Page 52 of Marriage of Revenge

Naomi stands beside me, different from the girl who clung to my arm like a lifeline hours ago. Her spine is straighter now, chin lifted even as it trembles. Hope flickers in her eyes like stage lights coming alive - because her father's voice carries through the phone's speaker, strong and defiant. He's fighting for her, even knowing the cost.

The temperature drops ten degrees as my father's voice turns to pure ice. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're aiming to dethrone me." The silence that follows feels like those moments before bad test results, when breathing itself becomes an act of courage. Through the receiver, Naomi's father's response comes low and determined, each word a calculated risk.

My father's answering threat slides between my ribs like a familiar blade. "You dare to defy me? Remember, your every breath is under my surveillance..." His pause carries years of implied violence. "We have eyes on every move you and yourfamily make, including your nieces and your nephew. And we have Naomi. Step out of line, and you'll find yourself desperately alone, suffocating without relief."

The warning coils around us like barbwire. I've heard that tone before - it's the same one he used when Antonio's mother stepped out of line. The same one that preceded flames and scars and screams.

Some threats don't need translation.

His gaze prowls over us like a predator choosing its prey before he nods to his men.

They herd us into the main bedroom of the suite like nurses pushing patients into isolation, the door's click behind us as final as hospital room locks.

Without the weight of their presence, the air shifts - still heavy with fear but somehow more breathable. For the first time since this nightmare began in the ballroom, we both exhale - shaky, uneven breaths that carry more questions than answers, more terror than hope.

"So... your dark prince won. Talk about a plot twist - though I've got to say, that kiss was straight out of chapter twelve in my latest manuscript. You know, the one where the antihero finally claims his—" Naomi's attempt at her usual literary snark wavers, but even with fear threading through her voice, she's still trying to frame our horror show as one of her stories. Still trying to make me smile.

While I huddled under scalding shower water, singing my desperate mantra of "cancer, go away, please cancer, go away," she waited outside with nutrient-packed smoothies - the only thing my ravaged body could keep down.

During those endless fever cycles between Brentuximab and chemo, when infection threatened to do what cancer couldn't, she skipped classes to sit beside my hospital bed. She never complained about the antiseptic smell or the constant beepingof monitors. Never flinched at my paper-thin skin or the way treatment stripped away everything I thought made me beautiful.

She made everything less lonely. She didn't just watch from the shore as I was drowning; she dove into the tumultuous waters of despair with me.

She reminded me of hope. And hope during that time was everything. Hope kept me going.

Each text, each visit, each stupid joke taught me something cancer couldn't take: how to find joy in small moments, how to laugh even when everything hurt.

Hope wasn't just about surviving until tomorrow - it was about living today. It was smoothies that tasted like victory even if I could only manage three sips, sunset watching from my hospital window when walking felt impossible, her hand squeezing mine just because.

Naomi taught me that hope isn't waiting for the storm to pass; it’s learning to pirouette through chemotherapy.

That kind of hope changes you. Makes you notice everything more intensely - the way morning light catches in IV tubes like prisms, how clean sheets feel like luxury, why a single shared laugh can fuel you through hours of pain.

When you learn to treasure small moments, the big shadows can't consume you completely. Those lessons stay with you, building a resilience that even cancer can't corrupt.

That's what Naomi gave me - not just hope for tomorrow, but the ability to find light in today's darkness. To make every breath count, even the ones that hurt. Maybe especially those.

The word "best friend" feels too small for what she is. She's my sister in every way that matters - in all the ways that blood and family names can't touch. And now my father wants to use her like he's using me - another prop in his power play, another doll to arrange however he sees fit.

And I won't let her become another casualty of my father's empire. Not like the others. Not like those screams I still hear in my nightmares; those flames I couldn't stop. Some mistakes leave scars deeper than life.

"I'm going to find a solution, I promise." The words feel like pills too big to swallow, but I have to try.

"My father won't stop fighting for me," Naomi whispers, curling into herself on the bed like she used to curl up in my hospital room's chair. "God, this is like every tragic romance novel where the heroine gets pawned off to the highest bidder, except I'm not even the main character here. I'm the best friend who gets sacrificed for plot development." Her attempt at literary analysis wavers, but the fire's still there. "I have my thesis on crisis communication to finish. I have my internship lined up at that PR firm. I have..." The break in her voice hits harder than any of Henrik's threats. "Dreams that don't include being some mafia consolation prize."

"I know." And I do - I remember every dream she whispered to me during midnight fever watches, every plan she sketched out while my hair fell out and grew back rebel-wild.

My feet carry me to the bathroom on autopilot, hands shaking as I retrieve the hidden phone. My pulse does that stupid skip-flutter thing that usually means trouble, and I shift position like my cardio nurse taught me. The SVT warning signs are there - I need water, sleep, my beta blockers. My body's list of demands is endless, but Naomi's freedom can't wait.

My fingers hover over the screen, trembling like they used to during bad treatment days. I press my ear to the door, counting heartbeats until I'm sure no footsteps approach. The bathroom fan hums, covering any sound my shaking fingers might make on the keys.

Doesn't a fiancée deserve an engagement gift?

I wait, remembering his kiss - how it tasted of blood and victory and something darker. The way his hands claimed me like he couldn't decide between worship and warfare.

I saved your life tonight. Those sabotaged brakes would have written a different ending to your revenge story.

Another pause, another check for footsteps. My fingers find the bite mark Henrik left, and I remember how Antonio's eyes blazed when he saw it. Like he was the only one allowed to mark me.

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