Chapter 111
Elena's POV
I sat frozen, phone still pressed to my ear.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold it.
He might have hurt her again.
I thought about my mother's bruised face at the hospital. The finger marks on her throat. The way she'd flinched when I touched her hand.
And now I couldn't reach her.
I grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet into boots. In the bathroom mirror, I looked pale, dark circles under my eyes like I hadn't slept in days.
I stopped at a pharmacy, bought some medicine with the last of my cash.
My phone buzzed.
Caleb: Where are you?
I typed back quickly.
Elena: Just downstairs getting some air. Don't worry about me.
Caleb: Your ankle still isn't healed. Don't walk too much.
I turned off the screen without replying.
If I told him where I was really going, he'd try to stop me. And I couldn't—I didn't want to owe him more than I already did.
---
The familiar door looked especially ominous. I used my key to unlock it, the metal scraping sound particularly harsh in the silence. The door swung slowly inward.
Inside was darkness, only a single lamp in the corner of the living room casting weak light. My father sat on the couch, and when he heard the door, he stood up fast.
"You finally came back."
His voice echoed in the empty house. I forced myself not to step backward.
"Where's Mom's phone?" My voice was steadier than I expected. "You took it, didn't you?"
A strange expression flashed across his face. "So what if I did? She's been in contact with you behind my back!"
"Where is she?" I stepped forward. "I want to see her."
He laughed coldly. "In the storage room. Go see your precious mother."
I ran toward the hallway, my footsteps rapid on the wooden floor. The storage room door was shut tight, a lock hanging outside.
I pounded on the door. "Mom! Are you in there?"
Silence. Long enough that I thought no one was inside.
Then, a voice so weak it was almost inaudible. "...Elena?"
I spun around. Donald stood right behind me, slowly pulling a key from his pocket.
The door swung inward, and a wave of stuffy air mixed with a sickly smell hit me.
I saw her.
My mother sat against the wall on the cold concrete floor, wrapped only in a pitifully thin blanket. Her cheeks were abnormally flushed, like they'd been burned. Sweat had soaked through her hair, plastering it to her forehead and neck. When she tried to lift her head to look at me, her eyes were unfocused, barely able to see clearly.
"You..." Her lips were cracked, and when she spoke I could see blood seeping from the splits. "You shouldn't have come back..."
I knelt beside her, my hand touching her forehead and immediately pulling back—she was burning up, hot as coals.
"She's burning with fever!" I turned to Donald, my voice sharp with fear and rage. "Why didn't you take her to a hospital?!"
He leaned against the doorframe, his expression terrifyingly cold. "It's just a fever."
"Just a—" My voice caught in my throat. "She could die!"
"She's been in contact with you without telling me." His tone was like discussing the weather. "She had it coming."
I tried to help my mother stand, but her body felt like it would fall apart. "Mom, I'm taking you to the hospital."
"You want to take her to the hospital?" Donald's voice came from behind, freezing my movements. "Fine. But you have to do something for me first."
I slowly turned around. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking the only exit.
"Get engaged to Damon." His eyes flashed with something dangerous. "Right now. This second. Agree to it."
The air seemed to freeze.
"You say yes, and I'll drive her to the hospital myself." He took a step forward. "You keep refusing..." He glanced at my mother collapsed on the floor. "Well. It's just a fever. She probably won't die."
I looked at my mother. She was desperately shaking her head, her lips moving silently. "Don't... don't agree... just go..."
But her forehead was burning. Her breathing rapid and shallow. If I left now, if I let her stay like this...
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. The air was thick with sick heat.
When I opened them again, I looked straight at Donald's face.
"Fine." The word came out like spitting ice. "I agree. I'll get engaged to Damon."
A satisfied smile curved his lips. "See? That wasn't so hard."
I stopped at arm's length from him.
"But if you ever hurt her again..." My voice dropped almost to a whisper, but each word was clear as a blade. "I will make you regret it. I mean it."
For an instant, I saw something flicker in his eyes.
Then he laughed and walked away, grabbing his car keys. "Let's go. Don't let her actually die here."
---
The nearest hospital was a community clinic. The ER's fluorescent lights were harsh and white.
I held my mother in the backseat. She was semi-conscious, muttering incoherently, saying things I couldn't make out. Donald drove, eyes fixed ahead, as if we were just taking an ordinary evening drive.
The nurse's face changed the moment she saw us walk in.
"What's her temperature?" She hurried forward.
"I don't know." My voice was shaking. "But she's burning up badly."
The nurse scanned her with a forehead thermometer, her expression growing more serious. "103.5 degrees Fahrenheit." She looked at Donald. "How long has she been like this?"
"Maybe a day..." Donald's voice was vague.
The doctor came over. When he saw the bruises on my mother's face that hadn't fully faded, his eyes sharpened.
"How did she get these injuries?"
"She... she accidentally fell." The lie came so easily from his mouth.
The doctor stared at him for a long time. Then looked at me. I lowered my head, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze.
"High fever this prolonged can be life-threatening." The doctor finally said, his tone professional but with an edge of coldness. "We'll get her temperature down first and start an IV."
---
They put her in a hospital room. Two IV bags hung from a metal stand, liquid slowly dripping into her veins.
I sat beside the bed, constantly changing the cooling patches on her forehead, adjusting the ice packs. Her skin burned under my fingertips, each breath accompanied by a faint moan.
Donald sat on a bench in the hallway outside, head down scrolling through his phone. The screen's glow illuminated his indifferent face. He didn't come in once.
When my mother was half-awake, she would desperately grip my hand. "I'm sorry..." Her voice was terribly hoarse. "It's all my fault... I'm sorry..."
"It's not your fault." I squeezed her cold hand, tears falling silently.
If I'd come home earlier. If I hadn't just sent messages but had come straight here. If I'd been braver, stronger—
She wouldn't have gotten this bad.
She wouldn't have been locked in that cold storage room, burning with fever.
The room was quiet, only the occasional drip of the IV and my mother's irregular breathing. The clock on the wall pointed to seven p.m.
My phone vibrated on the bedside table, the sound especially abrupt in the silence.
I wiped my eyes and picked up the phone.
Caleb: It's late. Should I come pick you up?
The words on the screen blurred. I blinked, and tears rolled down, falling onto the screen.