Amaya’s POV I died. After multiple attempts, I was sent off to a mental hospital. Dante had hoped it would make me better, but it only made me worse. The nurses tortured me, claiming it was for my own good — the needles, the restraints, the cold baths in the middle of the night. I remember screaming, crying, and begging, but no one listened. There was this nurse in particular who was hell-bent on breaking me, and whenever Dante was scheduled to visit, she made sure I was in no condition to see him. She would slip into my room hours before his arrival. “You’re not ready to see him,” she would whisper. “You need to calm down first.” That’s when the injection would come in. My body would grow heavy, my vision would blur until I couldn’t tell whether I was awake or dreaming. That night, as usual, she came into my room. This time, I tried to fight her off, but she was stronger and easily pinned me down. “Stop struggling,” she hissed. Even when I begged, she only smiled and presse
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