The ceiling above me was too white. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, pulsing against the pounding in my skull. I tried to move, but even turning my head sent a sharp wave of pain slicing through my scalp.
“Easy there,” a voice said.
A nurse hovered beside me, her voice gentle but concerned. “You were brought in by a good Samaritan. Passed out in a pool of blood at a boutique. Head trauma. You lost a lot of blood—got hundreds of stitches.”
My hand instinctively moved to my head. It was bandaged. Aching. Throbbing.
I blinked slowly. “Who brought me here?”
“We’re not sure. They didn’t leave a name. Just dropped you off and disappeared.”
“So… no family?”
The nurse hesitated.
“We called your emergency contact. Your husband, Troy Green. Also listed your in-laws. But…” she gave me an awkward smile, “no one’s come. You’ve been here for nearly twelve hours.”
I stared at her, waiting for the punchline.
Nothing.
“Twelve hours?” My voice cracked.
She nodded and handed me my things. “Phone’s in there. Maybe try calling him?”
I clutched the phone with trembling hands. My screen lit up—no missed calls. No messages.
I dialed Troy’s number. Straight to voicemail.
Again. And again.
The fourth time, I stopped.
Instead, I opened Instagram.
The moment the app launched, a notification popped up.
BiancaGreen_ went LIVE.
I tapped it.
My breath stopped.
Troy was right there. In the video. They were in Milan. He held shopping bags in both hands, trailing behind Bianca while she giggled at the camera.
“My brother’s been spoiling me rotten,” she said to her viewers, blowing a kiss toward the screen. “Best brother in the world.”
I watched as he handed her a drink, then smiled faintly when she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
I couldn’t breathe. I was bleeding out in a hospital room, alone.
And they were shopping.
Together. A scream clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it. I hurled the phone across the room. It bounced off the wall and hit the floor with a crack.
The nurse rushed in. “Miss Thalia, are you alright?”
I wasn’t.
But I’d never been.
“I want to report an assault,” I told her. “Now. Call the police.”
A few minutes later, a young officer walked in, clipboard in hand. He looked bored.
“Miss Thalia Green?”
“Yes.”
“You’re reporting an assault by… Miss Bianca Green?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me. Something in his eyes shifted.
Then he sighed.