Her eyes flew open, but everything was a hazy blur, like peering through fogged glass on a rainy morning. She tried to shift her body, but a razor-sharp pain sliced through her neck, pinning her in place. Turning her head even an inch felt impossible, as if invisible chains held her down. Her throat burned like she'd swallowed hot coals; no words could escape, just a weak, raspy wheeze. Panic bubbled up inside her—
'What happened? Didn't I die?'
The memory crashed over her like a wave: tying the rough sheets around her neck, the fabric biting into her skin, and then letting go, her legs dangling in the void. She'd failed her children, failed everything, and the thought of it had been too much to bear in this cruel world. Silent tears traced hot paths down her cheeks, but she couldn't sob, couldn't scream. The pain was everywhere, a throbbing ache that blurred the line between body and soul. Was it day or night? The room's light was dim, filtered through heavy curtains that cast long shadows across unfamiliar walls, leaving her disoriented in a sea of gray.
"Oh, thank God, Amy, you're okay,"
came a voice, soft and trembling with relief. It was Rachel, her tone like a lifeline pulling Amy from the depths. Rachel's face swam into view, her eyes wide with a mix of joy and exhaustion, her dark braids tied back in a messy bun spoke of sleepless nights. Amy strained to open her eyes wider; the effort felt like lifting weights with her eyelids. Finally, they fluttered open fully, revealing a crowd of concerned faces hovering around her bed like guardians in a dimly lit chamber. There were twelve pairs of eyes locked on her—some teary, some stern, all intense. The room smelled of antiseptic and faint lavender from a diffuser in the corner.
"How do you feel?"
That was Tony, his voice steady but edged with worry. Amy's gaze drifted to his right hand, wrapped in thick white bandages, cradled gingerly in his left. His fingers poked out, swollen and bruised, like overripe fruit ready to burst. He noticed her staring and gave a small, wry smile, holding it up slightly as if it were a badge of honour.
"Thank you for coming back to us."
Doctor Chidi added, his white coat crisp against the muted tones of the bedroom. He adjusted his glasses, his expression one of professional relief, but his eyes held the weight of what could have been a tragedy.
"Miss, thank God you're okay."
The butler chimed in, his formal tone cracking just a bit, revealing the human beneath the starched uniform. He stood tall, his hair neatly combed, but his hands fidgeted at his sides.
"Mis-s-"
A hiccup interrupted one of the female helpers, her face familiar but her name a persistent fog in Amy's mind. Tears streamed down the young woman's cheeks, her sobs loud and puppy-like, echoing off the high ceilings. She clutched a tissue, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The noise drilled into Amy's skull, amplifying her growing headache. The butler gently took her arm, murmuring something soothing as he led her out of the room, her cries fading down the hallway like a retreating storm. Just then, the room fell into a hushed silence, the air thickening with anticipation. Everyone stepped back, parting like a curtain to reveal him—the most ethereal human being Amy had ever laid eyes on. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting, his presence commanding the space without a word. She could blame the fuzziness clouding her mind, the remnants of whatever drugs they'd given her, but this man was the epitome of beauty. His twisted, long hair cascaded over his gorgeous face, framing high cheekbones and eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies. When his lips parted in a subtle smile, his teeth gleamed white and straight, perfect as polished pearls. His undercut was impeccably neat, adding an edge to his otherwise ethereal vibe. From his proportions, he had a slim, athletic build that exuded quiet power, and God, the way he walked—it screamed pure, unadulterated sex appeal. Each step was fluid, like a predator in human form, his fitted shirt hugging his torso just enough to hint at the muscles beneath. Amy had to stop herself. Why was her mind drifting to sex when she saw him? Even in this battered state, her body betrayed her, a frenzy of heat building low in her belly. She couldn't tear her eyes away. The others had quietly filed out, leaving just the two of them in the room, the door clicking shut with a soft finality. His scent filled the air immediately—fresh mangoes and ripe papayas, sweet and tropical and the underlying scent of cedarwood, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. It felt familiar, tugging at some buried memory she couldn't quite grasp. He sat beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, and his scent intensified, wafting effortlessly into her nostrils. It was driving her insane, being this close. Her fingers gripped the sheets as tightly as she could manage, knuckles turning white as she fought the unwelcome arousal. He smiled at her then, flashing those perfect pearly whites, and her whole body temperature skyrocketed, a flush creeping up her neck despite the pain.
"Are you okay?"
He asked, his voice smooth as silk, laced with genuine concern. He raised a hand and gently touched her forehead, his face inching closer as he bent down to check her temperature. His breath was warm against her skin, carrying that intoxicating fruity scent.
"You feel so hot. Hold on; I'll call the doctor."
He said, starting to pull away. But Amy, acting on pure instinct, grabbed his hand quickly, her fingers wrapping around his with surprising strength despite her weakness. He looked down at her, confusion flickering in those mesmerising eyes, before he slowly settled back down. She slowly shook her head side to side, wincing at the sharp pain in her neck, but she didn't let go. He smiled again, warmly this time, and her insides twisted into knots, a squirmish heat spreading through her.
"You scared me, you know" he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles as he grabbed her hands in return.
"Don't do this again. Do you know how badly everyone was worried about you? Nobody ate at all, running around trying to care for you. Tony hurt his hands, trying to bring you back to life. He wanted to be a surgeon but can't be one now due to his injuries, but still, he never gave up on you. And now he's proudly wearing his cast everywhere, telling everyone how he saved your life—like it's his greatest achievement."
His words hit her like a gentle wave, stirring the guilt she'd been drowning in.
"I know you feel sad because of what happened," he continued, his gaze steady and kind,
"But do you think your children, if they were still here, would be happy seeing you so miserable? What happened to them was not your fault. No one could have ever predicted that this would happen. Instead of taking your life, why not make the people who did this to you suffer? Why would you die instead of them? Wasn't it all their fault? Get well, eat good food, and take back all you lost because of them. I am willing to help. Use me."
He looked right through her, his eyes piercing with sincerity, and she felt a warmth spread over her entire body, chasing away some of the chill of despair. But who was he? And why was he helping her?
The questions swirled in her mind, unspoken.
"Get well soon, and I'll tell you why I'm doing all this,"
He said, as if reading her thoughts.
"I'm sure you're curious about that."
How did he know? Did he read her mind?
She could only stare at him, transfixed. He bent down then, his lips brushing close to her ear, and whispered softly,
"I'll be waiting for you."
He withdrew, giving her one last lingering look before gently ruffling her hair, his fingers lingering just a second too long. Then he stood and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor. Amy lay there, frozen solid on the bed, her insides churning in a weird, electric storm. The hairs on the back of her neck and arms stood on end, and she could feel herself burning up from the inside out. But he was right; she needed to hear that it wasn't her fault. She needed someone to console her, to remind her that her life was worth living. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks, but these were different—cathartic, almost healing. She couldn't believe these people, who weren't her family but total strangers, had gone through so much trouble for her. The guilt gnawed at her, making her feel foolish for what she'd done. She'd even caused Tony to give up on his dreams.
But as much as these strangers comforted her, they also made her uncomfortable—she wasn't used to such kindness, especially from him. He made her body react in ways she never imagined, sparking desires she didn't understand. But then her thoughts shifted to her husband and his family. Were they even looking for her? The burial site of her children was out of town, far from where her husband would have chosen. He would never have buried them there; it had to mean something sinister. She almost kicked herself for trying to die while so much remained unresolved—a huge misunderstanding surrounding her and the kids. It was the least she could do before leaving this world: clear her name and theirs, find those women who lied against her, and set the record straight. She needed evidence that she'd been set up. A new wave of determination surged through her, renewing her spirit. She had to see and speak with her husband, explain everything. He needed to know she'd been faithful since their courting days, that she'd never strayed. He needed to get revenge for their children, who had passed unfairly.
The doctor returned shortly after, his footsteps measured and calm as he approached the bed to check her injuries. The red mark from the noose encircled her neck like an ugly, jagged bracelet, raw and inflamed against her skin. He examined it carefully, his fingers cool and clinical, then sighed with visible relief.
"Thankfully, nothing is broken."
He said, his voice reassuring.
"But I'm afraid the noose has left a scar around your neck. It might fade over time, but it'll be there. Soon, you'd be able to eat and talk without so much pain."
Amy nodded carefully, the movement still sending twinges through her muscles. He adjusted the IV drip, injecting a clear medication that promised relief from the throbbing ache.
"This should help with the pain," he explained, patting her arm gently before leaving. She became religious about her medications after that, cooperative in ways she hadn't been before. Speech therapy sessions were as gruelling as she remembered—repeating simple sounds while a therapist massaged her throat, but she pushed through.
Few Days Later
Soon, she could move around by herself, the pain dulling to a manageable hum. The house felt less like a prison and more like a sanctuary, with its high ceilings, polished wooden floors, and sunlight streaming through tall windows during the day. Somehow, she found herself expecting to see that handsome man again, his image lingering in her thoughts like a persistent melody. But she pinched herself every time, reminding herself she was still a married woman, no matter the circumstances. She shouldn't be thinking of another man like that. Determined, she pushed those thoughts to the far corners of her mind. Instead, she focused on planning—how to speak with her husband. She wasn't allowed to leave the house alone; Tony and Rachel had to accompany her, their presence a constant, protective shadow.
"So, how do you plan on reaching out to your husband?"
Rachel asked one afternoon, sitting on a plush chair beside Amy's bed. She was peeling oranges, the citrus scent bursting into the air with each slice of the knife, juice dripping onto a small plate. Amy was sitting up now, propped against pillows, the bedsheets crisp and white around her.
"I need to talk to him," Amy replied, her voice still hoarse but stronger, though she sounded distracted, her eyes staring at the intricate patterns on the painting Rachel had gifted her on her recovery.
"And how do you plan on doing that?" Rachel pressed gently, handing over a peeled orange segment. Amy took it absentmindedly, nearly nicking her finger on the knife Rachel held. Rachel quickly withdrew it, her reflexes sharp, but she said nothing, sensing the turmoil brewing in Amy's mind. She waited patiently, the only sound the soft rustling of fruit skins hitting the plate. Amy ate the orange listlessly, the tangy juice exploding on her tongue but doing little to pull her from her thoughts. It was like her mind was in another dimension, replaying the horrors and what-ifs. After a long silence, she turned to Rachel, her eyes filled with distress.
"How is Tony's injury?" Her voice was laced with worry, cracking slightly. She hadn't seen him since waking up, and the absence gnawed at her. She knew of his dreams to become a surgeon; this must have shattered him. It's probably why he wasn't visiting. A knot tightened in her heart. From a young age, after losing her parents, she'd learned to be a people-pleaser, bending over backward to avoid conflict, even if it meant others took advantage. She just wanted a simple life—no one pissed off, no one pissing her off. It especially bothered her when people she cared about were mad or distant. She'd come to see Rachel and Tony as family, their bond forged in tragedy. She'd grown close to Rachel after the event, sharing quiet moments of vulnerability, though they kept it professional around others. To Amy's surprise, Rachel laughed softly once she pieced it together, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She scooted her chair closer, leaning in to whisper,
"Tony had to go back home. Our grandmother took a fall while she was taking clothes off the rail during a rainstorm. She wasn't careful and slipped on the wet ground." Alarm bells rang in Amy's head. She suddenly became animated, grabbing Rachel's hand tightly without realising, her nails digging in slightly.
"Ow! Easy," Rachel said, wincing but smiling, gently prying Amy's fingers loose. Amy released her immediately, eyes wide.
"Oh my God! Is she okay?" she yelled, her voice echoing a bit too loudly in the quiet room. Rachel dropped the knife and clapped a hand over Amy's mouth, her index finger pressing to her lips in a universal 'shh' gesture. Amy nodded, whispering apologies as Rachel stood and peeked out the door, scanning the hallway for eavesdroppers. Satisfied, she returned and whispered back.
"Yes, she's alright. She only sprained her wrist. So Tony's gone back to help take care of her." Relief washed over Amy, but concern lingered.
"But why is your grandmother alone? Don't you have anyone to help keep an eye on her, just in case?" Rachel picked up an apple next, starting to peel the skin off carefully—Amy didn't like eating it with the skin. The knife glided smoothly, curls of red skin falling away.
"Tony and I lived with our grandmother before we came here. It's hard getting a job these days, so when this opportunity popped up, we had to grab it. We didn't mean any ill intentions, but we figured as siblings working in the same place, our employer might feel uneasy about it and either hire one of us or none at all. So we applied separately. At the time, we couldn't afford to get someone to look after Grandma in our absence, so we usually took turns travelling down to see her when the boss gave permission."
"So that's why we're whispering," Amy realised, piecing it together.
"You don't want anyone knowing about your relationship with Tony." Rachel nodded, still smiling reassuringly as she saw the worry etched on Amy's face.
"Tony's wrists are fine. His tendons were overworked and swollen, but they've come down now. Don't worry too much."
"How can I not worry? I ruined his dreams," Amy said, her voice trembling, guilt twisting like a knife in her gut.
"Stop saying that—you didn't ruin his dreams," Rachel countered firmly but kindly. "Instead, you revitalised them. Honestly, Tony only got into this job for the money. Being a surgeon would pay him more than anything; that was his whole mindset. He belittled nursing, thought it was just meager and ordinary, paying less. But he said for the first time, he felt genuinely proud of himself. The rush of saving someone's life was worth more than any amount of money. Even he couldn't believe he was saying that—money always took priority for him on the job. But it was dull for him. I know it's unfortunate to say this, but thanks to you, I think he's found the true meaning and passion this job holds for him. He's no longer going through the motions; he even takes the initiative to study and practice more often. So, although he can't do surgery anymore, he can do other things that bring him genuine happiness." She reached out and held Amy's hand when she saw the worry persisting, her touch warm and steady.
"Don't worry about him. He's in his happiest times right now. Once he's back, he'll come running here immediately. The man has been bragging about how he saved your life to anyone who'll listen. Everyone's tired of hearing it at this point." Rachel chuckled, the sound light and infectious, easing the tension in the room. Amy managed a small smile, the weight on her chest lifting just a fraction as she squeezed Rachel's hand back, grateful for the unexpected family she'd found in this strange place.