But he didn’t even lift his eyes. With a tone full of irritation, he cut me off, “It’s just a relapse, not like she’s dying right now. Why are you making such a fuss? Right now, nothing in the world is more important than helping Natalie finish her experiment!”
My heart went cold. I never expected him to say something like that.
Next to him, Natalie set down the vial in her hand and wrapped her arm around Zayn’s neck affectionately.
“Zayn,” she said sweetly, “I already sent someone to check. Her sister didn’t have any heart attack at all. She just made up that story to get sympathy and avoid being my test subject.”
Hearing that, Zayn frowned and looked at me, his tone full of disgust.
“To serve Natalie is a blessing your Quell family could never earn in several lifetimes and yet you dare to lie? Is this how your dead parents taught you to behave?”
A smug look flashed in Natalie’s eyes. “I think she’s too emotional right now. We’d better give her a sedative.”
Zayn nodded in agreement without hesitation.
No matter how hard I cried and begged, they still forced the injection into me. When I woke up again, I found myself still lying on that same operating table.
My phone, lying on the floor, started ringing. I struggled to reach it and pressed “answer.”
A voice came through the line.
“Miss Quell, your sister passed away last night at 10:58 p.m. despite all rescue efforts. You’re her only family, so please come and take her home.”
All the blood in my body seemed to freeze. My throat tightened so much that I couldn’t say a single word.
Thinking about what Zayn and Natalie did yesterday, my chest felt like it had been cut open—sharp pain spreading through me.
Seven years of love and not once did I get his true heart. Then I didn’t want it anymore.
I picked up my phone and sent him a message:
[Zayn, let’s get a divorce.]
Less than thirty seconds after I sent the message, Zayn called.
He spoke angrily, “Yvonne, you used your parents’ lives to force me into marrying you and now you want a divorce? I’m telling you—keep dreaming!”
My throat felt dry and bitter. “Zayn, I…”
Before I could finish, a sweet, playful voice came from his side of the line.
“Zayn, help me get my underwear.”
My chest tightened painfully.
The call ended with a cold beep-beep and I couldn’t help but let out a bitter, mocking laugh.
When I came out of the hospital morgue, I ran into Zayn.