Sutton froze at the sound, withdrawing his hand.

He hurried downstairs and found Sophie’s cheeks flushed, her pallor clammy and offset by fever’s telltale sheen. “I’ll get the car. We’re heading to the hospital.”

Sutton and Norton soon had Sophie bundled into the vehicle, speeding to the ER.

Upstairs, in the dim hush of the second-floor bedroom, Limone lay sprawled on the bed, her own skin searing with heat, beads of sweat dotting her forehead in relentless succession. The whole night spun her adrift—feverish and caught in a tangle of restless, haunting dreams.

The next morning, her phone yanked her from fitful sleep with an incessant chiming. Groggy and irritated, Limone swiped at her device, only to find an onslaught of notifications flooding in from one of her apps.

Her gaze sharpened as she scrolled through the messages. They were a deluge of rage, insults, outright venom. Rage, she realized with a bitter chuckle, was a language she recognized intimately. The cause was clear: someone had leaked a video of last night’s incident—the moment she’d pushed Sophie into the water—onto the campus forums.

Sophie, of course, was the school’s darling. Cherished, untouchable. And so, righteous indignation swelled online like a tide rushing toward the shore, battering her mercilessly.

Limone’s temples throbbed, her skull filled with a cavernous ache. Fury countered fury as she launched herself into the fray, typing madly in response: an arsenal of barbed words weaponized with maternal insults and expletives sharp as knives. The forum erupted, post counts skyrocketing into the thousands. The administrator scrambled, thinking the platform had suffered a cyberattack.

Once she was spent of vitriol, she heaved the phone across the room, letting it land wherever it might. Wearily, she sank back down onto the mattress. What did it even matter? She didn’t need the Lane family’s approval anymore. Didn’t care to tether herself to their suffocating expectations. If they wanted a break, she would give it to them. No more holding her breath to please anyone.

A knock at the door interrupted the quiet. The housekeeper’s voice followed, hesitant yet insistent: “Miss Limone, you need to get up. You’ll be late for school.”

School. Of course. She’d almost forgotten. She snapped upright, suddenly alert. Escape—her ticket out of the Lane family—demanded one last act of endurance. She had to graduate, get into college, and put as much distance between herself and this place as possible.

A splash of cold water against her face steeled her resolve. She dressed quickly, pulled on her uniform, and hefted her book bag over one shoulder.

Downstairs, Sutton and Norton were returning from outside just as she descended.

Sutton’s eyes landed on her almost instinctively. Noticing the faint flush still lingering across her features, he approached without hesitation. His hand rose, intending to brush her forehead to check for fever as he’d done countless times before.

But Limone stepped back, her movements cool, deliberate. Pivoting, she left him standing there, hand suspended mid-air, while she slipped into the dining room and settled at the table. If she wanted to get better, she’d need her strength, and food was a necessity. Her eyes glinted with quiet determination as she thought of Summit University, the future she had pinned her hopes on.

Sutton’s hand lingered a moment longer before he let it drift down, fingers curling into a loose gesture of surrender.

Norton scoffed. “I’ve been saying it for years—she’s nothing but an ungrateful little brat. Healthy as an ox too. Nothing ever lays her low. Not like Soph, who’s been delicate since the day she was born. One little fall into the water, and she’s burning up with fever. Limone? She could weather a hurricane.”

Sutton said nothing. His silence, though, was agreement enough. Limone had always been sturdy, unshakable. Maybe that was the problem.

He crossed over to the dining table. “Soph’s sick,” he said, his voice firm. “At school, look after her. Make sure she’s alright until she recovers. Got it?”

He kept his gaze steady, almost challenging her to argue. In truth, he was beginning to think they’d let her run too wild, let her fall too far off course. If gentler guidance wouldn’t work, maybe discipline would.

Norton chimed in, voice dripping with disdain. “Hear that, Limone? Soph’s father saved your life, and now you’ve gone and nearly taken hers. You owe her. This is your punishment—taking care of her. It’s the least you can do.”

Head bowed, Limone’s chopsticks moved methodically, her jaw tight against the wave of nausea threatening to rise. She wasn’t hungry, not really, but there was no skipping meals. Not today. Not this close to freedom. Ninety-nine more days. Just ninety-nine.

Norton wasn’t satisfied with her silence. A sharp motion yanked the chopsticks from her grasp, forcing her to look up. “I’m talking to you! Did you leave your ears somewhere else?”

Her gaze rose sluggishly, meeting his with an unsettling quiet. Her dark eyes revealed nothing but detachment, their black-and-white starkness almost unnerving.

Norton doubled down, his tone domineering. “When Soph needs her medicine, you fetch the water. Lunchtime? You’re running to grab her meal while it’s still hot. She needs to use the bathroom? You stick by her side. Her father saved your life. You owe her everything. Understand?”

Her reply came cold, unwavering. “Understood.”

But understanding, she knew, did not require compliance.

She left the house without another word, the cool air steadying her as she tilted her head back toward the sky. Her tears threatened, but she forced them down before they could breach the surface. She thought she was past this, thought she’d shed those old scars. But Norton’s words clawed at her anyway, leaving invisible welts that stung deep and sharp.

Memory was its own cruel punishment. She recalled a time when falling ill had summoned tenderness rather than scorn. Sutton keeping vigil at her bedside through the night. Norton cracking jokes to coax a spoonful of medicine past her lips. Now Sophie’s fragility eclipsed them all, a trump card she could never compete with. Even when fire licked her veins, she was left to fend for herself.

Limone swallowed the bitterness building in her throat and climbed into the car waiting at the curb. As she leaned back and closed her eyes, she whispered to herself: Hold on. Just a little longer. Ninety-nine more days.

When she arrived at school, Limone went straight to the senior classroom.

The moment she stepped inside, the once-boisterous room fell silent.

News of her cutting tirades on the campus forum had spread like wildfire. Whispers lingered, questions hung in the air.

“Has Limone gone mad?”

“What could’ve pushed her over the edge? Completely self-destructing now?”

“I bet she finally gave up pretending. This must be her true self.”

The hum of muted voices buzzed around her, but Limone ignored all of it. She dropped her bag onto her desk, rested her head on her arms, and prepared to sleep.

For the entire morning, she didn’t lift her head once.

At lunch, Sophie appeared in the doorway of the classroom. An IV drip was still taped to her hand, and her delicate, frail presence immediately earned her classmates’ sympathy and concern.

Limone, irritated, shifted her position and pretended to sleep deeper.

It wasn’t long before someone slammed a palm against her desk—a deliberate act to wake her.

Reluctantly, she raised her head. Her eyes, clear and sharp, carried a flicker of annoyance, her patience already on thin ice.

Standing in front of her was Sophie, flanked by her usual duo of lackeys, who both wore scowls of disdain.

Limone narrowed her eyes. Ah, them again.

These two weren’t strangers to concocting rumors, ganging up, or reporting her to her brother with forged claims. They were part and parcel of Sophie’s coterie—loyal stooges trained for petty cruelty.

Sophie’s meek voice broke the tension. “Limone, what do you want for lunch? I can bring it for you. Please don’t be mad at me anymore, alright?”

Limone’s reply was measured, void of warmth. “That won’t be necessary.”

The first lackey’s temper flared. “Limone, don’t be such an ungrateful brat! Sophie’s a patient herself, you know!”

“That’s right,” chimed in the second. “You should be the one taking care of Sophie while she’s at school. It’s because of you that she’s sick in the first place!”

Sophie coughed—soft, deliberate. “Don’t say that. I can handle myself. I’ve always been on my own. Don’t make her upset on my account.”

“Sophie, you’re too kind for your own good! That’s exactly why she’s been able to bully you like this!”

Enough of this, Limone thought with growing irritation. She stood, ready to leave the classroom altogether.

As soon as she stepped out, Sophie rushed forward dramatically. The movement tipped the IV stand over, which crashed to the ground, the glass shattering. Sophie herself landed squarely on the broken shards.

It was all so... coincidental—a coincidence so absurd it bordered on scripted farce.

Chaos filled the room. Voices rose, frantic and accusing, each adding to the crescendo pounding against Limone’s temples.

She opened her mouth to say something, but before the words could form, darkness descended. Her body gave out, and she collapsed.

When Limone came to, the sharp tang of disinfectant filled her nose.

This must be the school’s infirmary.

“Fever of 102.2. You held on this long—what’s the plan, cook yourself alive?”

Turning her head, she saw a man in a white coat, his figure tall and lean. A mask obscured the lower half of his face, but his gaze was sharp, cool as frost.

She remembered him now—the newly hired school doctor who’d quickly become the campus heartthrob. His looks attracted plenty of admiration, but his blunt tongue ensured admirers kept their distance.

It was said he hadn’t been employed long before rumors of his acerbic personality drove him away from his last post.

Limone sat up, her body finally feeling somewhat lighter. The IV drip must’ve done its job.

Without meeting his eyes, she muttered, “I’m good to leave now, right?”

“Not until someone comes to get you. If you die in the hallway, I’m not sticking around to deal with the paperwork.”

Reclined in a nearby chair, Charles Johnson—his ID badge hung loosely on his chest—spoke with a casual indifference that only heightened his air of aloof authority.

Figures, thought Limone. Why expect anything different from the infamous sharp-tongued doctor?

“My family’s dead,” she rasped, voice strained from exhaustion.

Before he could respond, a commotion erupted outside the infirmary door. Norton’s voice boomed, filled with panic. “Sophie, are you alright? How did you get hurt so badly?”

From the equally loud reply, Sophie’s trademark fragility filtered through. “Norton, it’s just a little scrape. Don’t blame Limone for it. It wasn’t on purpose. I’m the one who was clumsy. I must’ve bumped the IV stand by accident.”

“Not true!” one of the lackeys interjected, quick to pile on. “Sophie volunteered to get lunch for Limone, and she said no. Then, out of spite, she tripped Sophie. We all saw it!”

“Yes!” the second lackey added with zeal. “Poor Sophie is sick and still thinking of others, and Limone repays her by pushing her down! She’s despicable!”

The rising tide of Norton’s anger was almost audible. It caught flame with terrifying speed.

“Where’s Limone? Get out here right now!” His tone was barely constrained, every word drenched with rage. “How dare you let Sophie run errands for you? You’re lucky her father didn’t just leave you to die in that crash years ago! You’ve done nothing but torment his daughter ever since!”

At those words, Limone’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. Well, there it was. Just like last time. For Sophie, words became truth, accusations became commandments.

A second later, the curtain beside her bed was yanked aside with force.

Norton froze at the sight before him. Pale as a ghost, her lips chapped and dry, Limone’s fragile state hit him like a punch to the chest.

“L-Limone...”

His voice faltered, the anger choked out by guilt. Whatever he meant to say next caught in his throat, refusing to surface.