Cyril had long stopped counting the hospital visits. Each one was a blur of fake smiles, fading flowers, and carefully curated concern. He always brought white roses—but they weren’t for her. They were for the nurses, the doctors, the visitors who watched him with sympathetic eyes.
Larissa hadn’t spoken in weeks. Machines kept her stable, but the woman he married seemed already gone.
While others prayed for a miracle, Cyril quietly hoped for release—not for her, but for himself. The money, the property, the business… all tied up in her name. Her silence meant nothing moved. And every passing day, the costs mounted like a vice around his throat.
That day, standing beside her hospital bed, he leaned in close. “Larissa,” he whispered, “I never loved you the way you thought. If you’d just… let go… I could finally breathe.”
He exhaled. For him, it was honesty. For Larissa—it was betrayal. And for Mirabel, hidden under the bed to avoid an awkward encounter, it was something else entirely: a warning.
A hospital volunteer who had come to check on equipment, Mirabel hadn’t expected to hear something so cold. But once she did, she couldn’t un-hear it.
When Larissa’s father arrived later, Cyril put on his grieving act—gentle tone, tired eyes, empty promises.
But Harland noticed something strange. The staff were watching Cyril closely. The air had shifted.
Then Mirabel approached quietly. “I need to tell you what I heard,” she said.
And just like that, the story changed.
Harland didn’t make a scene. He simply made a call. Security was tightened. Larissa’s room was never left unattended again.
The next morning, Cyril walked in with his mask firmly in place—but the warmth was gone from every greeting. He could feel it: something had changed.
He just didn’t know how much.
