Chapter 1

Champagne bubbles were still rising at my sister Sophie's engagement party, and the whole house was buzzing with laughter and chatter from the guests.

My mother pushed open my bedroom door, her face set in that usual impatient look. "Emily, are you done with your drama? Have you got no shame?" she snapped.

She thought I was pretending to sleep—my way of protesting how the whole family ignored me. She even kicked the bedframe, grumbling under her breath. It wasn't until she reached out to grab me that she found my hand was already cold and stiff.

*****

My stomach felt like it was being put through a paper shredder. Waves of sharp, stabbing pain rippled through me, leaving me curled into a tight ball. Cold sweat broke out instantly, turning my pajamas into a damp, clammy second skin.

Clinging to the frigid wall, I shuffled my way to the bathroom. I collapsed over the toilet and began to dry heave. Nothing came up—nothing but a bitter, acidic bile that burned in my throat. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—sallow skin, sunken eyes, and a frame that was nothing more than skin and bones.

"You're a real sight, Emily," I muttered bitterly.

From the living room, my mother's voice rang out, hitting a fever pitch of excitement. "Sophie, come try this gown on. Oh, my darling girl, you look absolutely stunning."

Then came my sister's playful giggle, followed by my father's warm, doting hums of approval. The three of them were thick as thieves, a picture-perfect family. And I was nothing more than static—the odd man out.

I leaned against the wall as I stepped out, the crystal chandelier in the living room so dazzling it hurt my eyes.

Sophie was dressed in a champagne-colored couture gown, its hem shimmering with diamonds. She looked like a princess, adored by my parents right in the center of their universe.

The moment my mother laid eyes on me, her smile vanished. She frowned and snapped, "What are you doing out here? You look like death warmed over. Don't go passing your bad vibes to Sophie."

I tried to speak, but my throat was parched, and the agony in my gut made it hard to even stand upright. "Mom, I—"

"What now?" she snapped, cutting me off. "Do you have any idea what tomorrow is for Sophie? She's getting engaged to James. Do you know the kind of pedigree the Walker family has? Don't you dare start acting up now."

Sophie turned her head, her gaze sweeping over me with a flicker of pure disdain. "Gosh, Emily, you look terrible. Have you been skipping meals again? Tomorrow is the biggest day of my life—please don't go spoiling the party."

I was hurting so badly that I could die, but did anyone here even care?

My father rose from the sofa and walked toward me. His tone was softer, but his words were just as cold. "Emily, be a good girl and go back to your room. We have guests coming... and you're just not fit to be seen."

For the sake of their reputations, and for Sophie's moment in the sun, I had to hide away.

I nodded, said nothing, and turned to head back to my room. Every step felt like I was walking on broken glass.

"Wait a second." My mother called out, and for a fleeting second, a tiny flicker of hope sparked in my chest. Was she actually worried about me?

I turned around, only to see her holding out an envelope. "There's 2000 dollars in here. Find somewhere else to stay tomorrow. Just don't be in the house."

So that was it. She was just afraid my ghoulish face would scare off her precious guests.

That pathetic shred of hope was crushed to dust in an instant. I took the envelope, my fingertips like ice. "Got it," I said.

Back in my room, I closed the door, shutting out all the laughter and cheering from outside. I couldn't hold it back anymore. I bolted for the ensuite bathroom and doubled over the sink, retching up a thick mouthful of dark, crimson blood.

The blood splattered against the white porcelain like wilting roses. I twisted the faucet and let the water run, scrubbing away at the sink until every trace of that haunting red was down the drain.

I had stage four stomach cancer—the death sentence the doctor handed me three months ago. I hadn't told a soul. What would be the point? They'd just think I was crying wolf again—finding a new way to crave attention or act out of spite toward Sophie.

I took the diagnostic report from my drawer and set it beside a small, yellowing family photo. In the picture, I was just a little girl, cradled in my father's arms while my mother and newborn sister leaned close. We were all beaming.

How long ago was that?

Maybe it all started changing when Sophie showed her incredible talent for painting, growing up surrounded by praise. Or maybe it was when my grades stayed average, and I became more withdrawn and quiet. Slowly, I had become nothing more than a background in this family.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and climbed into bed, clutching that family photo tight against my chest. The pain in my stomach felt numb—or maybe it was just cutting deeper than ever.

Let it be. Tomorrow, it would all be over.