For days, Venice lay alone in the ward, enduring the pain that clawed through her body.
Every night, her knees throbbed and itched with unbearable intensity. And every morning, the nurse would peel open her scabbed wounds to apply new medication without no anesthesia. She fainted more than once from the agony.
Worse than the physical pain were the photos that arrived every single day.
Stefanie's messages came like clockwork—each one more taunting than the last.
Kevin feeding her soup, peeling her apples, pressed her against the hospital bed, kissing her neck.
Venice scrolled through them one by one until her heart stopped hurting entirely.
Then she typed a single message. [You don't need to show me these. Kevin is yours now. Keep him.]
Almost instantly, another message came through.
[Still want the necklace? Come and get it.]
Without wasting another next second, Venice got out of bed. She didn't even bother with her coat and just ran out.
Every step tore at the stitches in her legs, but she didn't care.
She sprinted through the sterile corridors, blood seeping through her bandages, until she reached the top floor's VIP ward.
When she burst through the door, Stefanie was already waiting, lounging gracefully on the sofa.
"Miss Robles," she greeted sweetly. "You made it."
Panting hard, Venice still forced herself to stay composed, signing, [Where is it? Give it back!]
Stefanie dangled the necklace in her palm, the silver charm gleaming faintly under the light.
"Relax. It's safe," she said with a smirk. "But that's no way to ask for a favor, is it?"
Venice's nails dug deep into her palms. Her chest rose and fell as she fought to stay calm.
[What do you want?]
"I'm craving seafood porridge," Stefanie said lazily. "From that shop on Wilshire Blvd."
Venice's lips tightened. After a long pause, she nodded and turned to leave. The porridge shop on Wilshire Blvd had a two-hour line.
Her leg wound hadn't healed, and the gauze soon turned crimson again. But she gritted her teeth and endured it—she had to get her mother's ashes back.
The first time she brought it, Stefanie wrinkled her nose. "Not fresh enough. I want pickled vegetable porridge instead."
The second time she said, "Too salty. I want century egg porridge."
The third time, she smiled slyly. "Oh, I forgot—I'm allergic to century eggs. Bring me noodles."
...