Broken Doll No More: Her Ruthless Revenge

Erica POV

The dinner was supposed to be a peace treaty.

The Holdens and the Houses were gathered at one long table, an uneasy truce displayed in silver and linen.

I was seated at the far end—exiled from the conversation, and far removed from the power.

I had spent the afternoon at a clinic.

I took a pill.

It was the hardest thing I had ever done, but I couldn't bring a child into this world.

Not this world.

I was bleeding.

Physically and emotionally, I was draining away. Yet, I sat straight, a statue of composure.

I wore the diamond earrings Emmanuel gave me. They felt heavy on my ears, like stones.

Waiters brought out the food.

Thai curry.

It smelled strong, a cloying mix of spices and coconut milk.

I was allergic to peanuts.

Deadly allergic.

And Anthony knew this.

He carried an EpiPen in his jacket pocket specifically for me. In the past, he used to obsessively check ingredients at every restaurant we visited.

My mind hazy with exhaustion, I looked down at my bowl.

It looked safe enough.

I took a bite.

The reaction was instant.

My throat slammed shut. My lips swelled, stinging with heat.

I couldn't breathe.

Panic seized me. I clawed at my neck, desperate for air.

I knocked my water glass over, and it shattered against the table, the sound cutting through the dinner chatter.

Everyone looked at me.

"Help," I wheezed, the sound barely escaping my constricted windpipe.

I locked eyes with Anthony.

He was staring right at me.

His face was blank, devoid of recognition or alarm.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket.

He pulled out the EpiPen.

Hope flared in my chest, bright and desperate.

He stood up.

But he didn't walk to me.

He walked to Bianca.

Bianca let out a dramatic, theatrical gasp.

"Oh no," she cried, bringing a hand to her forehead. "I feel faint! The fumes!"

She slumped in her chair.

She was faking. It was painfully, insultingly obvious.

Anthony uncapped the EpiPen.

"Stay with me, my love," he said loudly, his voice thick with performative concern.

He jammed the needle into Bianca's thigh.

She yelped in genuine surprise.

He wasted the medicine on her.

He was wasting my life on her.

I fell to the floor.

Black spots danced in my vision, obscuring the cruel tableau above me.

I gasped for air that wouldn't come, my chest heaving uselessly.

Emmanuel was watching.

He was calmly drinking his wine, looking down at me dying on the carpet as if I were a stain.

"She should have checked the menu," he said dismissively. "Careless nurse."

The room started to spin.

The darkness was coming back.

But this time, it wasn't a closet.

It was death.

Through the haze, I saw the shoes of the waiters rushing over.

Someone called 911.

Not Anthony.

Not Emmanuel.

A waiter. A stranger.

As my eyes closed, the last thing I saw was Anthony kissing Bianca's forehead.

He was comforting her.

While I suffocated.

I didn't die.

The paramedics arrived in a blur of motion and noise.

They gave me a shot.

My lungs opened.

I sucked in air, and it burned like fire.

They loaded me onto a stretcher.

I looked back at the table.

They were still eating.

They didn't stop dinner.

I closed my eyes.

The sadness was gone.

The fear was gone.

There was only the cold.

I touched my empty stomach.

I touched my swollen throat.

They wanted me dead.

They tried to kill me.

Okay.

I would die.

Erica the nurse would die.

And something else would rise from the ashes.

I thought of the soldier's card in my purse.

*When you are ready to burn it down.*

I was ready.

I was the match.

Erica POV

The hospital room was a blinding, sterile white.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

My throat felt raw, stripped bare, as if I had swallowed a handful of rusted razor blades.

A nurse bustled in, her eyes fixed on the monitors rather than me. She checked my vitals with efficient, cold hands.

She wouldn't look me in the eye.

"You can leave in an hour," she murmured, adjusting the flow of the IV drip. "Mr. Holden has settled the bill."

Of course he had.

Money was the only bandage that family knew how to apply. A golden plaster over a gaping wound.

I forced myself to sit up. The room tilted dangerously, my head spinning like a top.

Steadying myself, I looked at the bedside table where my few belongings had been stacked.

My phone. My purse.

But the table felt too empty. Something was missing.

The brass urn.

I had carried it with me everywhere since Grandma died. It was heavy, cool to the touch, and the only anchor I had left in this violent storm.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest, overriding the pain.

"Where is it?" I asked. My voice was a broken rasp.

The nurse blinked, feigning confusion. "Where is what?"

"The urn," I managed, louder this time. "The brass jar. It was right here."

She shook her head, taking a step back. "I haven't seen anything like that. Maybe... maybe Mr. Holden took it for safekeeping?"

The lie was written plainly in her evasive gaze.

I didn't wait for permission. I reached down and ripped the IV catheter out of my arm.

Blood welled up instantly, a bright red bead blooming against my pale skin.

I didn't feel it. I felt only the hollow ache where the urn should be.

I grabbed my coat.

I knew exactly who had it. It wasn't Mr. Holden. He wouldn't care enough to take it.

This had Bianca's fingerprints all over it.

I didn't go to the penthouse. I knew where the circus was in town today.

I went to the Plaza Hotel.

The Holdens had rented the entire top floor for the wedding preparations—a staging ground for their perfect little pageant.

I stormed past the doorman, ignoring his protest. I ignored the receptionist calling after me, her voice fading as the elevator doors slid shut.

I took the lift straight to the penthouse suite.

The door was unlocked. Arrogance often left doors open.

I pushed inside.

Bianca was standing by the open balcony doors, framed by the city skyline.

The wind whipped her hair around her perfectly made-up face.

She was holding the urn.

She looked like a petulant child toying with a stolen plaything.

"I was wondering when you would wake up," she said, her voice carrying easily over the wind.

She turned the urn over in her manicured hands, inspecting it.

"It is heavy," she mused. "Heavy with disappointment, I assume."

"Give it to me," I commanded.

I walked toward her, though my legs were trembling with exhaustion.

"Anthony said you are allergic to peanuts," Bianca said, ignoring my approach. "I, however, am allergic to dust. And this..."

She held the vessel out further.

"...this is just a jar of dust."

She dangled it over the balcony railing.

We were twenty stories up.

Below us, the city was a grid of unforgiving concrete and crawling traffic.

"Bianca, no," I pleaded, the fight draining out of me, replaced by pure terror.

I hated begging. It tasted like ash.

But for Grandma, I would beg. I would crawl.

"Please. It is all I have."

Bianca smiled.

It was the same cold, vacant smile she had worn when she locked me in that closet freshman year.

"You have nothing," she said softly. "You are nothing."

She opened her fingers.

The brass urn caught the sunlight for a split second—a final, golden flash.

Then it fell.

I screamed.

I ran to the railing, gripping the cold metal until my knuckles turned white.

I watched it plummet.

It hit the pavement below.

From this height, it didn't even make a sound. No crash. No shatter.

It just vanished into the grey oblivion.

I gripped the railing, staring down.

For a second, I wanted to jump after it. I wanted to scrape her off the sidewalk and hold her one last time.

Then, the grief hardened into something molten.

I turned back to Bianca.

My vision swam with red.

I lunged at her.

I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to hurt her. I wanted to wipe that satisfied smirk off her face forever.

Bianca didn't fight back.

Instead, she threw herself onto the floor with practiced grace.

She ripped the shoulder of her dress with a violent tear.

Then she started screaming.

"Help! Anthony! She's killing me!"

The door to the bedroom burst open.

Anthony and Emmanuel ran in, breathless.

They saw the tableau: Me, standing over Bianca, hands clenched into fists. Bianca, cowering on the floor, her dress torn, tears streaming down her face.

They saw the "fear" in her eyes.

They didn't look at me.

They didn't ask what happened.

They made their choice.