The first time it happened again was in the guest bathroom..small, white marble, tucked near the end of the east wing.
I leaned over the sink, breath coming in shallow bursts, knuckles white against porcelain.
Then it came…metallic and warm.
I coughed.
Once.
Twice.
The third brought blood.
Bright red against the white basin.
For a moment, I just stared at it.
Not in shock.
Not in fear.
Just... recognition.
Hello, old friend.
I rinsed the sink quickly, quietly.
Tucked the hand towel away beneath my sweater to hide the stain and walked back into the corridor like nothing had happened.
Because nothing could happen.
Not now.
Not again.
Not when I was finally starting to breathe.
I didn't tell anyone.
Not Claudia.
Not Emilia.
Not the hospital where I volunteered.
And especially not Alessandro.
He'd only use it as proof I didn't belong anywhere near his world.
But the signs grew louder.
The dizziness came next. Sudden, short spells that made the chandelier blur when I passed the dining hall.
Then the weight loss.
The nausea.
The late nights shaking under too many blankets.
Every day, I got better at pretending.
Makeup for the pallor. Longer sleeves for the bruises. Smiles rehearsed in the mirror, twenty seconds at a time.
"Good morning, Emilia."
"Of course, I'll deliver the donation slips myself."
"Yes, Doctor Reyes, I'd love to help with the children's wing."
Lies.
Beautiful, clean lies.
I stitched them into my voice like armor.
Because if anyone knew… if Alessandro found out…
He'd accuse me of faking it again.
Or worse…
He'd pity me.
And I couldn't stomach his pity.
Not when I wanted his fury. His obsession. His regret.
Not his mercy.
I'd had enough of men showing up only when I was dying.
This time, I wanted to survive without their hands holding me down.
Even if it killed me.
The second time it happened, I was in the east garden with Ariella…the little girl from the oncology wing who had started calling me "Miss Ana."
We were planting wildflowers together, her thin arms elbow-deep in soil, giggling as she described the garden she wanted to build "when I grow up and become a flower princess."
I smiled.
Laughed, even.
Then I turned away…just for a moment…and coughed into my sleeve.
Blood again.
Not much.
But enough to make me dizzy.
Enough to feel the warning again in my chest: a tightness like a secret pressing too hard against a lock that was about to snap.
Ari didn't notice.
And thank God.
Lucia was nearby and would've known instantly.
So I forced another laugh. Brushed the tear from my eye and pretended it was from joy.
"You okay, Miss Ana?"
"Just a tickle," I said. "Too much spring in the air."
She nodded solemnly. "Allergies are evil."
I smiled.
Then I helped her finish planting.
Because I wouldn't let sickness steal that moment from her.
Or from me.
When I returned to the villa, Emilia offered tea.
I declined.
My stomach couldn't handle it.
My bones were heavy.
Like they remembered the last time I was this sick.
Like they were preparing to fail again.
I climbed the stairs slower than usual. Each step a quiet ache. Each breath a silent war.
Alessandro passed me in the hallway, talking on his phone.
He didn't notice.
He didn't ask why I looked pale.
He didn't look at all.
Maybe that hurt worse than anything else.
Because this time, I wasn't asking him to love me.
I just wanted someone to see that I was unraveling again…and not wait until I hit the floor.
But he kept walking.
And I kept dying…just a little more quietly.
That night, I stood in front of the mirror, shirt pulled up just enough to see the fresh bruises blooming along my ribs.
Internal bleeding?
Maybe.
I didn't check.
I just lowered my blouse and whispered, "Don't give them another excuse to call you fragile."
Because no one loves a broken woman.
They just use her until she stops making noise.
I woke up gasping sometime after midnight.
My throat burned.
My chest seized.
It felt like drowning…slow, suffocating, silent. I clutched my ribs, stumbled to the bathroom, and fell to my knees in front of the sink.
The first cough didn't bring blood.
The second did.
It sprayed red across porcelain like some morbid painting, blooming like a crimson rose. I stared at it for a moment, breathing raggedly, the copper taste clinging to the back of my tongue.
Then I cleaned it.
Rinsed everything.
Wiped the counter.
Flushed the towel.
Pressed cold water to my face until the shaking stopped.
Until I looked like a woman who was fine.
Not dying.
Not aching.
Just quiet.
Composed.
Invisible.
By morning, the bruises on my ribs had turned purple-black.
I buttoned a high-neck blouse and walked down to breakfast with my spine straight and my lips painted.
Emilia greeted me. "You look tired, Madam."
"I slept lightly."
She nodded and said nothing more.
Alessandro didn't come down.
Claudia was already seated, her expression unreadable as always, sipping her espresso and flipping through her folded newspaper.
She glanced at me once.
Then away.
No one noticed my hand trembling on the teacup.
No one asked why I didn't touch my food.
No one ever did.
Because pain that doesn't scream isn't real in houses like this.
It's decor.
It's wallpaper.
It's a woman being silent in the right shade of lipstick.
By afternoon, I was shivering in the sunroom despite the heat outside.
The world spun if I moved too fast.
I sat with a book open in my lap, not reading a single word.
Just existing.
Barely.
When Alessandro passed by the open doorway, he paused.
His eyes flicked to me.
Something flickered.
Then…
Gone.
He kept walking.
I pressed my fingers into my temples, breathing slow.
Then I smiled.
Not because I felt it.
Because it was the only armor I had left.
That evening, I wrote a letter I never intended to send.
If I die again, let it be on my feet.
Let it be without begging. Without doctors. Without pity.
Let it be without anyone whispering "poor thing" behind my back.
And above all..let it be quiet.
So quiet that he finally hears it.
I folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of my old journal.
Then I lay down.
My lungs screamed.
My pulse drummed in my ears.
But I didn't cry.
Because crying wouldn't fix the disease.
Or the man.
Or the silence I had wrapped myself in like a burial shroud.
So I closed my eyes.
And told myself I wasn't tired.
Even when the darkness crept into my bones like it remembered the way.