorescent tubes-hummed above like they were mocking her, watching her suffer in silence.

Her gaze dropped. She was in a pale hospital gown, the neckline loose and shapeless. But what stopped her heart cold was the splash of rust-colored stains near her chest.

Blood. Old, crusted, and dried into the threads like guilt that refused to wash away.

She tried to move her legs. Nothing. No twitch. No tingle. Just a hollow, horrifying absence.

She blinked rapidly, panic clawing its way up her throat. She couldn't feel her legs. She was broken.

Then-click.

The door creaked open, slow, like in some cheap horror film. But what came next was worse. The sound of multiple, heavy footsteps-polished shoes echoing on the tile-closed in like vultures.

Suits. Black, sleek, expensive.

Faces hidden behind matching sunglasses. No names, just muscle. Marsell's men.

She recognized one of them. Vin. a shadow stitched to his side.

And just like that, reality came crashing in. Like glass shattering in her chest as it slowly started coming back to her.

Yesterday. The announcement. She had finally done it. She stood before both families-the Dhavals and the Aaman- and declared her intent to divorce Marsell.

The man she'd been forced to marry. The man who never once looked at her like she was a person, only a pawn. And now here she was. Broken. Bleeding. Paralyzed.

A quiet murmur passed through the suited guards as they parted-like parting a sea of black for something far worse.

The sound of slow, deliberate steps filled the room, each one landing with unsettling grace. Then he appeared.

Marsell Isaac Dhaval.

If you didn't know better, you might think he was harmless. Sweet, even. That tousled dark hair. The soft brown eyes that blinked too much when he was nervous. That quiet voice that never rose above measured civility.

A silver hoop clung to his left ear like a secret rebellion. His blazer hung off his shoulders just a bit too loosely, a size too big, like he didn't quite belong in it. Like he was pretending to be the heir he never deserved to be.

But Angelica knew better. The softness was a mask. A costume he wore well. Underneath was steel. Cold, miscalculated ambition.

He sat beside her bed with the calm confidence of a man who had already won.

"You can't speak?" he asked, brow furrowed in feigned concern.

She blinked once. Then twice.

"I'll take that as a yes," he nodded, folding his hands like a teacher trying to explain algebra to a bored class.

"Okay, so... look." He gestured with his fingers, conducting invisible music like some deranged maestro. "I'm not going to apologize for not loving you the way a husband should. And I'm definitely not apologizing for the fact that-well-your father is the reason you're lying there like that."

Angelica's heart stuttered.

Her eyes widened.

Wide enough to sting. Her father?

She knew he wasn't exactly Father of the Year; he didn't come with a user manual for empathy-but... this? This was beyond cold.

This was betrayal stitched into her bones.

"Oh, hit a nerve, did I?" Marsell chuckled, low and mocking, like he was savoring her helplessness. "Didn't think you'd take it so personally."

He leaned closer, his breath warm and minty. "See, I'm not a wolf. I don't like bloodshed. Makes my skin crawl. But I needed you out of the picture.

And he-well, your daddy dearest-he needed my favor more than he needed your breathing."

Angelica felt it then-rage. Not the kind that burns. No, this one was cold. Icy. Paralyzing. It clawed at her insides, the only part of her that still felt alive.

Marsell stood again, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. "So no, I'm not going to kill you. That's messy. I'm not a savage." He turned and nodded to his men, who moved without words.

"But you?" he said, spinning back to face her, his smile darkening. "You're going away. Somewhere no one will find you. No interference. No surprises. You'll be out of the game."

From his inner coat pocket, he pulled out a syringe, preloaded and gleaming under the white light. The liquid inside was murky, ominous. "This is an inhibition drug. Puts you to sleep. Wipes your memory. Well... if it doesn't kill you first."

Her eyes flooded with tears now. Silent. Hot. One streaked down her cheek, and Marsell, with unsettling tenderness, reached down and wiped it with his thumb.

"Aw," he cooed. "Don't cry.

You wanted freedom, didn't you?"

She wanted to scream.

To claw at him.

To slap that fake sympathy off his face.

But her voice, her body, had betrayed her. He tapped the syringe like he was stirring his morning coffee. "Let's see how lucky you are today."

And just before he lowered the needle toward her trembling arm, Angelica's eyes locked with his-and something flickered in his gaze.

Doubt?

Pity?

Or maybe just the twisted satisfaction of a man who thought he'd already won.

He leaned in.

Closer.

The needle hovered just inches from her skin. "I'm giving it to you."

And just like that, he lowered the syringe toward her arm;

steady,

unshaken, deliberate.

Closer.

Closer.

Then; Darkness spilled into her vision. Not from sleep. Not yet. But from the weight of inevitability, thick and inescapable.

She couldn't scream.

Couldn't run.

Couldn't even blink fast enough to break the moment.

The needle touched her skin.