Chapter 18
ELENA
THE QUESTION CAME OUT softer than I intended.
But it landed between us like a blade.
His breath caught.
His eyes shifted—searching my face.
His throat worked.
Once.
Twice.
But no words came.
Only silence.
Then—he looked away.
Just like that.
Cutting the moment cleanly in two.
“Your heart will no longer be taken out for Violet. I’ll send female doctors to tend to your wounds,” he said, his voice returning—colder now.
“Violet... she can die peacefully.”
A pause.
“I’ll see to it that she is honored after her death.”
The words sounded forced.
Like something he was dragging out of himself piece by piece.
He walked to the exit.
Fingers curled around the latch, tightening on the metal.
“You forgot one thing,” I said.
My voice was weaker now, but it still cut through the silence.
He paused.
His hand stopped mid-motion, pivoting slightly.
“What?” he asked quietly.
“I asked if you love Violet. You said you can’t love anyone. Then I asked if you love me... I know the answer—a resounding no. You hate me. That’s obvious. But I need you to say it.”
He stood frozen.
Chest rising and falling slowly.
His gaze locked onto mine once more, and for a brief second—I thought he might say it.
Whatever it was.
But he didn’t.
Instead—he turned.
Twisted the lock. Opened the door.
And walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Cutting me off from him completely.
I lay there on the blood-soaked table, my body trembling with exhaustion I couldn’t fight anymore.
The room felt too quiet now.
And all I could hear—was the fading echo of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
Barely two minutes passed.
It felt longer.
Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it does when your body has been pushed past its limits—when every second is stretched thin by pain, shock, and the quiet aftermath of violence.
Then—the door opened again.
Softly this time.
Not with force. Not with authority.
Almost... hesitant.
Two women stepped inside.
Both wore pale-blue scrubs, their hair pulled back into tight, practical buns.
Their faces were pale—too pale for people working in a place like this—but more than that, there was something in their expressions that caught me off guard.
Fear.
Not the kind that came from uncertainty.
But the kind that came from knowing exactly who held power in this place.
One of them carried a stainless-steel tray.
It was heavy.
Laden with supplies—gauze, antiseptic bottles, syringes, sealed sterile packets arranged in precise order.
The other held folded towels and a change of clothing, neatly stacked in her arms like offering something fragile.
They approached slowly.
Carefully.
As if I might break further if they moved too fast.
Or worse—as if they were afraid I might still fight them.
I stayed where I was.
Curled on the table.
Legs drawn in tight beneath me.
Clutching the blood-soaked sheet against my body like it could shield me from everything I had just survived.
Like it could make any of this feel less real.
Their eyes flicked over me as they drew closer.
The split lip.
The gash above my eyebrow.
The dried and fresh blood.
The torn fabric.
The gauze at my knees soaked through in deep, dark red.
And the cuts—
I felt it in the way their gazes lingered there.
In the way the younger woman’s hands trembled when she set the tray down.
The metallic clink echoed too loudly in the silence.
“Signora Orsini,” the older woman said softly.
Her voice was gentle.
“We’re here to help.”
A pause.
“Please... let us take care of you.”
The words hit differently.
Not clinical. But respectful.
Like I wasn’t just a patient.
Like I wasn’t just someone they had been ordered to treat.
The title alone unsettled me.
Signora Orsini.
It sounded too formal.
Too tied to the man who had just left this room.
Too tied to everything I didn’t understand anymore.
The younger nurse reached toward my arm, her movements slow, cautious—but her hand shook so badly she nearly dropped the bottle of saline she was holding.
She caught it at the last second.
A small, shaky breath escaped her lips.
The older nurse noticed immediately.
She placed a steadying hand on her colleague’s arm.
A quiet gesture.
Reassuring.
Then she looked at me.
“We were given very clear instructions,” she said.
Her voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent of something... wary.
Respect, but also awareness.
“Mr. Orsini said you are to be treated with the utmost care.”
A pause.
“No pain, if it can be avoided.”
Another breath.
“No rushing.”
I nodded.
Barely.
The motion cost more effort than it should have.
My throat felt tight. Too dry to form words.
They began working.
The antiseptic stung as it touched my skin—but it didn’t burn the way I expected it to.
Their hands were gentle.
Every movement was controlled.
The younger nurse dabbed at my wounds with hands that still trembled slightly, but her touch softened with each second, as if she were forcing herself to steady.
The older one guided her silently at times.
Correcting. Supporting.
Never rushing.
When they reached the cuts between my thighs—the younger nurse froze for just a moment.
Her cheeks flushed immediately.
She looked away quickly, her breath catching as she whispered an apology under her breath.
“Sorry... I’m so sorry...”
But she continued.
Carefully. Respectfully.
The silence in the room shifted.
It became less about fear—and more about restraint.
Something in their behavior told me they understood exactly what they were dealing with.
Or more accurately—who.
They cleaned every wound.
Applied ointment with careful precision.
Replaced the ruined gauze with fresh, sterile layers, wrapping my knees gently but firmly, ensuring support without causing more pain.
Then—the injection.
They explained it in soft, careful tones.
Pain relief.
A mild sedative.
Something to help my body begin to recover.
I barely felt the needle go in.
Only the faint pressure.
Then warmth spreading slowly through my system.
When they were finished—the older nurse stepped forward and helped me down from the table.
My legs gave out almost immediately.
They simply weren’t ready.
Or maybe—
I wasn’t.
But she caught me before I fell.
Her arm wrapped around my waist, steady and firm, anchoring me upright without hesitation.
“Easy,” she murmured. “We’ve got you.”
We moved slowly.
The younger nurse supported my other side as they guided me toward the bathroom.
“There’s a private bathroom just through that door,” the older one said.
Her voice softened slightly.
“We’ve left fresh towels and clothing.”
A pause.
“Take as long as you need.”
They didn’t rush me.
Didn’t speak further.
They simply guided me forward until I could stand on my own.
And then—they stepped back.
Leaving me there.
The door closed softly behind me.
I leaned against the cool tiles of the shower wall as warm water poured down over my body.
At first—it burned.
From the sensation of water hitting torn, sensitive skin.
Then slowly—it softened.
The water turned pink as it swirled down the drain.
Blood washing away.
Layer by layer.
Evidence disappearing in front of my eyes.
I closed my eyes.
Pressed my forehead against the tile.
Let the water fall over my shoulders.
And for a moment—there was silence.
But even then—I couldn’t escape him.
Vincenzo.
His face kept surfacing behind my closed eyelids.
The man who had forced me to kneel on sharp stone until my knees bled—and then carried me when I collapsed.
The man who had ordered my heart to be cut out for his mistress—and then came to save me before the procedure began.
How many more times would he come close to destroying me, only to pull back at the last possible second?
How many more times could my body survive that kind of violence—my mind survive that kind of emotional whiplash?
I stayed under the water until it ran cold.
Until my fingers pruned and the ache in my body dulled into a low, constant throb that I could almost pretend wasn’t there.
But even then—the pain didn’t disappear.
It just... settled.
Becoming part of me.
Like everything else.
When I finally stepped out, I wrapped a thick white towel around myself, the fabric soft against skin that still felt raw and overexposed.
The laboratory was empty again.
On a clean side table, something had been left for me.
Fresh clothes.
Neatly arranged.
A full academy uniform—crisp white blouse, navy blazer, pleated skirt—still folded with precise care.
Underwear still sealed in its plastic packaging.
And beside it—a pair of soft black flats.
Not heels.
Not something that would force me to suffer more pain.
A small change.
But one that didn’t go unnoticed.
I stared at the clothes for a moment longer than necessary.
Then slowly—I dressed.
Each movement was careful.
Every time I lifted my arms, every time I bent or shifted my weight, a sharp protest of pain followed.
My knees burned. My ribs ached.
My skin pulled at every stretch.
But I didn’t stop.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t let the pain win.
The new gauze was already covering most of my visible injuries.
My knees. My forearms.
One cheek. The side of my neck.
I looked... contained.
Bandaged. Reconstructed.
Like a version of myself that had been patched together just enough to function.
A casualty made presentable.
I flexed my fingers once.
Twice.
Then turned toward the door.
Limping.
Each step sent fresh fire up my legs, but I gritted my teeth and kept going anyway.
I didn’t have the luxury of stopping.
Not here.
The courtyard stretched wide and open as I stepped out into it.
Bright daylight. Fresh air.
Too normal for everything I had just been through.
I had barely crossed halfway when—I saw them.
Two figures approaching from the opposite direction.
My steps slowed.
Stopped.
Recognition hit instantly.
Renzo.
And Violet.
Violet saw me first.
Her reaction was immediate.