Scarlett's Revenge

"Who is out there?" I shouted at the heavy oak door.

The handle stopped shaking. A key slid into the lock.

Nurse Higgins pushed the door open. She held a black remote control in her right hand.

"Just me, Mrs. Blackwood," she said.

"You scared me to death," I snapped. "I thought the administrator sent security to drag me out tonight."

"Not until morning." Higgins walked to the foot of my bed. "I thought you might want this."

"Why would I want to watch TV?"

"The Oscars are on." She pointed the remote at the flat screen on the wall. "Your husband is nominated."

"Turn it off, Higgins. I don't care."

"You do care," the nurse challenged. "You've watched his old movies every night for three years."

"That was before he cut off my insurance."

"Just watch this one category. If he loses, we turn it off."

"Fine."

The screen flared to life. The Dolby Theatre stage glowed under a thousand golden spotlights. An aging actress stood at the podium, holding a red envelope.

"The nominees for Best Actor in a Leading Role are..." the presenter announced.

The camera cut to a split screen of five men. Alexander occupied the top right square.

I stared at his face.

"He looks nervous," Higgins observed.

"He always rubs his thumb against his index finger when he's anxious," I noted. "He's doing it right now under the table."

"Do you want him to win?" she asked.

"I want him to pay for what he did to me." I gripped the thin hospital blanket. "But yes. I want him to win."

"Why?"

"Because we starved for that statue," I answered. "We lived in a roach-infested apartment in Queens for four years. I danced double shifts so he could afford acting classes."

"And the Oscar goes to..." The presenter tore the envelope open. She smiled. "Alexander Blackwood!"

The theater erupted into a deafening roar.

Despite the eviction notice, despite the cruelty, my chest tightened. He actually did it.

"He won," I whispered.

"Look at the crowd," Higgins said.

Alexander stood up. He buttoned his tuxedo jacket and hugged the director sitting next to him. He practically jogged up the steps to the stage.

He took the golden statue. He flashed that signature movie-star smile.

"I want to thank my studio," Alexander spoke smoothly into the microphone. "My director. My incredible team. You believed in me when nobody else did."

"He's not going to mention you," Higgins said softly.

"I know."

"He should."

"He won't."

Alexander gripped the podium. His expression shifted into something serious, something deeply emotional.

"But I need to thank one specific person," he continued, his voice dropping an octave. "The woman who stood by me through the darkest times. My rock. My fiancée."

My good eye widened.

"My fiancée," Alexander repeated to the silent, captive audience. "The love of my life, Isabella."

"Fiancée?" I repeated. "We aren't even divorced."

"He's lying to the whole world," Higgins gasped.

The camera panned to the front row. Isabella Astor stood up. She wore a stunning, backless emerald gown.

Alexander stepped down from the stage. He walked straight to her, ignoring the outstretched hands of his co-stars.

He grabbed Isabella's waist. He pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss.

The cameras zoomed in tight. Every network broadcast their embrace to a billion viewers.

Isabella wrapped her arms around his neck to deepen the kiss.

Her sleeve slipped back. A heavy diamond watch slid down her forearm, exposing her pale skin.

Right below the watch band, a mark stood out.

A birthmark. A red, rose-shaped mole on the inside of her right wrist.

I stopped breathing. The blood roared in my ears.

"Mrs. Blackwood?" Higgins asked. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I pointed at the screen. My finger trembled so violently I could barely keep it straight.

"Do you see that mark?" I asked.

"The red spot on her wrist?" Higgins squinted at the TV. "Yes. It looks like a little flower."

I closed my remaining eye. The memory slammed into me, sharp and violent.

"She had a glass jar," I muttered.

"What?" Higgins stepped closer to the bed.

"The woman in the alley three years ago." I opened my eye and looked at my own hands. "She screamed at him. 'Liar! You belong to me!'"

"The crazy fan?"

"I shoved Alexander out of the way," I said, my voice rising in pitch. "I grabbed her arm. My nails dug into her wrist."

"You fought her?"

"I scratched her!" I yelled. "Deep. Right over a red, rose-shaped mole."

Higgins covered her mouth. "Oh my god."

"It was Isabella." My voice dropped to a hollow whisper. "She threw the acid."

"Maybe it's a coincidence," Higgins offered weakly. "Lots of people have birthmarks."

"Not like that. Not in that exact spot." I touched the bandages on my ruined face. "She burned my skin off, Higgins. She melted my eye. And my husband helped her do it."

"Why would he do something so evil?"

"Because a divorce would ruin his image," I realized, the pieces finally snapping together. "He was the wholesome newcomer. Dumping his nobody wife for a billionaire heiress would kill his career."

"But a tragic accident..." Higgins trailed off.

"Exactly. A tragic accident makes him a victim. A martyr." I laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "And Isabella gets to play the hero who mends his broken heart."

"Are you sure?"

"I will never forget that mark as long as I live."

"But your husband..." Higgins stammered. "He wouldn't..."

"He knew." I grabbed the metal bedrails. "He knew exactly who she was."

I remembered his words outside my door. The phone call I overheard.

*The acid did exactly what it was supposed to do. She thinks it was a random attack.*

He didn't just know. He planned it with her.

They wanted me disfigured. They wanted me hidden. They wanted my silence so he could play the tragic, single rising star, and eventually introduce his wealthy savior.

"They planned it," I said. The words tasted like ash.

"I need to call the police," Higgins said. She reached for the phone on the nightstand.

"No." I slapped her hand away.

"Mrs. Blackwood, they tried to kill you!"

"No cops," I ordered. "They have lawyers. They have millions of dollars. They'll crush me before I even make it to a courtroom."

"Then what do we do?"

I stared at the TV. Alexander and Isabella were still smiling for the cameras, waving at the adoring crowd.

The tears that had threatened to fall suddenly vanished. The agonizing sorrow in my chest hardened, freezing into solid ice.

I wiped a single stray drop from my good cheek.

"Fine," I said.

"Fine?" Higgins echoed. "What does that mean?"

I turned to the nurse. "I have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning to leave this room. Get my clothes."

"Where will you go?"

"To a very old friend," I replied. "Someone Alexander thinks is dead."