I Swapped His Fake Gift for a Real Life novel Chapter 18

In the ICU at Fairpoint General Hospital, Aubrey and Grayson clung to life by a thread.

Aubrey lay sprawled on the bed, a thick breathing tube jammed down her throat.

Every ragged inhale rasped like sandpaper scraping her lungs, each exhale a wheeze from a broken bellows. Her lips- cracked, purple, caked with dried blood–parted helplessly, her chest heaving like it might cave in at any second.

That silver tongue, once sweet enough to twist men around her finger, would never whisper lies again.

What a shame.

She’d never seduce anyone with that mouth again.

Grayson looked like a corpse wrapped in gauze, strapped tight to a specialized bed. Thick bandages covered his knees, but pus seeped through, yellow and foul–smelling. It soaked the gauze, stained the sheets, and stank of decay.

“Mr. Whitmore’s infection is worsening,” the nurse said flatly, peeling back the covers. “We’ll need to debride again.”

Revealed beneath was a grotesque scar on his chest–the name “Lily,” scorched deep into his blackened, curling flesh, like

a twisted curse.

The doctor tugged back the bandages on his knee.

Grayson jolted violently.

A strained whimper escaped his cracked lips, eyes darting in their bruised sockets, wild and helpless.

He didn’t even have the strength to fight.

His lips moved–barely.

The nurse leaned down to hear.

After a pause, she straightened, disgust flashing across her face.

…He keeps mumbling something,” she said. “I think it’s… ‘I’m sorry. I’ll behave…”

While they suffered, I sat in a high–security cell, waiting for my trial.

Six months later, I stood in Fairpoint Superior Court.

Aubrey appeared wearing a massive medical mask, her face beneath it a map of grotesque scars.

When she saw me, she lunged like a rabid dog, snarling through a ruined throat that could no longer form words.

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Grayson sat hunched in a wheelchair, shivering the moment my shadow passed over him. He shrank into the corner like

a child, sobbing through broken teeth.

“Don’t… don’t hit me… I’m sorry… I’ll obey…”

I smiled at both of them.

They froze.

Across the courtroom, the Whitmores‘ lawyer looked ready to set me on fire with his stare. Righteous fury radiated off

him in waves.

My attorney didn’t flinch. He stayed calm, collected–until the evidence presentation began.

Without a word, he slotted several memory cards into the courtroom’s projector.

The screen came to life.

The first video: Aubrey, smirking at a group of men–the same men from the monastery.

“That little brat’s all yours. Teach her some manners,” she said, handing them a fat stack of bills.

The men grinned, sleazy and confident.

“Don’t worry, Miss Hayes,” one of them said. “We’ll make you proud.”

The screen cut to Lily.

Kneeling.

Crying.

Her fragile back striped red as they whipped her with a ruler.

More clips followed. Lily’s screams. Her blood. Their laughter.

The cruelty was almost unbearable.

“Scream all you want,” one of the men sneered. “No one’s coming.”

I lowered my gaze. My fists clenched so tight my nails broke skin. I regretted letting them die too quickly.

Then came footage of the bodyguards–grinning, fresh off slapping Lily at her own wedding.

They loomed over her broken body.

In the background, Grayson stood just outside the door.

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He heard everything.

He didn’t go in.

He walked away.

The final clip: a late–night hotel room. Aubrey, half–dressed, perched on Grayson’s lap, cooing. “Grayson, what if Lily hates

me? I’m only doing this for you…”

He ran a hand down her back, smirking. “Relax. She loves me–she’ll do whatever I say.”

“Besides, her parents are nobodies. If she dies, who’s gonna care?”

Then he pushed her down onto the leather couch.

The courtroom exploded.

“Animals!” someone shouted from the gallery.

“That girl was a child!”

“The Whitmores act so high and mighty–disgusting!” A juror wept openly, makeup smudging as she clutched a crumpled

tissue.

Reporters tapped away furiously, phones lighting up with breaking news alerts.

The trial pressed on.

Outside, Whitmore Holdings‘ stock nosedived. Within minutes, it tanked completely. Then–just as the judge called for recess–a team of prosecutors marched into the courtroom.

They arrested Grayson’s father on the spot.

Tax evasion. Bribery. Corruption.

Years of filth swept into the light.

The mighty Whitmore family collapsed right there in front of everyone. Like a castle made of paper in a thunderstorm.

As the trial ended, I passed by Grayson. I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Blind in heart. Blind in eyes,” I whispered. “Those eyes are useless now.”

A hot, sour puddle spread under his wheelchair. He convulsed like he’d been electrocuted.

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Later, rumors spread of screams tearing through Whitmore Estate one night. And servants kicked in his door and found

him drenched in blood, gouging his own eyes out with his bare fingers.

He’d gone fully, irrevocably blind.

As for me?

The doctors said my “paranola and delusions” had worsened. The iron gates of Hollow Creek Psychiatric Facility opened

for me again.

And this time, they wouldn’t let me out. Not ever.

For the rest of my life, I’d rot behind those cold steel bars.

But at least now? Lily could rest.