Chapter 8

The ICU was so quiet that only the cold, mechanical beeping of the monitors remained, each sharp drip sounding like a countdown on a failing life.

Angela felt as if she had sunk into an endless, dreamless sleep—a dream that stretched on forever.

In it, she was drowning in a dark, boundless ocean, icy water forcing its way into her lungs until the weight of suffocation blurred everything else.

She tried desperately to reach for anything that could keep her afloat, but Lucas shoved her deeper into the darkness with cruel indifference.

"Angela."  A choked, broken voice cut through the suffocating dream like a crack of distant thunder.

Angela fought to open her eyes.

Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if weighted with lead. The sharp, sterile smell of disinfectant stung her nose and made her stomach roll.

As her vision slowly cleared, she saw the shape slumped beside her bed.

Alan looked like a stray dog someone had kicked around one too many times. His hair was a total mess, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and his eyes were swollen and ringed with red as if he had spent the whole night crying.

"Alan." Angela parted her lips, forcing out the faintest whisper.

She never thought she would see Alan again—not before she died.

Alan's head snapped up.

The moment he saw Angela awake, his tears spilled over in a sudden, uncontrolled rush.

"Angela! You're awake! Doctor—somebody get the doctor!"

He scrambled to hit the call button, but Angela weakly tugged at the sleeve of his hoodie.

"Don't," she murmured.

"You… why are you here? You found out?"

Alan froze. Guilt washed over his face until his eyes overflowed again.

"Angela, I'm sorry."

He dropped to his knees beside her bed with a heavy thud, pressing his face into her palm as he broke down completely.

"I messed up. I was an idiot. I didn't know you were this sick. I kept acting cold toward you because I couldn't get past why you suddenly decided to get married—so fast, without saying anything! I'm sorry, Angela!"

He had hated her for getting married overnight, hated her for slipping away from him without a word.

He had pretended she meant nothing to him, but the truth was, he cared. And now he regretted everything.

"Angela, do you know what I felt when you were in the ER and the doctor said you probably knew about your condition for a long time but kept hiding it—taking painkillers because you couldn't afford treatment? I wanted to tear myself apart."

Alan lifted his head and slapped himself hard across the face.

Angela flinched. Tears gathered in her eyes and slipped silently into her pillow.

She struggled to raise a hand toward him.

"Idiot," she whispered, shaking her head weakly. There was no blame in her eyes—only a deep, aching sadness and a tenderness that made her chest tighten.

"It's not your fault. I didn't tell you anything. I'm the older one—I'm supposed to take care of you."

"Nothing about this is something you were supposed to die for!"

Alan burst out, eyes blazing. But he quickly softened his voice, terrified of startling her, gripping her hand tightly. "Angela, listen. The doctor said a bone marrow transplant could save you. I signed the test consent forms already. As soon as the results come back, we go straight into surgery. I'll give you my marrow. All of it. Whatever you need."

Those words snapped Angela out of her daze like a splash of ice water.

A bone marrow transplant?

"No!" She didn't know where the strength came from. She jolted upright, knocking over the monitor beside her, sending its alarm shrieking through the room.

"Angela! What are you doing? Don't move!" Alan panicked, trying to ease her back onto the bed.

"I'm not doing the treatment. Alan, you're not doing the test. I won't allow it!"

Her emotions surged out of control, coloring her pale cheeks with a feverish flush.

"You had myocarditis when you were a kid—your heart's always been weak. A marrow aspiration might not be risky for most people, but what if something happens to you? What then? Look at me—I'm already like this. It's not worth the risk."

He was all she had left in the world.

For the past three years, she had swallowed every humiliation, endured Lucas's coldness, and survived the servants' disdain. All for what?

So Alan could live a normal life.  So he wouldn't have to end up like their parents—dying because they couldn't afford treatment.

If he got hurt trying to save her, then what would these three years have meant?  A sick joke?

"Angela, stop talking nonsense!"

Alan wrapped his arms around her, holding her through her shaking. The selfish, stubborn boy he once was had vanished, replaced by a man prepared to shoulder the weight of her despair.

"My life—Angela, your parents gave it to me. If they hadn't taken me in, I'd have been dead years ago. And now you want me to sit here and watch you die? I can't. I won't."

"You said I'm your only family. Well, if you die, what the hell am I supposed to live for?"

"Risky? Fine. Even if it's one life for one life, I'd still do it."

His voice cracked with raw determination, carrying a desperate resolve that refused to break.

"Please, Angela. Let me save you once. Even if there's just a tiny chance—one in ten thousand—I need to try. If I don't, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

His sobs echoed through the bleak hospital room until even the fluorescent lights felt dimmer under the weight of his grief.

Angela stared at his tear-soaked face—the face of the last person in this indifferent world who truly belonged to her.

Her defenses finally crumbled.

The humiliation of the past three years, the way Lucas had trampled her dignity—none of it mattered now.

Because Alan had grown up.

"Alan." She stopped resisting. She lifted her frail arms and pulled him into a trembling embrace. In the sharp scent of disinfectant and early morning cold, the two of them clung to each other, two battered hearts holding on as if the other was the only thing keeping them alive.

It was the purest, most heartbreaking bond between siblings,  a fragile light in the darkest moment.

But in some people's eyes…  Even this could be twisted into something filthy.

Out in the hallway, two figures approached.

The man walking ahead was Lucas.

He had come to visit Brigitta, who had been hospitalized for high blood pressure, but something—maybe that phone call last night, maybe the faint crack in his cold, hardened heart—had drawn him up to this floor.

He still believed Angela had faked everything to manipulate him.

But what if…?

Cora, walking beside him, suddenly stopped.

"Lucas, isn't that Ms. Andrews's room?"

Today, Cora wore an off-white trench coat and delicate light makeup, looking gentle, elegant, and harmless.

She pointed to the glass window ahead with its half-closed blinds.

Lucas followed her gaze, and his pupils suddenly constricted!

Through the glass window, he clearly saw that the woman who was supposedly ill was lying on the hospital bed, tightly embracing a young man!

Their heads were pressed together, their bodies pressed closely against each other, in an outrageously intimate pose!

The man was crying, his hands tightly wrapped around Angela's waist, while Angela's arms circled his neck, even gently stroking his back!

Was this what she called being on the verge of death?

Who on their deathbed has the strength to cuddle with another man in a hospital room?

"That must be her brother, right?"