Chapter 4

The red light above the ER door lit up.

In the hallway, Andrew stared at the blood on his hands.

It was thick, warm, and smelled like iron.

As it dried, it formed dark red scabs in the creases of his hands.

"Andrew," Rose called out, gasping as she hurried over, her arm wrapped in an oversized bandage. "I was scared out of my mind. Who was that doctor? Why did he scoop up Ms. Lane and rush off like that? Are they... You know, a thing?"

Andrew snapped back to reality, the panic in his eyes quickly smothered by Rose's insinuation.

Yeah, that figured.

The doctor was Michael.

Back in high school, Charlotte was the campus belle, and Michael was a poor kid who followed her around all day.

Now, one was Mrs. Grant, and the other was a top neurosurgeon.

Could old feelings be flaring up?

"Here, wipe your hands," Rose said, handing Andrew a wet wipe, her gaze shifting. "I noticed the blood coming from Ms. Lane looked kind of weird. It was way too red. Special effects makeup is crazy realistic these days."

Andrew froze for a second. He asked, "You mean it was fake?"

"I'm not sure," Rose replied, biting her lip and giving him an innocent look. "But seriously, who gets a nosebleed that bad? And she was running around, digging through trash cans, then suddenly she fainted?"

Andrew felt the tension drain from him.

Yeah, that made sense.

Charlotte was the kind of woman who'd sell her pride for cash. Playing the victim? That was her style.

That moment of panic he had—what a joke.

"Look into it," Andrew said as he tossed the dirty wet wipe into the trash, his voice icy again. "See what she and Michael are scheming. If she's faking illness for money, she won't last a day in Riverdale."

Inside the ER, I woke up.

The surgical lights overhead were so harsh that they stung my eyes and made tears stream down my face.

"You're awake?" Michael asked. His eyes were red-rimmed as he held a syringe. "Your intracranial pressure was way too high. I gave you some mannitol. Charlotte, you can't keep avoiding this."

Struggling, I turned my head and saw the blood smeared on his lab coat.

It was my blood.

"Michael, could you help me with something?" I murmured, my voice slow and halting, every word crawling through my mind as my tongue felt numb and sluggish. "Lock up my... medical records."

"Why?" Michael exploded, his anger barely contained. "You're dying, and you're still scared he'll find out? Wouldn't it be better if he knew you ended up like this because you saved him? You're dying. Let him regret it for the rest of his life."

"No." I stared at the ceiling, floaters swirling in my vision. "Making him feel guilty... that's letting him off way too easy.

"I want him to believe I'm some greedy, selfish woman who abandoned her husband and kid. When I'm gone, when my ashes are scattered, and the truth finally comes out...

"The pain of being sliced by a dull blade, that's the kind that really destroys one."

I stayed in the hospital for two days.

Michael tried to keep me there, but I slipped out.

My mom's nursing home called, saying it was time to pay up.

I had cashed the check Andrew gave me, but I didn't dare spend it. That money was my mom's lifeline for the next decade.

I still had to make money.

Even if I only had two months left, I was determined to make the most of this wrecked body.

I swung by my tiny rented room and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

I was so gaunt I was almost unrecognizable, my eyes hollow, my face ghostly pale.

I caked on three layers of foundation, drew on a bright red lip, and threw on a pair of sunglasses.

At least now I finally looked presentable.

My phone rang; it was Andrew's assistant, Sean Shaw.

"Ms. Lane, tonight is Mr. Grant's birthday party at The Elite Club. He specifically asked for you to be there," Sean said.

I froze for a second.

Birthday?

Oh. Today was October 28th.

It was not Andrew's birthday. It was Rose's.

Five years ago, Rose offhandedly said she liked October 28th, and Andrew went and changed his birthday party to that day.

But the truth was, October 28th was actually my birthday.

No one ever remembered.

"I'm not going," I replied.

"Mr. Grant said if you come and play a song on the piano, he'll wipe the slate clean for the thirty million. But if you don't show up, there could be issues with the nursing home," Sean said.

He was using my mom to threaten me.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone.

"Alright, I'll go," I said.

At eight o'clock, I was at the Elite Club.

Wearing the red dress, I sat at the Steinway Grand Piano right in the middle of the hall.

All around me, guests in designer clothes were drinking and chatting, not paying me any attention, except for Andrew.

He was seated by the railing of his private box on the second floor, holding a glass of wine, watching me with an amused look in his eyes.

It was like I was his performing monkey in a circus.

"Go ahead," Andrew said, his voice booming through the hall from the microphone.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and set my hands on the black and white keys.

Back then, I was the star student at the music academy.

My professors used to say my hands were kissed by God.

But now, the tumor was messing with the nerves that let me move.

I played the first note.

It was off.

What should have been a bright, clear high note came out flat and wrong.

The whole hall fell silent for a moment, then the whispers started.

"That's the piano genius from back then? What the hell is she playing?"

"Heard she ended up as some rich guy's trophy for the cash. No wonder her skills went to waste."

Andrew's face darkened.

"Charlotte, are you phoning it in?" he demanded.

I gritted my teeth, cold sweat trickling down my temples.

I was not phoning it in.

I couldn't help it.

My right ring finger and pinky were completely numb, like they were wooden sticks dangling from my hand.

"I'm sorry. Let me try again," I said.

I reset my posture and prepared to play again.

Mariage d'Amour was Rose's favourite.

As soon as I finished playing, I could finally get out of here.

This time, I summoned every bit of strength I had, desperately trying to make those numb fingers obey.

The notes spilled out, still stiff, still awkward, but at least the melody was right.

Right at the climax, a loud buzz shot through my head.

The black spots in my vision swarmed, and the once-clear piano keys morphed into warped black and white stripes.

I couldn't see a thing.

My fingers crashed down on the keys, making a harsh, jarring noise.

Andrew hurled his wine glass down, and it shattered right at my feet.

Shards of glass scattered, cutting my ankle.

"Get your ass up here!" Andrew barked.