Chapter 2

Layla’s POV

When I woke up, the hospital ceiling was blindingly white.

A nurse stepped in to adjust my IV, mentioning that my academic advisor had found me and covered the initial emergency bill.

"It wasn't... Dylan Sterling?" I whispered.

The nurse shook her head silently.

I grabbed my phone. The campus group chats were blowing up with hundreds of notifications.

At the very top of the feed was a photo posted by Chloe: two hands intertwined, fingers locked tight. On the webbing of the guy's thumb were two small, distinctive moles.

Off the market. ❤️" he caption read.

I stared at those two moles for a long time.

Dylan had those exact marks on his hand.

My brain couldn't process it.

I had only fainted outside an exam room. I had only spent one night in a hospital bed. How could my entire world turn upside down overnight?

I dialed Dylan's number.

The party you have dialed is currently busy.

I dialed again. Busy.

I switched to an alternate burner number. It rang once before clicking abruptly into silence.

He had blocked me.

Before I could breathe, my phone rang again. It was our housekeeper.

"Miss Layla, something terrible happened at the house," she whispered frantically. "Your father brought two women home. He says they’re moving in permanently."

I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and sprinted out of the hospital.

When I threw open the front door of our family villa, two women were already sitting comfortably in the living room.

Chloe sat on the sofa. Beside her sat a middle-aged woman—Melinda.

My father, Harrison Vance, stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me.

"Dad," my voice shook violently. "What is the meaning of this?"

He turned around, completely expressionless.

"Chloe is your older half-sister. Melinda is her mother. Starting today, they live here."

"Half-sister?" A bitter, hysterical laugh broke from my throat, tears welling in my eyes. "My mother is dying in a cardiac care unit, and you bring your mistress and her bastard into our home?"

Harrison’s face darkened instantly.

"Watch your tongue!" he snapped, lowering his voice into a vicious hiss. "Who do you think pays for your mother's cardiac treatments? Cause one more scene, and I cut off her medication tomorrow."

My mouth opened, but not a single sound came out.

My mother's life was gripped tightly in his fist.

I didn't dare fight back.

Chloe stood up, took me by the wrist, and dragged me out toward the backyard garden.

"Layla," she smiled, her voice dripping with venom. "I took my mom's last name, but I’m Harrison Vance's firstborn daughter. I’m five months older than you. Half of everything you’ve ever owned belonged to me from the start."

She leaned in, whispering directly into my ear: "Except I don't just want half. I want everything."

Snapping, I raised my hand and slapped Chloe across the face with everything I had.

Chloe froze for a second, then lunged forward, clawing at my hair.

We crashed through the patio and into the garden, knocking over the heavy stone planter by the pool.

Terracotta shattered against the flagstones. Jagged shards slashed through our bare arms and legs, drawing instant crimson lines.

A long, deep cut tore across my forearm, warm blood dripping from my fingertips.

Chloe’s temple took a hit, blood smearing half her forehead.

The screech of tires cut through the air. Dylan’s car slid to a halt at the gate, and he sprinted in.

Without hesitation, he shoved me aside with brute force.

My back slammed violently against the stone pool ledge, pain radiating down my spine until I went numb.

He didn't look at me. He dropped to his knees and swept Chloe gently into his arms.

"You're okay now," he murmured, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. "I’m taking you to the ER."

I sat on the cold stone, staring up at him through blurred vision.

"She is your sister," Dylan looked down at me, his eyes colder than winter frost. "How could you be so vicious?"

My father and Melinda rushed outside, crowding around Chloe, frantically fussing over her scratches and asking if she was in pain.

Not a single person looked back at me, bleeding onto the pool deck.

Suddenly, I began to laugh.

The laugh turned into silent, scalding tears.

When the sirens faded and the driveway emptied, I was left alone in the dirt.

I dragged myself up, pulled out my phone, and searched for a contact I had saved months ago.

It was the program director from an elite overseas university’s finance department whom I had met during a global academic summit last summer.

The call connected.

"Professor, it's Layla Vance," I said, my voice shockingly steady. "I’d like to accept the direct admission offer. Is it still open?"