Chapter 3

When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing that hit my ears was the sharp, rhythmic beeping of an EKG monitor.

I squinted against the blinding, cold white light of the room.

My throat felt like it was lined with razor blades. Every breath was excruciating.

I was hooked up to multiple IV drips, and my chest was wrapped in thick, heavy bandages.

I was alive.

The hospital room was completely empty, smelling strongly of bleach and antiseptic.

Alfred wasn't there.

A nurse pushed the door open. Seeing me awake, she let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Oh, Miss Padilla! You’re finally awake! You suffered severe carbon monoxide poisoning and multiple fractured ribs."

"You were in the ICU for three whole days. We even had to use the defibrillator on you. It's a miracle you're alive."

Three days and nights.

I pulled the oxygen mask off my face, my voice sounding like sandpaper.

"Who... brought me here?"

The nurse looked at me with deep pity. "The firefighters. They found you pulled under the debris after they put out the fire."

"You weren't breathing when they got to you."

It wasn't Alfred.

He hadn't even called 911 to tell them someone was still inside. He hadn't sent anyone to look for me.

He had truly left me in that fire to die.

"My phone..."

The nurse took my cracked phone out of a plastic bag on the nightstand.

I plugged it in and turned it on.

Countless notifications flooded the screen, but not a single missed call or text was from Alfred.

I opened our work group chat on WhatsApp.

Rachel, a senior designer at the firm, had sent a voice note. Her tone was dripping with venom.

"Honestly, we are so unlucky. Valerie is always so careless. How do you manage to start a fire just by looking for files in the basement?"

"She almost got Alfred and Vivian killed!"

Another coworker, Chris, immediately chimed in.

"I know, right? I heard Vivian was traumatized. Her ankle is still swollen."

"Thank God Alfred risked his life to carry her out."

"As for Valerie, she made her bed, now she has to lie in it. She’s probably hiding in some corner too embarrassed to show her face."

I stared at the screen, my dry, cracked lips curling into a mocking laugh.

I started the fire? I’m hiding because I’m embarrassed?

I closed WhatsApp and opened Alfred’s Instagram.

His latest post was from yesterday afternoon.

The photo showed a luxurious VIP room in a private hospital.

On the nightstand were expensive imported organic cherries and a massive bouquet of pink roses.

Vivian’s hand, featuring a fresh, expensive manicure, was in the frame, holding a cherry.

The caption read: "A false alarm. Thank God I was able to protect my girl when it mattered most."

"As for those who only cause trouble, I hope they learn to reflect on themselves."

My girl. Those who only cause trouble.

A sharp, stabbing pain hit my chest—far worse than my broken ribs.

But it lasted for only a second before it was entirely consumed by a cold, burning hatred.

Three years.

For three years, I worked three jobs, ate expired bread, and spent every penny to enroll him in the most expensive architecture seminars.

I ruined my eyesight rewriting his blueprints so he could be the star of the firm.

And in the end, my life wasn't worth Vivian's fake ankle pain.

Suddenly, the door to my room was pushed open.

Rachel and Chris walked in, carrying a cheap, sad-looking plastic fruit basket.

Seeing me awake, surprise flashed across their faces, quickly replaced by their usual arrogant disdain.

"Oh, look who's awake. Valerie, you really are like a cockroach, aren't you? Still alive."

Rachel slammed the fruit basket onto the nightstand and crossed her arms.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused?"

"Do you know how many priceless paper archives the firm lost because of you?"

I stared at her coldly, saying nothing.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Don't look at us like that."

"Alfred hasn't slept in days because he's been taking care of Vivian."

"Vivian has nightmares and cries every night because of you! And here you are, hiding in the hospital playing the victim."

"Playing the victim?" My voice was incredibly raspy. I slowly raised my arm, which was covered in IV lines and nasty red burn marks.

"You call this... playing the victim?"

Rachel sneered. "Cut the drama, Valerie. The doctor said you just inhaled a little smoke."

"Alfred said that once you're discharged, you need to write a formal apology letter."

"You also have to publicly apologize to Vivian at the next all-hands meeting. Otherwise, consider your career in this industry over."

Apologize to Vivian?

I stared at Rachel’s smug face. Suddenly, I snatched the cheap fruit basket from the nightstand and hurled it at the door with all my strength.

Crash!

The plastic basket shattered, and bruised apples and oranges rolled all over the floor.

"Get out." I stared at them, my eyes completely dead and cold.

Rachel shrieked and jumped back, pointing a shaking finger at me.

"Valerie! Have you lost your mind?!"

"You're just an orphan living off Alfred's charity! How dare you tell us to get out?"

"Alfred can get you kicked out of Los Angeles with a single phone call!"

"I won't say it again," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "Get. Out."

Maybe the sheer hatred in my eyes scared them. Rachel and Chris swallowed hard, shut their mouths, and slammed the door as they left.

The room fell silent again.

I leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

The naive, pathetic Valerie who begged for love had died in that thirty-nine-degree basement fire.

The Valerie who survived was going to burn their lives to the ground.