Maisy was now reduced to nothing but a shell of her former self—broken, like a discarded doll. This was a terror far worse than her captivity in Askea. At least back then, she had been able to maneuver and scheme her way to a better outcome. But now, she was left utterly powerless.
There had been nights when she dreamt of Skylar being paralyzed, unable to move. In those vivid dreams, she and Christopher would taunt her, cruelly flaunting their intimacy, watching as Skylar withered away like a neglected flower. Each dream filled Maisy with satisfaction.
But the reality she faced now was her worst nightmare. She didn't want to be reduced to a useless person. Maisy was supposed to be enchanting, irresistible—not a figure of despair.
"Ah!" Her scream erupted, raw and frantic, but what came out was a garbled, incomprehensible sound. She tried to cry for help, but the words twisted into pitiful whimpers, refusing to form.
Her eyes widened in horror. She couldn't speak.
Hearing the commotion, the medical professional, Helen Trivett, rushed in. Seeing the terrified and agitated Maisy, she approached quickly. "You're in the hospital. You're safe now."
Outside, police officers stood guard. Despite her striking beauty, Helen had learned that the woman before her had suffered unimaginable cruelty. It was too late when they found her—her hands, feet, and even her voice had been taken from her.
Maisy desperately tried to ask why she couldn't speak, but every attempt came out as a slurred, garbled mess.
Helen observed her distress and responded gravely, "Your vocal cords are severely damaged. Unfortunately, you missed the critical window for treatment. The likelihood of fully recovering your voice is slim, though there's still a faint chance. Focus on healing for now."
Hearing Helen's words, Maisy felt an even greater fear.
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