The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

Cleo woke to the sharp bite of disinfectant.

She blinked, staring at the hospital ceiling.

Someone was holding her hand.

She turned her head. Damian sat beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, eyes closed. Shadows hung under them.

He felt her move and opened his eyes instantly.

Their eyes met. He let go of her hand.

The fatigue—and that flicker of concern—vanished, replaced by his usual cool control.

"I already spoke to your father. He won't take this further. But Cleo, you need to promise me you won't hurt Nora again. She's your sister."

"Who asked you to apologize for me?" Her voice came out rough, dripping with mockery. "And that side-piece bastard thinks she's my sister? Please. In another life, she wouldn't mean shit next to me."

His brows pulled together, like he wanted to say more.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in.

"Mr. Joubert, the patient next door is unstable. She keeps asking for you."

Damian stood, smoothing his perfectly straight cuff.

"I'll check on Nora. She got hurt because of you. As your fiancé, it's only right I go see her."

Cleo's lips twitched. She turned toward the window.

"Go ahead. She's the one who fits you."

His steps stalled. He turned back, frowning. "What did you say?"

Cleo didn't repeat it. She yanked the blanket over her head, done.

Damian stared at her shut-down posture, pressed his fingers to his temple, then followed the nurse out.

Over the next few days, Cleo stayed in the hospital, healing.

Nurses came and went, swapping IVs, checking vitals, talking like she wasn't there.

"Damian Joubert's all over Nora Carrington. He's with her every day."

"Seriously. I heard she hates bitter meds, so he had imported fruit gummies sent over."

"If you ask me, they look perfect together. That's what a real match looks like."

They all assumed sweet, well-behaved Nora was the real fiancée.

Cleo listened, not even a flicker.

If anything, she almost laughed.

She wished they'd keep thinking that.

***

The day Cleo got discharged, Damian showed up.

He took the paperwork from the nurse, then looked at her—leaning back against the headboard, scrolling her phone.

"Get ready. I'll take you home."

"I'm not going back there." She didn't even look up.

His face darkened. "Stop being difficult."

He didn't wait for another no. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist—not hard, but controlled—and pulled her off the bed. Half guiding, half dragging, he got her out of the room and into the car.

The car pulled up at the Carrington house. Cleo shook off his hand and headed straight upstairs.

She pushed her door open—and froze.

Nora sat at her vanity, holding a sapphire necklace up to the mirror, light flashing off it.

The only thing her mom left her.

"Who the hell said you could touch my stuff?" Cleo's voice went ice-cold. "Put it down. Get out."

Nora flinched, then smiled. Instead of putting it back, she let it dangle between her fingers on purpose. "Your stuff? Let me tell you something—everything in this house is gonna be mine sooner or later."

"Guess that fall didn't teach you shit." Cleo stepped closer, eyes sharp.

"I slipped up last time." Nora let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm still scared of you?"

Before Cleo could fire back, Nora's gaze turned hard. She snatched a vase and slammed it on the floor. It shattered.

At the same time, she dropped right into the shards and screamed.

The crash had Harold and Rosalind running in.

"What happened?" Harold rushed in. He saw the broken shards, Nora sitting in the mess, tears shaking in her eyes—his face went dark.

Nora looked up, eyes glossy.

"Dad... I just wanted to look at Cleo's necklace. I didn't think she'd... push me..."

"Cleo!" Harold snapped. He didn't wait for an explanation. He stepped in and slapped her—hard.

The crack rang through the room.

Her cheek swelled fast, burning.

Cleo tilted her head, tasting blood where her mouth split.

She didn't cry.

She let out a low laugh.