Chapter 5

Harper's POV

Leaning against the corridor walls, I hopped on one foot out the venue doors, hailed a cab in the freezing wind, and returned to the villa alone.

The short hundred-foot walk from the front gate to the second-floor guest room took me a full twenty minutes. By the time I collapsed onto the rug beside the bed, my right ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. Deep purple bruising bloomed beneath the skin, jammed tight against the collar of my sneaker. The slightest brush sent a jolt of agony through my spine.

The house was dead silent, save for my ragged breathing.

Wiping cold sweat from my forehead, I reached into the first-aid kit with my left hand, pulled out a pair of curved medical scissors, and slid the blade against my swollen skin, slicing through the canvas sneaker and the sweat-soaked sock beneath.

My shining, distorted ankle was exposed to the air, the swelling extending all the way across the bridge of my foot. Just as I finished disinfecting the glass cuts on my left hand, the low rumble of a Rolls-Royce engine dying down drifted up from the courtyard below.

It was already two in the morning.

I assumed Ethan would head straight to the master bedroom to sleep. Instead, the heavy thud of leather soles ascended the stairs, stopping directly outside my door.

With a soft click, the door swung open.

I looked up. Ethan stood in the doorway, smelling faintly of alcohol, his collar unbuttoned, his sharp features shadowed with exhaustion.

Glancing at the shredded shoe on the floor, then at my grotesque ankle, an awkward flicker crossed his eyes. He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out an unboxed tube of dark green ointment printed only with German lettering, and set it on my nightstand.

"Chloe heard you twisted your ankle. She had someone bring this back from abroad specifically for you." He looked down at me, his voice distant and cool. "Put it on before bed. We have shoots tomorrow, don't hold up production."

My lashes remained lowered. I didn't even glance at the tube.

I stayed silent. Ethan lingered at the door for a moment, his jaw tightening, before turning and pulling the door shut without another word.

I stared at the dark green aluminum tube, cold mockery welling in my eyes. Chloe sending me miracle medicine out of the goodness of her heart? It was just another act. I flicked the tube into the corner of the drawer with my finger and pulled up the blanket to sleep.

To my surprise, at seven the next morning, my door was pushed open once more.

Ethan, who was supposed to be heading to an executive morning briefing, stood by the bed dressed in a crisp dark shirt. Seeing the untouched ointment, his brow furrowed, his voice frosty. "Why haven't you used it? Chloe meant well, stop being petty. Put it on right now."

He stepped forward, grabbed the tube, and held it out to me. Shoving one hand into his trouser pocket, he stood over me, his gaze calm yet carrying an unyielding command, waiting for me to comply.

Only two days remained until my Friday flight to Auckland. I had no intention of provoking him now and risking any disruption to my departure.

In silence, I took the ointment and squeezed a generous dollop of dark green paste into my right palm. A sharp, pungent odor of bitter almonds mixed with industrial chemicals filled the room. Expressionless, I smeared it across my swollen ankle, rubbing it in half-heartedly.

Seeing me obey, the tension in Ethan's jaw softened slightly. "Rest at home this morning. Head to the set in the afternoon. Put on another layer tonight and sleep early."

The second his footsteps faded down the stairs, I hopped into the bathroom and cranked the cold water tap, scrubbing my ankle and right palm. But the green paste was bizarre—the moment it contacted skin, it seemed to sink straight into the pores. No matter how hard I scrubbed with soap until my skin was raw, that strange, slick residue wouldn't wash away.

That evening, Ethan even initiated a FaceTime call to ensure I applied the second dose.

It took less than forty-eight hours.

My right ankle, which had merely suffered a mild sprain, along with the palm I used to apply the cream, erupted in a violent, burning agony that felt like flaying blades and open flames!

By the following afternoon, the burning spun completely out of control. Dense clusters of dark yellow blisters surfaced across my ankle and palm. As they ruptured, vast patches of skin turned necrotic, giving off the foul stench of corroded flesh. Yellow fluid and blood seeped through layers of sterile gauze.

Soon after, the toxins breached my bloodstream. Violent chills racked my body, followed by a spiking fever and a deafening roar in my ears.

Clinging to my last shreds of consciousness, I wrapped my oozing right hand in a towel and limped into a cab, heading straight for the emergency dermatology ward.

The attending physician snapped on sterile gloves. The moment he peeled back the dressing with forceps, his expression warped into horror. "Stat! Rush this to the lab for an emergency toxicology panel!"

Thirty minutes later, the report was rushed back to the examination room.

Looking at the data, the gray-haired chief physician trembled with rage, slamming his hand onto the desk. "Who on earth do you have a blood feud with?! Who would be vicious enough to use this on a human being?!"

My lips were parched and cracked from the fever, my voice a raspy whisper. "Doctor... what is it?"

"This isn't medicine! It's a standard base cream laced with lethal concentrations of industrial-grade corrosive agents and neurotoxins!" The doctor pointed to several red-flagged chemical formulas exceeding safe thresholds by hundreds of times, his voice shaking with indignation. "This stuff is engineered to eat through the dermis and superficial tendons! The skin barrier on your right palm and ankle is completely obliterated! If you had come half a day later, or applied it just once more, the tendons in your right hand and foot would have rotted through! You would have never walked properly again!"

The room fell so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock sounded deafening.

Looking at my battered body, the doctor softened his voice. "This is deliberate assault. Whoever gave you this wanted to ruin you permanently. Do you want the hospital to call the police right now?"

I lowered my eyes, staring at my hands and right ankle, now swathed in thick layers of petroleum gauze and compression bandages like heavy white casts.

So. They didn't just want to take my life.

At the very end, they wanted to personally destroy the very hands and feet I relied on to survive as a stunt coordinator.

"No need, Doctor." I looked up, my bloodshot eyes showing not a single ripple of emotion. "Please just print the original toxicology report and the official injury diagnosis. I'll handle it myself."

At nine that night, in the hospital lobby.

I sat alone on a blue plastic chair in the corner, an IV catheter taped to the inside of my left wrist, pumping antipyretics and broad-spectrum antibiotics drop by drop into my veins.

The phone resting on my knee suddenly buzzed.

Using the only two fingers on my left hand that weren't wrapped in bandages, I unlocked the screen.

It was a group chat Ethan had lazily created two years ago, dubbed [Errands]. The only members were Ethan, Zachary, Liam, and a few other silver-spoon heirs. It was typically used in the dead of night to order me to fetch their cigarettes, deliver coffee, or act as their designated driver.

Three seconds ago, Zachary had dropped a message into the chat.

[Zachary: Hahaha, Revenge Phase 8.5 is a total success! That spiked ointment Chloe whipped up is brilliant. Industrial corrosives mixed into burn cream—let's see her try to fight Chloe for the action credits with ruined hands and feet! Once the high-wire stunt goes down at Ethan's birthday shoot tomorrow, we'll send her straight to hell!]

I stared at the text coldly, quickly using my left hand to press the power and volume buttons simultaneously.

*Click.* Screenshot saved.

A second later, a gray system prompt appeared at the top of the chat: ["Zachary" unsent a message].

The group instantly fell dead silent. Not another soul dared type a single character.

I uploaded the screenshot and the medical toxicology report to an encrypted cloud drive. Then, using two fingers, I fished the remaining half-tube of green paste out of my pocket and tossed it into the yellow biohazard bin beside the chair.

The moment the tube hit the bottom, my phone rang.

Caller ID: Ethan.

I tapped accept and put it on speaker.

Ethan's low, detached voice came through the speaker. "Harper, where are you this late? Why aren't you back at the house? What was in the group just now—"

"At the hospital, getting some cuts dressed."

Staring up at the swaying glass IV bottle, I cut off his probing question, my voice flat and completely devoid of emotion.

Ethan went quiet on the other end, his tone softening a fraction. "The swelling hasn't gone down yet? Which hospital? I'll send a car to pick you up. Tomorrow is my twenty-eighth birthday. We're shooting the final high-altitude sequence for *Cloud Spire* in the morning. I need you on set to supervise Chloe's harness rigging. I booked a table at the rooftop restaurant for tomorrow night."

Supervise Chloe's harness.

The ninth revenge. The fatal plunge.

I looked out the window into the pitch-black night, a faint smirk touching the corner of my lips. "No need to pick me up. I'll take a cab after the IV finishes. Ethan... see you on set tomorrow."