Broken Doll No More: Her Ruthless Revenge

Erica POV

The dinner was supposed to be a peace treaty.

The Holdens and the Houses were gathered at one long table, an uneasy truce displayed in silver and linen.

I was seated at the far end—exiled from the conversation, and far removed from the power.

I had spent the afternoon at a clinic.

I took a pill.

It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I couldn't bring a child into this world.

Not this world.

I was bleeding.

Physically and emotionally, I was draining away. Yet, I sat straight, a statue of composure.

I wore the diamond earrings Emmanuel gave me. They felt heavy on my ears, like stones.

Waiters brought out the food.

Thai curry.

It smelled strong, a cloying mix of spices and coconut milk.

I was allergic to peanuts.

Deadly allergic.

And Anthony knew this.

He carried an EpiPen in his jacket pocket specifically for me. In the past, he used to obsessively check ingredients at every restaurant we visited.

My mind hazy with exhaustion, I looked down at my bowl.

It looked safe enough.

I took a bite.

The reaction was instant.

My throat slammed shut. My lips swelled, stinging with heat.

I couldn't breathe.

Panic seized me. I clawed at my neck, desperate for air.

I knocked my water glass over, and it shattered against the table, the sound cutting through the dinner chatter.

Everyone looked at me.

"Help," I wheezed, the sound barely escaping my constricted windpipe.

I locked eyes with Anthony.

He was staring right at me.

His face was blank, devoid of recognition or alarm.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket.

He pulled out the EpiPen.

Hope flared in my chest, bright and desperate.

He stood up.

But he didn't walk to me.

He walked to Bianca.

Bianca let out a dramatic, theatrical gasp.

"Oh no," she cried, bringing a hand to her forehead. "I feel faint! The fumes!"

She slumped in her chair.

She was faking. It was painfully, insultingly obvious.

Anthony uncapped the EpiPen.

"Stay with me, my love," he said loudly, his voice thick with performative concern.

He jammed the needle into Bianca's thigh.

She yelped in genuine surprise.

He wasted the medicine on her.

He was wasting my life on her.

I fell to the floor.

Black spots danced in my vision, obscuring the cruel tableau above me.

I gasped for air that wouldn't come, my chest heaving uselessly.

Emmanuel was watching.

He was calmly drinking his wine, looking down at me dying on the carpet as if I were a stain.

"She should have checked the menu," he said dismissively. "Careless nurse."

The room started to spin.

The darkness was coming back.

But this time, it wasn't a closet.

It was death.

Through the haze, I saw the shoes of the waiters rushing over.

Someone called 911.

Not Anthony.

Not Emmanuel.

A waiter. A stranger.

As my eyes closed, the last thing I saw was Anthony kissing Bianca's forehead.

He was comforting her.

While I suffocated.

I didn't die.

The paramedics arrived in a blur of motion and noise.

They gave me a shot.

My lungs opened.

I sucked in air, and it burned like fire.

They loaded me onto a stretcher.

I looked back at the table.

They were still eating.

They didn't stop dinner.

I closed my eyes.

The sadness was gone.

The fear was gone.

There was only the cold.

I touched my empty stomach.

I touched my swollen throat.

They wanted me dead.

They tried to kill me.

Okay.

I would die.

Erica the nurse would die.

And something else would rise from the ashes.

I thought of the soldier's card in my purse.

*When you are ready to burn it down.*

I was ready.

I was the match.