The Wrong Daughter

The hospital corridors echoed with the sound of hurried footsteps as my family rushed toward Grace's room. I followed behind, my heart pounding with a mixture of relief that she was alive and dread at what I might find.

But as we approached the ICU, Joshua's hand shot out, blocking my path.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice was cold, devoid of any warmth I'd once imagined I heard there.

"To see Grace," I said, confusion clouding my voice. "To make sure she's okay."

Victoria turned from where she stood outside Grace's room, her eyes red-rimmed from crying but blazing with fury. "Absolutely not. You are not going anywhere near her."

"But I need to apologize, to explain—"

"Explain what?" Michael stepped forward, his voice sharp. "How you led her into a trap? How your presence in our family caused this nightmare?"

Through the glass window, I could see Grace lying in the hospital bed, her face pale and drawn, bandages covering various wounds. A doctor was speaking quietly to Richard, gesturing toward charts and monitors.

"She's been asking for her family," Victoria said, her voice breaking slightly. "Her real family. The people who actually love her. Your presence would only upset her further."

The words hit me like physical blows. "I am her family. I'm her sister."

Joshua's laugh was bitter and cruel. "Sister? You've known her for six months. She's been traumatized because of you, and you think waltzing in there with your guilt will somehow help?"

I watched through the window as Grace suddenly sat up in bed, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth open in what looked like a scream. Nurses rushed to her side, trying to calm her as she thrashed against their gentle restraints.

"Panic attack," one of the nurses said as she emerged from the room. "She's been having them regularly since she arrived. Any sudden noise or unexpected presence triggers them."

Victoria's eyes found mine, and the hatred there was so intense it made me step backward. "This is what you've done to her. This is the damage you've caused."

"Mrs. York," the doctor approached, his expression grave. "I need to speak with you about Grace's condition. She's exhibiting severe PTSD symptoms, and we're concerned about her mental state. She's made several references to... self-harm."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Victoria's face crumpled, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

"We'll need to keep her under constant supervision," the doctor continued. "The trauma she's experienced has left her extremely fragile. Any additional stress could be dangerous."

Joshua's eyes never left my face as the doctor spoke, and I could see the blame crystallizing there, hardening into something that looked like hatred.

"You heard him," he said quietly. "Any additional stress could be dangerous. And what do you think seeing you would do to her?"

I opened my mouth to protest, but Victoria cut me off.

"Go home, Leilani. You're not wanted here. You're not needed here."

The drive back to the estate was conducted in complete silence. I sat in the back seat while Joshua drove, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. The tension in the car was suffocating, and I found myself holding my breath, afraid that even the sound of my breathing might set him off.

When we arrived at the house, Joshua didn't head toward the main entrance. Instead, he parked near the side door that led to his father's private study.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

The study was a masculine room lined with dark wood and leather-bound books. Joshua closed the door behind us with a soft click that somehow sounded ominous in the silence.

He turned to face me, and I barely recognized the man I was supposed to marry. His dark eyes were cold, calculating, completely devoid of any affection or warmth.

"Do you understand what you've done?" he asked, his voice so calm it was terrifying.

"Joshua, I never meant for any of this to happen—"

"I don't care what you meant," he interrupted. "I care about results. And the result is that the woman I love is lying in a hospital bed, broken and traumatized, because of you."

The casual way he said 'the woman I love' hit me like a slap. Not 'Grace,' not 'your sister,' but 'the woman I love.' As if I were nothing more than an obstacle to his happiness.

"Grace has always been delicate," he continued, beginning to pace the room like a predator. "Sensitive. Pure. She's never experienced real pain or fear because we've always protected her. And now, because of your existence, she's been subjected to horrors that will haunt her for the rest of her life."

I sank into one of the leather chairs, my legs suddenly unable to support me. "I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat. They were supposed to take me."

"But they didn't, did they?" His voice was getting colder, more controlled. "Instead, an innocent woman suffered while you walked away without a scratch. Do you think that's fair?"

"Of course not, but—"

"I don't think you truly understand the gravity of what Grace has endured," he said, stopping his pacing to stare down at me. "The fear, the pain, the helplessness. I don't think you can comprehend what it means to suffer the way she has."

Something in his tone made my blood run cold. There was a calculating quality to his words, as if he were working through a problem in his mind.

"Joshua, what are you saying?"

He moved to his father's desk and pressed a button on the intercom. "Send them in," he said simply.

The door opened, and two large men entered the study. They weren't dressed like household staff or security guards. They looked like the kind of men you hired when you needed something unpleasant done quietly.

"What's going on?" I asked, rising from the chair, my heart beginning to race.

"You need to understand," Joshua said, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "You need to truly comprehend what Grace has gone through. And the only way to do that is to experience it yourself."

The two men moved toward me, and I backed against the wall, panic flooding my system.

"Joshua, please, you can't be serious—"

"Take her to the basement," he ordered, his voice cutting through my protests like a blade. "She needs to learn what real suffering feels like."

The men grabbed my arms, their grip strong and unyielding. I struggled against them, but they were too strong, too determined.

"Joshua!" I screamed as they dragged me toward the door. "Please, don't do this! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

But he had already turned away, his attention focused on something else, as if I had ceased to exist.

As they pulled me from the study, I caught a glimpse of his face in the reflection of the window. There was no remorse there, no hesitation.

Only cold, cruel satisfaction.

I had just changed surname for less than a year. I just wore a similar dress to Grace that evening.

How come things had come to this situation? What made him hate me so much? Did I really do anything wrong?