---- Chapter 7 Khloe Rojas POV: | woke up to a searing pain in my chest and a terrifying silence where my voice should have been. | tried to call out, to ask what happened, but no sound came out. Nothing but a painful, airy hiss. My hand flew to my throat, my fingers brushing against a thick layer of gauze and bandages. Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. | thrashed in the hospital bed, my eyes wide with terror. The door opened and Julian walked in. He looked tired, but his expression was not one of concern. It was one of grim satisfaction. "You're awake," he said, his voice flat. | stared at him, my eyes begging for an explanation. | pointed frantically at my throat. "Ah, that," he said, with a casual wave of his hand. "There were... complications. The knife nicked an artery, but the real damage was from the fall. You crushed your larynx. Helena, on the other hand, was so distraught by the whole ordeal that she screamed herself hoarse. Damaged her vocal cords. Terribly." ---- He paused, letting the silence stretch, his eyes watching me with a cold, clinical detachment. "She's a singer, you know," he continued. "Her voice is her career. Her life. The doctors said the damage was permanent." He looked at me, a flicker of something dark and triumphant in his eyes. "But luckily, you were a perfect match. Your vocal cords were pristine. A transplant was the only option to save her career." The world tilted and went gray. He couldn't mean... he couldn't have... "Don't look at me like that," he said, misinterpreting my horror for anger. "I'm not a monster. I'll even postpone the divorce for a year. Consider it... compensation. You can remain Mrs. Gallegos on paper a little longer. No one has to know you're now a mute." | stared at him, my mind unable to process the sheer monstrosity of his actions. He had stolen my voice. He had carved a piece of me out and given it to another woman as a gift. And he was offering to let me keep his name for another year as payment. The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of it was so absurd, it broke through my shock. My body started to shake with silent, convulsive laughter. Tears streamed down my face, but | made no sound. | was a living, breathing silent movie of a woman breaking apart. ---- |, Khloe Rojas, a renowned architect whose career depended on presenting to clients, on negotiating with contractors, on commanding a room with my voice, was now mute. He hadn't just taken my voice; he had taken my future, my profession, my identity. The laughter died in my throat, leaving a raw, gaping wound. My tears dried. | wiped my face with the back of my hand, my movements slow and deliberate. | reached for my phone on the bedside table and typed a message, my thumbs moving with a steady, furious calm. | turned the screen to him. | want the divorce now. And | want half. Half of everything. The company, the properties, the stock portfolio. Half. The flicker of pity in his eyes vanished, replaced by the familiar disgust. "Greedy to the very end, aren't you?" he sneered. "Fine. You'll get your money. Anything to be rid of you." He had his lawyers draw up the papers immediately. He stood over my hospital bed, impatiently waiting for me to sign. | took the pen, my hand not shaking in the slightest, and signed away the last nine years of my life. The moment | was done, a nurse popped her head in. "Mr. Gallegos? Ms. Castro is asking for you." He didn't even say goodbye. He dropped the papers on my bed and walked out without a backward glance, leaving me in the ---- silent, sterile room with the ghost of my voice and the crushing weight of his final, ultimate betrayal. "Don't forget," he said, pausing at the door, "you owe me for her medical bills. I'll have my accountant deduct it from your settlement." The tears | had been holding back refused to fall. | was beyond tears. | was in a place so deep and dark that human emotions couldn't reach me. But as | lay there, a tiny, cold spark ignited in the darkness. It was the spark of survival. The first thing | did after he left was use my newfound fortune to schedule a consultation with the world's leading expert in synthetic vocal cord transplants. It was a risky, experimental procedure, but it was my only hope. The surgery was a success. The doctor warned me that recovery would be long and arduous. For months, | would have to be completely silent, communicating only through writing, allowing the delicate new tissue to heal. "But in a year," he said, his eyes kind, "if you are careful, you may be able to speak again. Maybe even sing." A year. It felt like a lifetime, but it was a lifetime | was willing to wait for. It was time to plan. Time to heal. And time to make sure that by the time | got my voice back, Julian Gallegos would have nothing left but regret. My revenge would not be loud and bombastic. It would be silent, patient, and absolute.