For the first time that night, he actually looked at me.

Not with fear. Not with guilt.

With irritation.

The same look he gave when an expensive watch scratched or a deal fell through.

“Stop exaggerating,” he said calmly, as if we were discussing a scheduling issue. “You’re alive. That means it worked. The wedding is in a week. Doctors are paid. The tests are clean. You’ll walk down the aisle slim, elegant, flawless. After that—do whatever you want.”

I stumbled backward, the room tilting violently. But this time it wasn’t the poison in my veins that made me dizzy.

It was the truth.

In that moment, everything became horrifyingly clear: I had never been his daughter. I was a product. A display item. A polished extension of his reputation.

“You poisoned me,” I whispered. “For photos?”

“For your future,” he snapped. “You’re marrying a senator’s son. This isn’t love, Elena—it’s an alliance. A transaction. And I will not let you ruin it with a weak stomach and lack of discipline.”

That night, I burned with fever. My body shook uncontrollably, my stomach felt like it was dissolving from the inside. From my room, I could hear Marta moving quietly in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. I could hear my father calmly talking on the phone, discussing flower arrangements and guest lists, as if nothing were wrong.

That was when I knew.

If I stayed, I would die.

At dawn, before the sun fully rose, I dragged myself out of the house. No phone. No money. Just a thin coat and shaking legs. I walked to the hospital, collapsing twice along the way. When the doctor saw my bloodwork, his expression changed instantly.

“You’re being poisoned,” he said bluntly. “Repeated exposure. A few more days, and the damage could have been irreversible.”

I cried—not from pain this time, but from relief.

Someone finally believed me.

When my father arrived at the hospital, he exploded. He shouted. Threatened lawsuits. Demanded my release. But it was too late. The police were already there. The camera was destroyed, but Marta confessed within minutes. She sobbed, repeating over and over: “He told me to do it… he paid me… he said it was safe.”

The wedding was canceled.

The headlines called it a “high-society scandal.” My father lost contracts, allies, influence. He tried to contact me again and again. He said everything he did was “for me.” That I was “ungrateful.” That I had “destroyed his life.”

But for the first time in years, I could eat without fear.

My body is still healing. Some damage doesn’t disappear overnight—physical or emotional. But I’m alive. And now I understand something I was never taught growing up:

Love does not demand that you destroy yourself for someone else’s image.

Sometimes I imagine the wedding photos that were never taken. And every time, I realize the same truth—

The best day of my life was the one where I never walked down that aisle.