Chapter 5

The hospital lights were too bright. Too white. Too clean for something that felt like a funeral.

I lay still on the examination table, staring at the ceiling as the doctor explained the procedure one last time. Her voice was calm, clinical, distant—exactly what I needed.

“This is your choice,” she reminded gently. “Once we proceed, there’s no reversing it.”

I nodded. “I know.”

My voice didn’t shake. Not even once.

The baby that never should’ve existed.

The child that would’ve chained me tighter to a life that was already suffocating me.

A child I didn’t even know how to want anymore—not after everything.

The procedure was quick, quiet. By the time it was over, I felt… nothing.

No grief.

No relief.

Just emptiness.

I changed back into my clothes, holding the hospital’s discharge papers in my hand like they were evidence of a crime I wasn’t sure I committed against myself. My steps felt heavy as I exited through the automatic doors, the setting sun painting the sky in fading orange.

I drove home on autopilot. When I stepped inside the house, the smell of roasted herbs, butter, and something warm greeted me first. I blinked.

Marc—fake Damien—stood in the dining room arranging wine glasses, the table set beautifully. Candles lit. Dimmed lights. A scene too soft for the kind of day I had.

He looked up immediately. “Love, where have you been?”

I froze.

He walked toward me, brows knit in concern. “You were gone all day. You didn’t answer my messages. I was worried.”

“I just… needed air,” I said simply.

I would never tell him. Never tell anyone about the baby.

His expression softened. “Well, I thought I’d make you something comforting.” He gestured to the table, almost shy. “And… I got us tickets for the musical you’ve been wanting to see for years.”

He lifted two envelope tickets. The Phantom of the Opera – Live.

My heart twisted painfully. Once, that would’ve made me cry from joy. Now it only made me tired.

“I’m sorry. I’m… not feeling well. I want to rest.”

I moved toward the stairs, but a voice stopped me cold.

“Not feeling well?”

The real Damien stood at the corner of the hallway. Sofia beside him, arms crossed, smirk etched perfectly on her lips.

Damien’s eyes were sharp—too sharp. “Or you just don’t want to see me here? Is that it, Elena?” His tone dripped accusation. “I heard from Sofia that you still don’t want to be friends with me, even though I had already apologized.”

My stomach flipped. “That is not true!”

Sofia laughed. “Oh, please. Let’s be real, Elena. You hated us being here, and you even tried to hurt me. But it’s okay, sister. We’re gonna be a family now. Or was it because you want both twins for yourself again just like before?”

I glared at her. “That’s not true. You’re the one who—”

“It is,” she insisted, shrugging.

The real Marc exhaled in irritation. “Sofia—enough. She is my wife—”

But she didn’t stop. “You’ve always been like this, Elena. You act so innocent, but—”

“I only want Damien,” I cut sharply, voice cracking. “But clearly… he doesn’t want me.”

The silence after that felt like a blow.

The real Damien stiffened. Sofia blinked… and the real Marc was also too stunned to speak.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat then I turned away.

“Wait—Elena,” Marc called, following me halfway up the stairs. “What’s going on? What was that about?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, not looking at him. “I’ll get ready.”

“For what?”

I finally faced him.

“For the opera, love. You already bought the tickets. We can’t waste them.”

His relief was immediate—but inside, I felt myself deflate.

My hands trembled the whole time I prepared for the evening. The makeup. The dress. The hair.

It felt like dressing up a ghost.

Dinner was a blur—Marc speaking softly, trying to make me laugh, trying to make me eat.

Damien and Sofia arrived, of course.

Pretending it was a “family outing.”

Pretending nothing happened.

Pretending we were all fine.

We weren’t.

Not even close.

The theater was grand—crystal chandeliers, velvet seats, golden arches—but I couldn’t see any of it clearly. The air felt too thick. My skin too hot. My stomach twisted painfully every few minutes.

“Elena? Are you okay?” Marc whispered.

I forced a nod. But halfway through the show, I couldn’t do it anymore.

My vision blurred, heat rushing up my throat.

“I—I need air,” I murmured, standing abruptly.

“Elena?” Damien whispered behind me, alarm flashing across his features for a split second. But I pushed past him, rushing toward the lobby.

The moment the cool night air hit me, my legs buckled.

I vomited on the pavement, body trembling so violently I could barely breathe. I leaned on a pillar, chest tight, sweat dripping down my spine.

Just breath.

Just a second.

Just a moment—

But the world spun.

And then—Two shadows approached.

“Hey sweetheart,” one of the men drawled, stepping close—too close. “You look sick. Need help?”

The other laughed. “Or maybe you just need company.”

The first man reached for my arm.

I jerked back. “Don’t touch me.”

He smirked. “Relax… you’re all alone out here. We’re just trying to be nice.”

My heart pounded.

“I said—don’t touch me.”

But he didn’t stop.

He grabbed my arm, pulling me closer, breath sour with alcohol. “Come on, pretty girl. Don’t make a scene—”

“I said let go!” I screamed.

But my knees finally gave out.

My vision blackened at the edges.

The ground rushed up.

And I dropped.

The last thing I heard before consciousness slipped away was the sound of frantic footsteps—

And someone shouting my name.

“Elena!”