We toppled backward. Sabrina crashed into the small table by the bed. The vase shattered, glass slicing into our arms and shoulders. Pain flared across my forearm.
Before I could react, the door burst open.
Nathan. My boyfriend. He didn’t come to me. He ran to her.
“Are you okay? Sabrina—what happened?!” His hands brushed the shards from her skin.
“She pushed me,” Sabrina whimpered. “I didn’t mean—she just—”
“What the hell, Elena?!” Nathan’s face twisted in anger. “You’re ruining everything. Again.”
I froze, blood dripping, words choking in my throat.
“She attacked me,” I stammered. “I told her to stop—”
He didn’t listen. Gabriel appeared, eyes sharp. “You’re always like this,” he snapped. “Jealous, dramatic. Can’t stand not being the center of attention.”
Even bleeding through my sleeves, I was the one blamed for ruining Sabrina’s birthday.
Gabriel grabbed my arm. “Come on. Downstairs. We’re celebrating. You’re not going to disgrace the family again.”
So I went. Bruised, bleeding, humiliated, I stood beneath the fireworks, watching them dance and laugh.
One last time. Just one final effort. I joined the circle around the bonfire, plastering a fake smile over my face like a mask.
The music swelled. The crowd cheered. I swayed, barely holding myself together, when a shove sent me sprawling. Nathan? Why?
I stumbled into the edge of the bonfire. Fire licked my arm, agony shooting through me.
I screamed.
Someone screamed back—Sabrina. She knelt beside me, panic-stricken. “Oh god! Elena, you’re hurt! We need an ambulance—”
But Nathan shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just a small burn. She’ll survive. Consider it payback for hurting you before.”
And Gabriel? He didn’t even glance at me.
No one helped.
I hauled myself away from the fire and called a cab. No one offered to take me to the hospital. No one cared that I was bleeding.
And that was fine. Because this time, I vowed, it’s the last time they ever hurt me.
“It’s good you came when you did,” the nurse said, her hands gentle as she cleaned the raw, burned skin on my arm. “This is a second-degree burn, and honestly… you also needed stitches.”
I didn’t answer. I simply nodded, staring at the white ceiling above, blurred and endless. I remained in the hospital for two more days.
Not a single call. Not a single text. No “Are you okay?” No “I’m sorry for what happened.”
Nothing. Not even enough concern to pretend they cared.