Lucian's hand left her face.
The room was sharp. Lines and edges and shadows she hadn't seen in three years — all real, all at once. Isabella's breath came in short, uneven bursts. She couldn't stop blinking, like her eyes were afraid the world would blur again if she let them close too long.
He stood at the foot of the bed. Tall enough that the ceiling light caught the top of his hair. His suit looked like it had been cut specifically around his body, dark fabric without a single crease. His eyes were calm. Almost bored. Like giving someone their sight back was something he did on a Tuesday.
She was staring. She knew it. Couldn't help it.
He was the kind of beautiful that made your chest tight. Nothing warm about it. The kind that made you want to step back, except your legs wouldn't move.
He took one step toward the window.
"Do you like your gift?"
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Remember something."
His voice dropped. The room felt smaller.
"You already died once."
He looked at her over his shoulder.
"I pulled you back. That's all."
A pause.
"This time —"
The corner of his mouth lifted. Barely.
"— try not to die."
The wind blew hard through the open window. The curtain snapped sideways.
And he was gone.
He didn't walk out. He didn't use the door. He was just gone, like the room had swallowed him. The space where he'd been standing was empty. The air still smelled faintly like cold metal and something darker underneath, something she couldn't name.
Isabella stood in the middle of the bedroom for a long time.
Her heart was still racing. Her hands were still shaking. But her eyes — her eyes were wide open, and the world stayed where it was.
She lifted her hand in front of her face. Spread her fingers. Counted them. Five. She could see the lines on her palm. The dried blood from the glass shard under her thumbnail.
She walked to the hallway.
The staircase. She could see the staircase. All of it. The banister, the carpet runner, the landing at the bottom where the marble floor started.
Three years she'd gripped that railing with both hands, feeling each step with her toes before putting her weight down.
Now she could see the bottom.
She almost cried. Almost. Something hotter swallowed the tears before they got out.
---
The bathroom mirror.
Isabella gripped the edge of the sink and leaned forward.
Her own face stared back at her. She barely recognized it.
Pale and thin. The bones under her cheeks pushed out more than she remembered. Her eyes were sunken, bruised underneath from years of bad sleep and worse pills.
But the eyes themselves were clear. Alive.
She looked like someone who'd been in prison for three years and just walked out into daylight.
She turned her head.
The vanity counter.
A lipstick she'd never bought. Dark wine red. Expensive brand — she could read the label now.
Next to it, a perfume bottle. Cap off. That same sweet, thick scent she'd been smelling for months without being able to see where it came from.
Sara's perfume. Sitting on her vanity counter in her bathroom like it belonged there.
She walked back into the bedroom.
The sheets were twisted. Wrinkled in a way that one person sleeping alone doesn't make. Two pillows dented. Side by side.
Isabella's jaw tightened.
Three years. They'd been doing this for three years. In her house. In her bed. While she sat in the dark and swallowed their poison and thanked them for taking care of her.
---
She went downstairs.
Didn't touch the railing. Didn't need to. Each step was solid and certain, and she watched her own feet the whole way down just because she could.
The living room.
She stopped in the doorway.
On the sofa — a black lace dress thrown over the armrest. Red underwear crumpled beside it. Neither of them belonged to Isabella. She hadn't worn lace in years. Hadn't worn anything that wasn't a nightgown or robe since her vision went.
The coffee table. Two wine glasses. One had a lipstick print on the rim — dark pink, Sara's shade. The other was empty but not washed.
They hadn't even cleaned up.
Why would they? The blind woman upstairs couldn't see any of it. They probably laughed about it. Probably sat on this sofa with their legs tangled and joked about how easy it was.
Isabella picked up the wine glass with the lipstick stain. Held it up to the light.
Her hand was steady.
On the wall, a framed photo she'd never seen before.
She walked over and took it down.
Julian and Sara. Standing close. His arm around her waist, her head tilted toward his shoulder. Big smiles. A restaurant in the background, fancy — candles on the table, someone's champagne in the corner of the frame.
The date stamp at the bottom said eight months ago.
Eight months ago, Isabella had been lying in a dark room while Sara fed her water that tasted bitter and Julian told her the pills were helping.
She put the photo back on the wall. Carefully. Exactly where it had been.
Soon.
---
The front door opened.
Voices. Two sets of footsteps.
Isabella moved fast. Slipped into the shadow behind the staircase. Pressed her back flat against the wall. Her breathing slowed down on its own — survival instinct, something her body still remembered from three years of listening in the dark.
Julian tossed his keys onto the hallway table. Sara laughed at something he said.
They walked into the living room. Isabella could see them through the gap between the stair rails.
Sara kicked off her heels and dropped onto the sofa. Right next to her own crumpled dress. Didn't even glance at it.
"She still doesn't know, right?"
Julian loosened his tie.
"Of course not."
That laugh. She knew it. The same one that had come through the bedroom wall.
"She's a blind little cripple. What's she gonna know?"
Sara giggled. She covered her mouth with her hand like it was the funniest thing she'd heard all week.
"When I think about the insurance money — honestly, it's hilarious."
Julian's voice dropped.
"Just wait a little longer."
He sat down next to her. Close. His hand found her thigh.
"Once she's completely gone, we light it up. Clean."
Sara tilted her head.
"Tomorrow?"
A beat of silence.
"Tomorrow."
Isabella's hand was on the banister. Her knuckles had gone white. She could feel every groove in the wood pressing into her skin.
Tomorrow.
That's when she dies. That's when they kill her.
She knew this already. She'd lived through it. Burned through it. Died through it.
But hearing them say it — casually, between a laugh and a wine glass — while she stood ten feet away with eyes that could finally see their faces—
The anger was so hot it didn't feel like anger anymore. It felt like something structural inside her chest cracking open.
---
She went back upstairs.
Quietly. One step at a time. No sound.
Her bedroom. The dresser. She opened the bottom drawer and reached all the way to the back.
Her father's knife.
He'd given it to her when she turned eighteen. Self-defense, he said. Bone handle. Four-inch blade. She'd never used it. Never needed to.
She pulled it out.
The weight surprised her. Heavier than she remembered. Cold in her palm.
She closed the drawer.
Walked back out to the hallway.
Down the stairs. One step. Then another.
Below, Julian and Sara were still on the sofa. His hand was on her knee. She was showing him something on her phone, and they were both smiling.
Isabella reached the bottom of the stairs.
Her breathing was deep and slow. Her grip tightened around the handle until her knuckles ached.
She raised the knife with both hands. High. Above her head.
The blade caught the chandelier light.
And Julian looked up.