"Arabelle! I'll give Jonah back to you, okay? Why did you hurt my mom and then slander her? Do you even have a conscience?"
Her grip on the knife was unsteady, her rage blinding.
Jonah moved in an instant, seizing her wrist before the blade could reach me. With a swift motion, he pried the weapon from her grasp.
Then, without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, holding her shaking body tightly against his own.
Nadia turned to him in disbelief, her voice shrill with anguish. "Jonah, my mother is barely clinging to life because of Arabelle and you're still protecting her?"
Tears streamed down her pale face, her body trembling as if she would collapse at any moment. If I weren't the one being framed, even I might have believed her—believed that I was some heartless monster who had done the unthinkable.
Under my gaze, Jonah gently wiped the blood off Nadia's hands with his own sleeve, his touch tender. "I just don't want you to dirty your hands," he murmured, his voice soft in contrast to the madness unfolding around us.
Then, as if something in him shifted, he pushed Nadia aside and slowly walked toward me. His expression was unreadable, his steps unhurried, deliberate. My body tensed involuntarily, a chill creeping up my spine.
There was no warmth in his eyes as they locked onto mine. Only a cold, merciless calculation.
"Jonah, I didn't hurt her mother!" My voice came out hoarse, raw. "She kidnapped me and staged this whole act! If you don't believe me, you can—"
The words never left my lips.
A sharp, searing pain shot through my body.
I gasped, staring in disbelief at the knife now embedded in the back of my hand. The cold metal sent shockwaves of agony through my nerves, the pain so intense it forced blood up my throat. I coughed violently, splattering red across the floor.
Jonah, now spattered with my blood, stood unmoved.
His lips quivered slightly as he asked, almost absently, "Why... didn't you dodge?"
Dodge?
He actually thought I let this happen. As if I could have done anything at all.
I was drugged. My limbs felt like lead. My body refused to move.
Yet, what truly twisted the knife deeper wasn't the pain, but the memory of who he used to be.
There was a time when he would panic if I so much as lingered in bed a little longer. He would fuss, insist on taking me for a full medical checkup, afraid I might be ill.