For a few seconds, everything around me seemed to freeze.
Then instinct took over.
“Trauma bay two,” I ordered, my voice sharp and controlled. “Vitals. Oxygen. Call Dr. Patel.”
Marcus lay half-conscious on the stretcher, his expensive watch cracked, his shirt drenched in blood from a deep shoulder wound. Vanessa clung to a paramedic, crying dramatically, her mascara streaked down her cheeks.
“Please,” she sobbed. “He’s my brother. Save him.”
Brother.
That’s what she called him in public.
Six months earlier, I had already uncovered the truth—hotel receipts, late-night “family emergencies,” hidden messages. I had seen the way she smirked at me across the dinner table while Marcus squeezed my hand as if I were too blind to notice.
When I confronted him, he laughed.
“Don’t be dramatic, Elena,” he said. “You’d have nothing without me.”
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