Chapter 4

The elevator doors clicked shut, severing his gaze.

I slumped back into the wheelchair, entirely drained of strength.

The second I reached the room, I let out a trembling breath.

The moment the door locked behind me, every shred of my composed facade shattered into dust.

Agony struck like a tidal wave. Drenched in cold sweat, black spots danced across my vision.

Trembling, I fished a painkiller syringe from my bag, shoved up my sleeve, and jammed the needle straight into my arm.

Yet as the liquid emptied into my veins, the anticipated relief never arrived.

Instead, the pain flared into an unbearable, tearing torment.

My vision plunged into darkness. I slid from the wheelchair, collapsing heavily onto the carpeted floor.

The empty syringe rolled across the floorboards.

BAM!

The door was kicked open with tremendous force, the latch snapping clean off.

Radiating pure fury, his eyes bloodshot, Zachary stormed inside.

Seeing me sprawled on the ground, clothes disheveled, he froze for a split second before the shock twisted into raw revulsion.

"Clara, are you really this cheap? This desperate for a man?"

"I literally just walked away, and you're already going into heat?"

"Where is he? Where did you hide that bastard Evans?!"

"Tell him to get the hell out here!"

"I want to see what kind of dog," he growled, "dares touch the trash I threw away!"

He grabbed a fistful of my hair.

A sharp, searing pain shot across my scalp, blending with the agonizing fire in my spine. I was on the verge of blacking out.

I couldn't squeeze out a single syllable through the pain. I could only clutch the carpet, gasping desperately for air.

Right then, Zachary's phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID—it was his mother.

He swiped to answer and deliberately hit the speakerphone button.

Mrs. Vance's sharp, commanding voice rang out through the room.

"Zachary, where are you and Fiona now?"

"I just spoke with the wedding planners. The date is set for the eighth of next month. The venue, the guest list—I've already..."

Zachary cut her off, his voice dead and frigid.

"Mom, I'm busy. We'll talk later."

He hung up, his eyes snapping back down to pin me to the floor.

"Did you hear that, Clara?"

"Next month, I'm getting married."

"And you... you can only lie right here," he spat, "waiting for random men to come use you."

My whole body shuddered. I snapped my head up to look at him.

Tears broke past my defenses, pouring uncontrollably down my cheeks.

He looked right through them, snatching my wrist and dragging me violently up from the floor.

"Are you really that starved for a man, huh?"

"I was gone for five minutes, and you were already desperate to find someone else to keep you company?"

His fingers brushed against the inside of my forearm.

Over the uneven, bruised skin pitted with dozens of needle marks from years of daily injections.

Zachary's entire frame went rigid.

He looked down, his pupils shrinking into pinpricks.

Slowly, an inch at a time, he peeled my sleeve all the way back.

That hideous, bruised, needle-scarred skin was exposed entirely to the cold air.

His expression twisted instantly, a slight tremor bleeding into his voice.

"Clara, what the hell kind of game are you playing now?!"

My heart plummeted straight into an abyss.

It was over.

Marshaling every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I tried to yank my sleeve back down.

He clamped down like a vise, refusing to let go.

Zachary's voice dropped, terrifyingly quiet.

"Drugs?"

"Clara, you're shooting up just so you can spread your legs for men?"

"Does it feel that good? Good enough to throw your damn life away?!"

Black spots swam before my eyes from the pain. I wanted to explain, but the agony radiating from my spine robbed me of even the breath needed to part my lips.

"Zachary, don't say that..."

Fiona stepped in through the ruined doorway, hypocritically tugging at his arm.

"Miss Clara might just... be getting cosmetic injections or something."

"She used to be so obsessed with her looks. Now that she's in a wheelchair, she must care even more."

Zachary's eyes turned lethal.

"Get out of my way."

He shoved Fiona's hand off, dropping down on one knee to clamp his fingers brutally around my chin.

"Talk."

"Who is he? Dr. Evans?"

"Is this how he treats you?"

"Keeping you hooked on this garbage just to survive?"

Looking into the disgust and boiling rage in his eyes, my heart was carved into ribbons, piece by piece.

At that exact moment, someone knocked frantically on the open doorframe.

Mrs. Miller walked in carrying a wooden basin filled with steaming water.

"Clara, honey, the herbal soak is ready, let me help you..."

Her words died in her throat the second she saw the violent scene inside.

Mrs. Miller instantly set the basin down and spread her arms wide, shielding me behind her.

"Mr. Vance! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Clara is very sick! Take your crazy tantrums somewhere else!"

Zachary straightened up, towering over us with chilling disdain.

"Sick?"

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, soaked in pure mockery.

"Looks to me like she's doing fantastic! Full of nasty little tricks!"

He pointed a finger at me, sneering at Mrs. Miller.

"Why don't you ask her what all those marks on her arm are?"

"Why don't you go ask that precious Dr. Evans what kind of premium shit he's pumping into her veins?!"

With that, he cast one final, revolting look down at me.

"Clara, you make me sick."