The antiseptic sting of hospital air hit my nose before I even opened my eyes.
I'm alive?
That didn't make sense. I remembered the impact—the way my body had crumpled against pavement, bones snapping like dry twigs. I remembered the blood in my mouth, the way consciousness had slipped through my fingers like smoke.
Yet when I sat up, there was no pain. No stiffness. Just the crisp rustle of hospital sheets and the too-tight tie of a gown at my back.
My hands flew to my ribs, probing for fractures. Nothing. I flexed my legs—no casts, no swelling. Even the scrapes I'd gotten from falling in the restaurant parking lot last week were gone.
This isn't right.
The door swung open. A doctor in blue scrubs froze mid-step, clipboard slipping from his fingers. "Ms. Eleanor! You're—" His Adam's apple bobbed. "Awake."
"How long was I out?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. If he said something about reincarnation or the afterlife, I'd lose it.
This wasn't one of my mangas.
"Twelve hours." He retrieved his clipboard, avoiding my gaze. "You were brought in after a terrible accident."
"Then why do I feel…ok?"
The heart monitor beeped too fast as the doctor adjusted his glasses. "Frankly? We can't explain it. Your scans showed no internal bleeding, no fractures. Just some minor abrasions." He forced a smile. "You're a very lucky woman."
Lucky.
The word tasted like ash. Lucky people didn't get left with five-thousand-dollar dinner bills by their fake partner.
Lucky people didn't walk into traffic like sleepwalkers.
I forced a tight smile and asked the question gnawing at me. "How much do I owe for the hospital bill?"
The doctor waved a hand dismissively. "Your family member already took care of it."
Family?
The word sent a jolt through me. You mean my neglectful family? One that doesn't care about my existence?
Did I slip into some alternate dimension when that car hit me?
Stepping out into the hallway, I saw Mira sitting at the side of the hallway. Her eyes widened, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Eleanor?! How are you—" She grabbed my shoulders, scanning me frantically. "You were hit by a car. How are you standing? Are you in pain? How many fingers am I holding up?"
"I'm fine," I said, gently pushing her hands away. "Did you... pay my hospital bill?"
Mira scoffed. "Of course I did. Who else would?"
Gratitude swelled in my chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by something heavier.
Mira hesitated, then sighed. "I tried calling Dickson, you know. Thought he should know his girlfriend got run over." Her lips twisted. "He said he didn't want to hear anything about you."
My stomach dropped.
Mira's eyes narrowed. "What the hell happened between you two? Did you fight?"
I looked away, my fingers tightening around the hem of the hospital gown.
Mira's expression darkened. "Oh."
The silence between us was suffocating.
"Do you... have any spare clothes?" I asked quietly.
Mira nodded, handing me a duffel bag.
"Figured you wouldn't want to walk out in that."
In the restroom, I changed mechanically, the fabric of Mira's borrowed sweater soft against my skin. It smelled like her—vanilla and something faintly citrusy. Comforting.
When I climbed into Mira's car, a bitter thought crossed my mind: All my coworkers have cars. Except me.
Because Dickson had always promised, "Why buy one when I'll get you something better?"
Another lie. Another thing I'd waited for like an idiot.
As Mira pulled out of the parking lot, I stared at my reflection in the side mirror. No bruises. No scars.
Just a woman who'd somehow walked away from death untouched.
******
The golden light of sunset bled through Mira's curtains, casting long shadows across her living room. I sat curled up on her couch, a half-empty mug of tea going cold in my hands.
Mira had been quiet most of the day, giving me space. But I could feel her watching me, the unspoken question hanging between us: What happened with Dickson?
I didn't know how to answer. How do you admit you were played for a fool? That you gave everything—your money, your ideas, your love—to someone who saw you as nothing more than a stepping stone?
Mira finally broke the silence. "You don't have to come to the grand opening tomorrow."
I blinked, pulled from my thoughts. "What?"
"After everything that's happened," she said gently, "no one would blame you for skipping it."
That was classic Mira—giving me an out before I even asked for one. And under normal circumstances, I would have taken it. Hid under the covers. Pretended the world didn't exist.
But something inside me—something new and unfamiliar—pushed back.
"I'm still going."
Mira frowned. "Eleanor, you were hit by a car less than twenty-four hours ago. People recover from accidents like that for months."
"The doctor said I only had minor injuries."
"That's impossible," Mira insisted. "You should have broken bones. Internal bleeding. Something."
I swallowed. She wasn't wrong. The impact had been brutal. I remembered the pain, the way my body had crumpled like paper.
But here I was. Unscathed.
"I don't know," I admitted quietly.
Mira studied me, her dark eyes searching. "You're really okay?"
No.
But I nodded anyway.
Mira clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Alright, superstar, the grand ceremony starts in less than two hours—which means we've got exactly three hours to get ready, because fashionably late is the only way to arrive when you're about to upstage your ex."
I have a thin smile.
Mira grinned, already rummaging through her closet. "We're going to make Dickson regret ever being a dick to you—see what I did there?" She wiggled her eyebrows. "By the time we're done, he'll be green with envy—oh wait, no, that's not a pun. Uh... let's just say he'll realize he screwed up—okay, that one was weak, but you get the point."
I shook my head, but the smile stayed on my lips.
****
The venue loomed ahead, a glittering fortress of glass and steel, swarmed by paparazzi flashing cameras like a storm of lightning. Reporters shouted over each other, their voices blending into a chaotic hum.
"Any word on the CEOs?"
"Is it true they've never been seen in public?"
Take a deep breath Eleanor.
Security checked our IDs with bored efficiency before waving us inside.
The moment we stepped through the doors, the world shifted—like walking into a dream.
The interior was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, scattering light across marble floors. Giant screens displayed the project in all its glory—my design, my calculations, my sleepless nights turned into something magnificent.
And everywhere, people.
Coworkers I barely recognized, draped in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, champagne flutes in hand as they laughed too loudly, posed too carefully. They weren't just here for the race. They were here to be seen..
Mira twirled, "Well? How do I look?"
"Like you're about to break the internet," I said honestly.
She grinned. "Good. Because you?" Her eyes raked over my blue gown—the way it hugged my curves before cascading to the floor. "You look like a damn goddess. And that hair?" She reached out, twirling a strand of my now silver-white hair around her finger. "Dickson's going to lose his mind."
I stiffened at his name.
Mira rolled her eyes. "Oh please. That man had the audacity to tell you to dye your natural hair because it 'stood out too much.'" She made air quotes. "As if blending into the background was ever your destiny."
Around us, heads turned. Some gazes held admiration. Others, sharp with envy.
Mira smirked. "See? Everyone's staring."
I swallowed. It should have felt good. But years of making myself smaller didn't vanish overnight.
Mira's hand tightened around mine as we took our seats, the hum of anticipation filling the grand hall. "Looks like we're all just waiting for the mysterious CEOs now," she murmured, scanning the room.
Then the voice came—sharp, familiar, slicing through the noise like a knife.
"Eleanor? What are you doing here?"
My breath caught. Dickson.
I had rehearsed this moment in my head a hundred times—how I'd stay calm, composed, indifferent. But my heart betrayed me, pounding so violently I feared it might crack my ribs. Slowly, I turned in my seat.
And there he was.
Dickson stood tall in his tailored tuxedo, his arm possessively wrapped around her.
The world tilted.
My sister.
Priscilla
She smirked at me, her sickly-sweet smile the same one she'd worn every time she stole my toys, my clothes, my achievements—always excused by our parents with the same tired refrain: "Let her have it, Eleanor. You know she's not well."
Priscilla's "incurable disease" had never stopped her from taking everything she wanted. And now, she'd taken him.