Chapter 1
The day Charlotte Lane died, Riverdale was hit with a heavy snowfall.
She never got Andrew Grant's apology, nor did she see him turn back for her.
Charlotte even forgot who Andrew was, fading away in lonely agony and a blur of lost memories.
Five years later, Andrew died on Christmas Eve.
He clutched the string bracelet, curled up in the shabby apartment she once lived in, his eyes fixed on the door until his last breath.
Michael Shea said, "Don't wait anymore, Andrew.
"She's gone somewhere beyond your reach, even if you spent a lifetime trying to atone for your sins."
*****
"Glioblastoma, compressing the optic nerve. Surgery isn't an option," the doctor said.
He pointed at the glowing scan, his words seeming to drift from far away. "As the tumor grows, you'll lose your sight, suffer severe headaches, and may even experience cognitive decline. Charlotte, you have at most two months left."
I didn't feel any fear, just an intense ringing in my ears.
There was a dark blot in my vision, like spilled ink, perfectly blocking out the doctor's face.
"Just give me some painkillers," I said.
The doctor looked at me, stunned. "Charlotte, this pain will be unbearable. You need to be admitted, and you need someone by your side."
"I don't have anyone," I cut him off, quickly pulling out a pair of sunglasses from my bag and slipping them on to hide the dark shadows under my eyes. "Besides, I still have to work."
My phone buzzed in my pocket, felt like a death sentence.
The screen flashed: [Mr. Grant.]
I answered.
"Get your ass to The Summit Manor in half an hour," Andrew said, his voice icy. "Rose doesn't like peeling lobster. You do it."
Then the call ended.
I glanced at the big bag of slow-release morphine tablets in my hand and smirked.
I was dying.
The girl of his dreams just didn't like peeling lobster.
Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, and I didn't bother grabbing an umbrella. Five years in this city, and I still hadn't figured out how to look after myself.
Because for these five years, I was nothing but a lapdog, always ready whenever Andrew called.
By the time I made it to the private room, I was drenched, my hair stuck to my face, looking like a drowned rat.
As I pushed open the door, a wave of warm air and the luxurious scent of perfume washed over me.
My head felt like it was about to explode.
The tumor in my brain was throwing a party in my skull, making me sway uncontrollably.
"What took you so long?" Andrew asked. He sat at the head of the table, flicking a lighter between his fingers, his gaze downright sinister. "You smell musty. Keep your distance from Rose."
Rose was dressed in a white designer gown, looking like a proud swan as she curled up in Andrew's arms.
"Andrew, don't be so harsh. Ms. Lane is trying to get by," she said, her gaze dripping with sarcasm.
I kept quiet and quietly made my way to the table.
There was a big plate of pricey rock lobster sitting in the middle.
I reached out, my fingertips pale and still shivering from the cold rain.
I peeled the shell, pulled out the meat, and set it onto a delicate porcelain plate.
My hands moved in a numb, robotic rhythm.
Suddenly, the black spot in my vision grew bigger, and my sight went fuzzy all at once.
My grip faltered, and the sharp lobster shell cut open my fingertip.
Blood gushed out, staining the snow-white lobster meat.
"Ugh!" Rose shrieked, like she had seen something revolting. "Blood. That's filthy!"
Andrew suddenly jumped up and knocked my hand away.
The plate hit the floor and splintered into pieces.
"Charlotte, was that on purpose?" Andrew asked. He seized my chin, fingers digging in so hard it felt like he could crush the bone. "If you're gonna act like this, then get out of here."
I was forced to look up at the man I had loved for seven years.
My vision kept blurring, and the only thing I could see was his lips pressed tight. He was utterly indifferent.
"Mr. Grant," I said as I swallowed the metallic taste in my throat, my voice rough. "This hand's dirty. Can I use my other hand instead?"