Page 3 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

D EATH.

Death was all I wanted if it meant I wouldn’t have to live a single day without Amie. Without my parents.

For four days, the world outside NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital thought I was dead.

A nurse told me I was first treated in Staten Island, then airlifted to Manhattan for a fifteen-hour heart surgery. No one believed I’d survive.

The bullet shredded one of my heart valves—tore it apart like tissue paper. They replaced it with something artificial, but I didn’t listen to the specifics. For all I know, they ripped my whole heart out and left an empty cavity behind.

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

My ribs were reset. My punctured lungs, stitched. Then it was up to time—and a cocktail of heavy drugs—to drag my body back from the edge.

Then this morning, I woke up.

Confused, choking on plastic tubes until a nurse rushed in and removed them.

She didn’t even wait for me to ask. Just filled in the pieces I’d missed, like reading from a script she'd memorized but never thought she’d have to perform.

After a full exam, I finally see the damage.

The scars.

Red. Swollen. Ugly.

One runs from the base of my throat, slicing straight down the center of my chest and stopping just beneath my breastbone. Another, smaller one sits jagged over my heart—right where the bullet entered and ricocheted around my chest cavity like a stray bouncy ball.

I stare at it until I feel sick.

My doctor—a young man with tired brown eyes and a trembling throat who introduced himself as Dr. Kim—covers them with gauze and tape, like maybe that’ll make them disappear. Like if I can’t see them, I can pretend they don’t exist. That it didn’t happen.

But it did.

After gulping down a glass of lukewarm water that does little to soothe my dry throat, I ask the one question I’ve been dreading.

“Did they make it?”

I already know the answer. But I need to hear it.

Dr. Kim’s face pales. His lips part, but no words come right away.

When they finally do, they fall like bricks.

“I’m sorry, Brianna... your family—they were declared dead at the scene.”

I nod once, my eyes dropping to the embroidery on his white coat. Alan Kim, M.D.,

Cardiac Surgery Resident.

I wonder if I’m the first person he’s seen survive a gunshot to the heart. I wonder if he’s ever stared at someone and questioned why they lived when others didn’t.

Because I shouldn’t be here. I was shot in the heart . But apparently, the bullet missed doing permanent damage by millimetres.

“You got very lucky,” he says.

“ Lucky. ”

The word scrapes its way up my throat like a shard of glass.

What part of this looks like luck?

The silence thickens. It crawls up the walls, settles into the air like smoke. Every breath feels too loud. Too sharp.

Eventually, Dr. Kim clears his throat and instructs the nurses to keep a close eye on me. Then he leaves .

One of the nurses—Olivia Jones, according to her name tag—stays behind. She hovers beside the machines, eyes scanning the monitors with the same blank expression I’ve seen on every face today.

After a pause, she speaks. Her voice is quiet. Cautious.

“The police...” she says, barely above a whisper. “They asked us to call them if—”

She winces, swallowing the word back down.

“I mean— when you woke.”

Our eyes meet.

She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. And I wonder how many of those hours she’s spent in here with me. Watching numbers flicker across a screen. Wondering why someone with no family left was worth keeping alive.

“Call them.”

Olivia blinks, visibly startled by my blunt voice. “If you need some time, I can wait until—”

“No. Call them now.”

She presses her lips together and nods—quick and uneasy—before slipping out the door.

And then, I’m alone.

More alone than I’ve ever been in my life.

Even before you’re born, you’re not really alone. There’s always someone—your mother—holding you inside her, keeping you warm. Safe.

But this? This is different.

Alone is colder than I ever imagined it could be.

Your family—they were declared dead at the scene.

The words keep echoing. Not just in my mind—but in the air around me, stitched into the sterile quiet of the hospital room.

When I first left for school, I spent months alone before I made any real friends. I didn’t call home as much as I should have. I told myself it was growing up—learning to stand on my own.

But that wasn’t this .

That was never this .

Back then, I always knew I could hear their voices again if I needed to. That they were just one call away.

And now I need them—more than I ever have.

But they’re gone. Dead.

I should be dead too.

So, why am I still alive?

T HE POLICE ARRIVE sometime after I’ve eaten lunch, though all my stomach can handle is another glass of lukewarm water and a cup of sugar-free orange Jell-O—and even that threatens to make a reappearance.

A scruffy-looking detective stands at the foot of the bed in brown slacks, a powder blue shirt, and a navy tie that matches the jacket draped over his arm.

Next to him is a younger woman in a crisp black pantsuit and a mint-green blouse.

Her black hair is pulled into a top knot so tight that it’s practically giving her a facelift.

“Hello, Brianna,” the man says, his voice rough and gravelly. “I’m Detective Aaron Warner. This is Detective Sonya Cook. We’re here to talk about what happened last Saturday night. Are you comfortable—?”

“Have you found them?” I cut in, ignoring the attempt at small talk. “The guys who did this?”

They exchange a look.

Aaron drags a chair beside the bed and sits, his expression already apologetic. “The men who did this were skilled,” he begins. “They left no fingerprints, avoided all security cameras in your neighbourhood—”

“Bullet casings?” I press.

He shakes his head.

“Shoe prints?” There was blood everywhere …

“Nothing conclusive.”

“They raped us,” I snap. “And you didn’t find anything ?”

Aaron flinches, but Sonya steps forward— clinical and composed.

“A rape kit was done on both you and Amelia,” she says, “but unless their DNA is already in the system—whether that be from previous convictions or flagged crime scenes—we can’t match it. This may have been their first offence, or they’re very good at covering their tracks.”

Her voice is hollow. Cold.

So basically... unless they do it again and make more of a mess, there's nothing they can do.

Useless.

The hope I felt when they walked in evaporates like water off sun-warmed pavement.

Still, I answer their questions. Every single one. Even when it feels like I’m screaming into a void.

“What were they wearing?”

“Black shirts. Black pants. Devil masks. You should have seen that on the security footage from the house.”

“Did they say anything that might suggest what they wanted?”

“They apparently took what they wanted from me and my sister. I was shot before they said anything else.”

“Had you ever seen them before?”

Finally —a question that might matter.

“Yes,” I say. “They were at a gas station my dad and I stopped at earlier that day. Mick’s Convenience. They asked if he’d sell them his car.”

“We’ll look into that,” Aaron says—not unkindly, but his tone is flat. Noncommittal.

I narrow my eyes. “What, is that not good enough?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, Sonya steps in. “Your father’s cars weren’t stolen. Nothing was taken. Not even the cash in his wallet.”

They… didn’t steal anything?

Why?

I am taking what I want, he’d said.

But they didn’t know about Amie.

Not before they came inside… right?

Sonya misreads my silence as hesitation. “In cases like this, it’s safe to assume you were a victim of opportunity— ”

“I’m not a victim,” I cut her off sharply.

They exchange another look. Muted. Unreadable. But they don’t argue.

I am alive. Breathing .

I am not the victim in this story.

After over an hour of pointless questions, they leave. And with them goes whatever faith I had left in the police system.

I sink back into the stiff hospital pillows, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of the IV still taped to my arm.

I need my laptop.

I need access.

I need answers .

I slam my hand down on the call button.

Nurse Olivia appears almost instantly, like she’s been hovering just outside the door, waiting to be summoned. “Do you need something?”

“When can I get out of here?” I ask.

Her eyes widen. “Well, you just had open-heart surgery, and your ribs are still healing—”

“Just give me a timeframe.”

She hesitates.

“Well… assuming your next blood test is clear, and your stitches are healing properly… maybe three days? But it really depends on Dr. Kim—”

“Tell Dr. Kim I want out in two.”

She opens her mouth to object—but then catches herself.

That’s when I realize I’m glaring

Not at her. Not really. I’m just glaring at everything.

At this room.

This hospital.

This fucked up world.

“I’ll talk to him,” she says quickly, leaving even faster.

She’s nervous. Maybe even a little afraid of me. She shouldn’t be.

But anyone who stands between me and the truth should be.

Any man stupid enough to stand between a strong woman and her fire has a lesson coming.

And that’s a lesson I’m ready to teach.

T WO DAYS LATER, I’m discharged from the hospital with five different prescriptions of painkillers and antibiotics, and a simple list of rules: rest, relax, heal.

I smiled, nodded, signed the forms. Lied through my teeth until they finally let me go.

I’ll take the meds. I’ll keep an eye on the scar as it heals. But I’ve already wasted nearly a week.

A week is too much time. They could be anywhere by now.

I call a cab to take me from NewYork-Presbyterian back to Staten Island. The driver practically salivates at the high fare he’s about to rake in, but I pay him no mind.

I don’t speak. Don’t move. Just stare out the window the whole ride, watching the city blur past like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.