Chapter 5: Homecoming
1947 Words
- SERAPHINE
The woman staring back at me in the mirror had my eyes, but the rest of her was a different woman.
She was pale, with dark, bruised circles under her eyes, and her hair lay limp across the pillow. A thin, silvery scar curved over my left eyebrow, and a deeper, redder one slashed down my cheek.
The rest of my face had more cuts and bruises. My facial skin didn’t look like mine.
The nurse came in with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. She began cleaning my face with gentle and practised movements.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”
I leaned into the warm cloth, closing my eyes. For a moment, I could almost forget the stranger in the mirror.
When she was done, she helped me sit up. The world tilted for a second before settling back into place.
I glanced at the mirror again.
"This was… so wrong," I whispered. “What did you do to me?”
Her hands stiffened for a fraction of a second. “Your face was badly injured because of the accident,” she said carefully. “We had to go through a series of procedures. Reconstruction was necessary. The glasses… they didn't leave much to work with.”
I believed that the flying glass shards from the accident might cut my face up pretty badly.
“It doesn't look like me,” I said.
“You’re healing,” she replied. “The swelling will go down. You’ll look more like yourself in a few weeks.”
She left me alone again then.
I felt a sudden wave of nausea, so strong I thought I might be sick.
Killing my family wasn't enough for them. They wanted to erase every trace of the girl who had survived.
When Aiden and Marielle came later, I didn't play nice. I held the mirror up. “What happened to my face?”
His eyes flickered as he stared at me after the bandage was removed.
“You were in critical condition,” he said. “We had to make choices. It was about saving your life.”
I smiled, and it felt like my skin might snap. It was a bitter, ugly expression.
Marielle stepped in quickly, her voice a soothing poison. “You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
I looked at her icily, tracing the lines on my face that didn't belong to me. Who were they trying to turn me into? Why did it feel like I wasn't being healed, but replaced?
The silence was a relief when they left until a stranger broke it. He walked in like he owned the place. He didn't have the fake, grieving smile Aiden wore. He just looked... tired and dangerous.
"Declan Varellian," he said, skipping the pleasantries. "Family friend. Though your husband probably didn't put me on the visitor list."
He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning my bruised face. "They say you can't remember the crash. They say you have memory loss. Is that true?"
I stayed silent, my heart slamming against my ribs. Who the hell was he? I scoured my memory, but he was a total stranger. I didn't recognize him at all.
He watched me for a beat, his eyes searching mine for a flicker of recognition. "Tell me about the accident, Seraphine. And tell me the truth. Do you remember me?"
He paused and then continued, "We met last month. The night before your wedding. You told me you were making a mistake. Do you remember what we talked about last month, before you threw your life away on Aiden Griffiths?"
My pulse spiked as I felt the dangerous energy coming off him. This man wasn't a friend—he was a complication I couldn't handle.
"I don't know who you are," I said, my fingers curling into the hospital sheets. "I don't remember any of that. I don't know what you're talking about. You're scaring me. Please... just leave me alone."
Declan let out a short, dry breath. He leaned over the bed rail, his shadow stretching over me like a shroud.
"Fear is a good survival instinct, Seraphine," he whispered menacingly, locking his gaze to mine. "But it’s a terrible way to live. If I didn't know you better, I’d almost believe you."
He straightened his suit jacket, checking his watch with a bored flick of his wrist. "I’ll leave you to your 'recovery.' But remember this: Aiden and Marielle aren't the only ones watching you. I'm watching over you. When you realize which one is more dangerous, I'll make sure you know where to find me."
He didn't look back as the door clicked shut, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a terrifying new reality. Is he a true friend or just another enemy with a better suit?
Every instinct I had about him was screaming danger. Trusting him felt like jumping off another cliff, but staying here with Aiden and Marielle felt like drowning.
The next day, the papers were signed for my release.
“The medical release form is ready,” he said. “Your friend has arranged for a private nurse.”
My blood went cold.
“You don’t have to sign,” he added quietly.
I gave in, because staying in this bed, waiting for them to make the next move, was worse than walking into the fire myself. At least in the fire, I could fight back.
They didn’t waste a minute.
Marielle arrived with a wheelchair and a woman who looked like she’d never smiled in her life. She must be the private nurse that Dr. Ezra mentioned earlier.
The nurse, a stern-faced woman with her hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful.
“This is Lorraine,” Marielle said. “Your private nurse.”
Lorraine’s eyes were hard and flat. She didn't greet me; she just checked the wheelchair's straps.
“Let’s get you home, Sweetie,” Marielle murmured.
She insisted on waiting until the doctor signed off every form, every checklist, every neat little box that said I was stable enough to leave.
She hovered the whole time, one hand always on the wheelchair, the other on my shoulder like I might drift away if she didn’t keep contact. Anyone watching would’ve thought she was the picture of a caring friend.
“Careful,” she murmured as Lorraine adjusted the footrests. “She still gets dizzy.”
I studied Marielle standing beside me. She was still wearing a mask, but this time without sunglasses.
She wore a soft beige coat that looked expensive without being overdone. Her hair was neatly slicked back, her makeup minimal, her eyes slightly red as if she had been crying, just enough to look very convincing.
“We’ll get you settled,” Marielle said with concern. “You need a long rest.”
She was waiting by the car when we got downstairs. She took my arm gently.
“It’s good to have you back,” she said. “Ready to go home?”
I nodded anyway, because it was safe and kept me breathing.
The nurse handed her a paper bag. “Her medication is all here. Strict schedule. Don’t skip doses.”
“Of course,” Marielle said smoothly. “We’ll take good care of her.”
She squeezed my hand. “We always do.”
I swallowed.
They wheeled me through the automatic doors as winter air brushed my face.
Christmas decorations hung at the hospital entrance—expensive wreaths, red bows, lights already blinking even though it was barely afternoon.
People walked by with coffee cups and phones and normal lives.
I wanted to scream at the strangers walking by. Help me. I’m being kidnapped in broad daylight. But I stayed silent.
I let them guide me to a sleek black sedan with tinted windows—my father’s favorite car, other than the one Aiden was driving on the night of the tragedy. It looked like a hearse waiting to take me to the cemetery.
I hesitated.
Marielle’s grip tightened on my arm. “Let’s go home, Sweetie.”
Finally, I let her guide me.
The ride was quiet. Lorraine sat in the front, while Marielle sat beside me in the backseat.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past in a haze of grey and neon. It felt as if I were watching someone else's life, a movie I’d walked into halfway through.
Outside, the streets were starting to transform; tinsel was wrapped around lampposts, and shop windows were glowing with fake snow.
Christmas was just around the corner, but the festive lights felt mocking.
Everyone else was heading for a season of joy; I was being driven toward a gilded cage.
“Here we are,” Marielle said as the car slowed.
My chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe. The massive wrought-iron gates of the Wynther Estate swung open slowly, revealing a sprawling mansion with perfectly manicured lawns. The house was exactly as I remembered—tall, imposing, and glowing with warm holiday lights that hid the rot inside.
I stared at the house as the car rolled up the driveway.
It was my house, the Wynther Estate.
Warm lights glowed behind tall windows. Garland wrapped around the columns. Snow dusted the hedges just enough to look magical.
It was everything I remembered.
It was beautiful, evoking my childhood memories of being surrounded by the warmth of a truly wonderful family.
And soon, it would be my prison, and eventually, my burial site.
My family was gone. Every room in that house would be haunted. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, desperate to hold back the tears in front of them.
Aiden was waiting on the steps. He rushed down, wearing that same fake, gentle smile. “Welcome home.”
“It’s… beautiful,” I lied through my gritted teeth, because that’s what I should say when I didn’t know what else to do.
Marielle followed us inside. “It will be your home from now on,” she said. "I promise we'll take care of you."
I frowned, looking at the towering ceilings. “Didn’t I... live somewhere else? My own place? Shouldn't I go there?”
Aiden’s smile faltered for just half a second before snapping back into place.
“This will be your place,” he said softly, like he was explaining something fragile to a child. “The doctor stated clearly that we must keep you somewhere familiar to help your memory settle and reduce stress.”
“You wouldn’t want to be bouncing between places while your memories are still unstable,” he continued smoothly with a faint smile. “And besides, this house has always been meant to be part of your life. What matters is that you’re safe.”
Marielle stepped closer, nodding eagerly. “You’ve been through so much. And besides, your apartment in the city is under renovation right now. It had massive water damage from the storm, remember?” She sighed, eyes glistening with fake tears. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you with that.”
I blinked, my mind racing. Of course, I didn't remember having an apartment in the city or the story about the storm. But as I looked at the two of them standing under the mistletoe, I realized something far more terrifying.
They’d been playing me for a fool for a long time. This betrayal didn't happen overnight. How long had I been swallowing their lies before they finally decided to pull the trigger?
- Writer
