Bye, Husband. Hello, Freedom!

The antiseptic scent of the hospital room was the first thing I registered.

Then the beep. Soft and steady, like it was reminding me that I was still alive.

I blinked, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here—until the taste of shrimp returned to my mouth like a cruel joke, and everything came rushing back. The dinner table. Their laughter. My body betraying me.

I sighed, turning my head slowly toward the window. The sunlight was soft, golden.

I was alone. I sat up, ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand. I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread notifications. None from Denver. None from Patricia. None from my mother or father.

I then opened my social media. And there it was.

A photo from Patricia’s story, now gone from her feed but still fresh in my memory. Them at an art auction—laughing. My parents beside them. Denver standing behind Patricia, his hand resting casually on her lower back.

The caption read: “Celebrating life with those who matter.”

A jagged laugh tore from my throat. So that was it. I had nearly died, and they were sipping champagne under chandeliers. Well. it was also my fault for eating it. I thought they would notice me after this. Yet, I was wrong—I would never be part of the family even if I am the real daughter.

I dropped the phone onto the bed and looked around. No flowers. No cards. Not even a fruit basket.

When I asked the nurse if anyone had come to check on me, she gave me an apologetic smile and said, “No, ma’am. No visitors so far.”

Even after all this time—even after the truth about the bloodline, the switched lives, the heartbreak—they still loved Patricia more. Always more.

And me? I had loved them too much. I gave them my everything. My name. My future. My body. Even my baby. And what did I get in return?

Disregard. Disrespect. Disgust.

But I was done.

That afternoon, I received a text from my lawyer.

Lawyer: Divorce has been finalized. The official documents are en route.

Then Rain messaged me, ever the savior in my life.

Rain: Everything’s ready. Do you want to disappear? Or… marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange both.

Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.

I signed my own discharge forms and left the hospital with nothing but my coat and my silence. The air outside hit colder than I expected. I took it as a sign—there was nothing left for me here. Not warmth. Not family. Not love.

I returned to the mansion to collect a few things before I’d vanish for good. No one noticed. The house was abuzz with preparations for the annual Montera gala. Guests. Lights. Champagne flutes. Patricia in center stage, directing florists and string quartets like she was the queen of it all.

She turned and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, you’re back. Alicia… I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to get sick.”

My mother looked up from the planner. “She just wants attention. Always has. And if she knew she was allergic, why would she eat it? What a useless bitch!”

I looked down. It hurts. But I didn’t want it to burn inside me.

Then my mother tossed a clipboard at me. “Since you’re here, help organize the final details. And if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.”

Of course. Always me.

I worked until dawn. Every seating chart. Every floral arrangement. Every email and phone call. I barely ate. Barely slept. But I endured. Because I had a plan.

Just a few more days.

During a break, I wandered into the hall and caught Denver and Patricia whispering near the piano. His fingers brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned in too close.

When I passed, he pulled away and gave me that same old line.

“She’s just my friend. You know that, right? So don’t look at us like you’re jealous. We’ve always been close. Even before you came into the picture—it was supposed to be us.”

He said it like I was the mistake. The intruder.

I didn’t reply.

That night, as I finally lay down in the guest room—barely able to keep my eyes open—I heard it.

Soft moans. Muffled gasps. Patricia’s room was down the hall, but the sounds carried. The headboard creaked. A sharp intake of breath. Then Denver’s voice—low, familiar.

I walked out into the hallway and stood frozen outside the cracked door.

There, through the sliver, I saw them. Tangled. Sweaty. Sheets wrapped around their bodies like silk secrets. Her laugh. His groan.

I just turned around and walked back to my room.