My arm throbbed sharply, but his gaze never flicked toward me. In that moment, I ceased to exist. There was only Maria—his priority, his chosen woman.
That realization cut deeper than the burn.
I sat frozen, brushing at my arm instinctively, stunned by how easily I’d been dismissed. A waiter rushed over and noticed my injury.
“Mrs. Corell, are you hurt? Should we—”
Zaldy’s voice cut through the air, firm and absolute as he brushed Maria’s hair back possessively.
“Take care of her immediately.”
The waiter hesitated, unsure. I forced a tight smile.
“I’m fine,” I said quietly. “Please—help her first.”
Zaldy finally glanced at me, irritation flashing across his face.
“If you’re injured, deal with it,” he said coldly. “Just don’t make a scene.”
I nodded once. “I wouldn’t.”
He turned away instantly, guiding Maria toward the waiting ambulance, his body shielding hers as if no one else mattered. Nearby, Gritte scoffed.
“Fantastic,” she muttered. “Night ruined.”
Once they disappeared into the street, the pain fully set in. The waiter returned with a cold compress and placed it gently against my arm.
“This should help, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
And in that moment, something inside me hardened—a vow forming quietly but irrevocably.
I will never be invisible again.
I took a taxi to the hospital myself. Every jolt of the road reminded me of the sparks. The ER doctor cleaned and dressed the burn carefully.
“You’re fortunate,” he said. “It’s superficial. It’ll heal quickly.”
“Thank you,” I replied—just as I overheard nurses murmuring nearby.
“Did you hear? Don Corell booked an entire floor for her. Specialists, private staff—the works.”
A bitter smile touched my lips.
He had never done anything like that for me. Not once.
I paid using my own card—the money I had earned myself. Years of dependence had left me vulnerable, but now I saw the truth clearly: I didn’t need him to survive.
Bandaged and resolute, I returned to the manor. Zaldy and Maria would be spending the night at the hospital. Staff glanced at my arm with concern, but I waved them off.
“It’s nothing serious. I’m sorry for the late hour.”
The next morning, an email chimed softly on my phone.
Acceptance Letter — Italian Arts Academy
My pulse quickened. Freedom surged through me. I grabbed my art supplies and declined the driver’s offer. I wanted to move under my own power.