Chapter 1265: The Chance of Surviving Is Only Ten Percent
Chapter 1265 The Chance of Surviving Is Only Ten Percent
"Your odds of surviving are only ten percent, sis. Do you still want to go through with it?"
Arthur watched her as he asked, his expression utterly serious — like a responsible little brother doing his due diligence.
Every last ounce of Isabella's strength surged into her eyes. God, she wanted to strangle him.
In her mind, Arthur was nothing but an ungrateful little snake. He was the only person who'd bothered to visit her during all those long, hollow years — but his reasons were crystal clear.
No one had ever come close to her without wanting something.
That thought pulled her back to Alexander's visit. He'd shown up for Victoria, too.
And Arthur was here for the Montgomery family money.
Her grandparents had left her a substantial inheritance before they passed — enough to keep her comfortable for life. But now…
"Once you're gone, everything you own comes back to me anyway. Doesn't it?"
Arthur asked.
"Schedule the surgery."
She forced the words out.
Yes. The surgery.
"Sure — but the doctors said there's a real chance you won't make it off the table."
"I want the surgery."
Isabella held firm. Because she didn't want to die.
She wanted to live. Whether this was a last flicker of hope or just her body fighting on instinct, she had to try.
What if she could still come back — become who she used to be?
Arthur gave a single nod. "Fine."
He signed the forms and walked out.
Isabella lay alone in the hospital bed. She couldn't say why, but the voices drifting in from the hallway sounded muffled, distant — and she couldn't make out a single word, couldn't see a thing. Just cold. A deep, seeping cold, as though the blood had stopped moving through her veins, as though she was already—
No. She couldn't die.
She would walk out of here. She had to see him again. She wanted him to see how strong she was, how alive — so much more than that woman who'd lost her sight could ever be.
Wait — Victoria was pregnant?
Arthur. Arthur…
Do me one last favor.
She screamed it inside her head, over and over. But not a single sound came out.
---
That evening, Victoria and Olivia sat on the rooftop terrace of Serenade Villa, sipping coffee while the ocean breeze rolled in off the water.
"He really never asked?" Olivia said.
"Not once."
Victoria curled her hands around her warm mug and answered without looking up.
He knew her — knew her well. He'd asked once whether her memory had come back. When she didn't confirm it, he let it go entirely. No follow-up. No pressure. Nothing else.
"I have to say," Olivia murmured, "Alexander's actually become a decent husband."
Victoria smiled at that — a quiet, private smile. She took a slow sip of her coffee, then said, "Time is like a knife. A sharp one. It files down all your edges."
"Honestly? I think yours are sharper than ever." Olivia studied her. "You're anything but smooth."
She meant it. The old Victoria had been stubborn in all the wrong ways — convinced she was a burden to Alexander, always colliding with him, all sharp edges on the surface but fragile underneath. But now…
She had her own principles. Her own center of gravity. She was nothing like the Victoria who had once been too careful, too quiet, too afraid to take up space.
What Victoria had said to Isabella in that church — Olivia still felt a rush of satisfaction just thinking about it.
The blood Isabella had coughed up said everything that needed to be said. Isabella had been afraid.
Afraid of Victoria.
Once upon a time, Isabella had seen Victoria as something she could crush without a second thought — an ant beneath her heel. But now…
"By the way," Olivia said, "I heard she's going in for surgery in the next day or two."
Victoria sat nestled in the sofa, her elegant mug balanced in her hands, and let the image of Isabella's anguished, desperate face settle in her mind. When she spoke, her voice was perfectly calm.
"Then I hope they make her feel every single cut. No anesthesia." A beat. "They say the tissue damage is extensive."