Chapter 88 Cecilia's Rebirth
Cecilia lowered her gaze to her own hands, watching as the pale outlines grew thinner, more translucent, until they seemed almost ready to vanish into the air. Inside, there was nothing—no pulse of hope, no spark of fear—only a vast, cold emptiness.
She thought this was the end. Release. The oblivion she had longed for, begged for.
But consciousness clawed its way back. Blinding white light forced itself through her eyelids, and the sharp sting of antiseptic invaded her nose.
Cecilia's eyes snapped open.
Above her stretched a sterile ceiling, flawless and white, and to the side hung an IV bag, its contents dripping in slow, deliberate intervals.
She flexed her fingers.
They were no longer insubstantial wisps of light. They had weight, warmth… the faint coolness at her fingertips was real.
She pushed herself upright. Pain lanced through her chest, sharp enough to make her gasp. Sweat broke across her forehead in an instant.
This was what it meant to be alive.
Pain, raw and undeniable.
Her gaze swept the room—a plain, two-bed hospital ward. Nothing remarkable.
Throwing back the blanket, she swung her bare feet onto the tile floor. The chill shot up her legs, making her stumble as she hurried toward the bathroom.
The mirror reflected a stranger.
Young. Bloodless. Fragile. Yet the delicate shape of the features held a shadow of resemblance to her own.
And then, without warning, memories that were not hers flooded in—fragments and flashes so violent they made her clutch her head.
Amelia Martinez. Twenty-two. Intern nurse at the city hospital. Born with a weak heart. Collapsed after endless overtime. Died alone in the staff lounge.
Cecilia. Amelia.
The irony was suffocating.
She stared at that unfamiliar yet familiar face, and another vision rose unbidden—herself as a wandering spirit, forced to watch Rufus break apart in grief, whispering apologies into the darkness.
Rufus, kneeling in the wine cellar, pressing a jade pendant to his chest, repeating the same words over and over.
Those late, desperate declarations… she had seen them for what they were. A farce. A cruel theater.
He had destroyed her. And now he wept over the ghost he had made, as if tears could erase the blood on his hands.
Pathetic.
Cecilia—no, Amelia now—lifted a hand to the mirror, feeling the heat of living skin beneath her palm.
If the gods refused to let her dissolve into nothing, if they had given her this body, then she would use it.
She would live. For herself.
This life, she was Amelia. And Rufus, and the Ember family, were nothing to her now.
The next day, she signed her discharge papers and convinced Head Nurse Lisa to approve her transfer—from the grueling pace of the surgical ward to the quieter infusion hall.
She needed the job. Needed the paycheck.
She had just changed into her nurse's uniform when the building erupted in commotion.
The rapid clatter of gurney wheels echoed down the corridor, mingling with urgent voices that shattered the morning calm.
"Move! Massive blood loss—start resuscitation immediately!"
"Call the blood bank! Alert the OR now!"
A cluster of junior nurses huddled together, whispering with barely-contained excitement.
"Do you know who they just brought in?" a round-faced nurse asked, eyes wide.
"Who? This is insane—half the hospital is here, it's like a parade!"
"Who else? Rufus Chapman, CEO of the Chapman Group. Word is he slit his wrists last night at home. By the time they found him, he'd nearly bled out."
"What?" another gasped. "For love? I heard his wife died recently… I didn't think he was the type, but he was going to follow her?"
"Romantic, isn't it? Like a modern Romeo and Juliet. I mean, Mr. Chapman—cold, untouchable Mr. Chapman—turns out he loved her that much…"
Cecilia stood on the edge of the group, bile rising in her throat.
Love? Rufus? The word felt like poison.
What he had was not love—it was possession. Destruction.
He had shattered her life, and now he was trying to dress up his guilt in the costume of devotion. It was revolting.
She turned to leave, but Lisa's voice cut through the din.
"Amelia! What are you doing over there? Come here!"
Lisa, a brisk woman in her forties, was moving fast, her expression tight.
She thrust a tray into Cecilia's hands without ceremony.
"VIP patient just came out of surgery. Go change his antibiotics."
Cecilia glanced down at the chart clipped to the tray.
VIP Ward, Room 701.
Patient name: Rufus.
Her blood seemed to freeze.
She pushed the tray back toward Lisa, her voice dry. "Lisa… I'm feeling a little tightness in my chest. Could someone else…?"
Lisa frowned, touching her forehead. "No fever."
Her tone sharpened. "Amelia, you begged me for that transfer yesterday, and I gave it to you. Now I ask you to swap out some meds, and you tell me you're unwell? Don't forget how you got that post.
"Everyone's running themselves ragged right now. You're the only one standing still. What's the matter—VIP patients too hot to handle?"
Her gaze was pointed, her words edged.
"It's just changing a dressing. Go. Don't keep the patient waiting—he's not someone we can afford to offend."
Cecilia's lips parted, but no refusal came.
She had no excuse. None that would matter.
Under Lisa's unyielding stare, she took the tray back. The metal was cold against her skin, the chill seeping into her bones.
The hallway to 701 felt impossibly long, each step heavier than the last.
She pushed open the door. The air inside was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sterile bite of medicine.
The room was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.
On the bed lay Rufus.
Blue-and-white hospital stripes draped his frame. His face was drained of color, lips cracked, left wrist swaddled in gauze still stained with dark red.
It was him.
His eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed, as if even unconsciousness could not loosen the grip of pain.
Cecilia stood at the threshold, staring at the face she had once loved and hated in equal measure. Her chest tightened until breathing felt like drowning.
Thank God.
He was still asleep.
She exhaled, tension unwinding from her spine.
Forcing her hands steady, she stepped to the bedside. Just work. That was all this was.
She lowered her gaze, pulled on gloves, and began to peel away the old bandages, careful not to let her eyes stray to his face.
She reached for a fresh swab, dipped it into antiseptic.
And then a cold hand clamped around her wrist.
"Cecilia."
Rufus's voice—hoarse, thick with sleep—split the silence like a crack in glass.