Chapter 2: Where Did Your Family Go

Evangeline's POV

I should close my eyes and try to sleep, but my phone starts buzzing on the nightstand. Instagram notifications. Again.

I know I shouldn't look. I always tell myself I won't. But my fingers move anyway, swiping to unlock the screen.

Seraphina's latest post hits me like a slap: a perfectly composed photo of Charles fastening her seatbelt in what looks like his sports car. His expression is focused, tender, protective. The caption reads: "My protector always takes care of every little detail. 💕"

I stare at that photo until my eyes burn. That expression, that look in his eyes. The tenderness that used to be mine is now hers without question.

'How the hell did she add me? I never accepted any friend request from her.'

But I know the answer. In Silicon Valley's small world, finding anyone's social media isn't hard. Especially for the Blackwood family.

A year ago, she started posting glimpses of her life with Charles. At first, I'd confront him about it. He'd always brush it off: "Evie, those are just for show. You know I'm only doing this to protect us."

Now I'm just numb.

I keep scrolling, seeing more photos: Charles opening car doors for her, escorting her to charity galas, pulling out her chair at restaurants. Every single photo is a knife aimed straight at my heart.

Suddenly, a violent cough tears up from my chest. I press my hand to my mouth, feeling something warm and wet between my fingers.

When I pull my hand away, there's blood.

Then pain explodes in my abdomen, like something's clawing at my insides. I double over, cold sweat soaking through my nightgown instantly.

"Fuck," I curse through gritted teeth. This pain is worse than anything I've felt before.

I fumble for the nightstand drawer, searching for my pain medication. My hands shake so badly I can barely hold the bottle. I finally manage to shake out three pills and swallow them dry.

The nausea hits before the medication kicks in. I stumble to the bathroom, collapsing beside the toilet and dry-heaving. In the mirror, I look like death. Pale as paper with dark circles under my eyes.

'This time is different. This time is worse.'

I crawl back to bed, curling into a ball. The painkillers finally start working, dulling the sharp edges of agony. My consciousness gets fuzzy.

I drift off like that.

When I wake up, it's already ten in the morning. Charles still isn't back. Of course he isn't.

The bloodstains on my pillow remind me last night wasn't a nightmare.

I call an Uber to Stanford Medical Center. Sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by rushing medical staff and anxious families, I'm completely alone.

"Ms. Thorne, I need you to sit down." Dr. Martinez's expression is serious as he looks at my chart. "The blood work results are concerning."

I watch his face, my heart starting to pound.

"Your kidney function is severely compromised. The creatinine levels indicate stage 4 chronic kidney failure. This explains what you've been experiencing."

Kidney failure. The words echo in my head. I never imagined all that pain, all that exhaustion, would lead to this.

"Kidney failure? But I've always been sick. This is just different?"

"I'm afraid this is a serious progression. Your previous health issues may have contributed, but we need to start immediate treatment."

'Charles doesn't know. Nobody knows. How do I tell him?'

"We need to discuss dialysis and get you on the transplant list immediately. Do you have family members we should contact for compatibility testing?"

I shake my head, tears blurring my vision.

Clutching medical documents, I head toward the lobby to call a ride home. The moment the elevator doors open, my heart nearly stops.

Charles and Seraphina step out, looking like they've walked off a magazine cover. Charles wears an expensive suit, Seraphina a pristine white designer dress, carrying fresh flowers. Her blonde hair falls perfectly over her shoulders, her skin flawless and glowing.

And me? Last night's jeans and old sweater, face pale from pain and blood loss, hair a tangled mess.

I hear Seraphina say to Charles, "Thanks for coming with me to visit Mrs. Patterson. The charity foundation's longtime friends all need this kind of care."

So they're here for charity work. Not for me. Never for me.

The moment Charles sees me, panic flashes in his eyes. He tries to pull Seraphina past quickly, pretending he hasn't seen me.

'He wants to pretend he doesn't know me. After ten years together, he wants to deny I exist.'

I grip the medical documents so tight my knuckles turn white.

Just as Charles tries to lead her away, Seraphina suddenly stops. She turns toward me, her face wearing perfect, fake concern.

"Oh my, lady?" She pauses deliberately, "You look awful. What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"

I hide the medical documents behind my back instinctively.

"Why are you here all alone? Where's your family to take care of you?"

Every word stabs like a needle. She knows. She knows perfectly well I have no family, knows about my relationship with Charles. She's trying to humiliate me in public.

Charles stands behind her, expressionless, like a stranger. He won't even look at me, let alone defend me.

Anger starts burning inside me. This woman used money and power to steal my man, and now she wants to publicly humiliate me too?

I shove the documents into my bag and force myself to stand straight.

I slowly rise, wiping tears from my eyes. Then I smile at Seraphina.

It's a dangerous smile.

"Just routine check-ups. Nothing that money can't fix."

I emphasize "money" deliberately, watching displeasure flash in her eyes.

"Though I guess you wouldn't understand earning something through your own effort, would you?"

"Excuse me? I don't know what you're getting at."

She puts on a confused expression, but I see her grip tighten on her handbag.

"I'm not getting at anything. I'm stating facts. Some people work for what they have. Others just inherit daddy's checkbook and think that buys them everything."

I take a step forward.

"But here's the thing about buying people, Seraphina. Deep down, they never really belong to you. And you know it."

Charles finally speaks: "Evangeline..."

But his tone is warning, not protective. He's warning me to stop.

"Tell me, how exhausting is it? Having to constantly prove you deserve something that was never meant for you in the first place?"

My voice is calm and ice-cold.

"How does it feel knowing that no matter how much money daddy spends, you'll always be second choice?"

"You!" Her voice shakes with rage, her perfect mask finally cracking. "How dare you! I was trying to be nice, showing concern for your pathetic situation, and this is how you respond?"