Chapter 2
My mother did not speak to me for the rest of the night.
She sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, peeling an apple with a knife so dull it kept slipping. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were red but dry.
I knew that silence.
It was the same silence she had kept five years ago when she found me unconscious in a rented apartment with a fever of 105 and blood in my urine.
The same silence she kept while she carried me to the emergency room on her back, because we had no money for an ambulance after Victoria drained our savings on fake "medical bills" she claimed Ethan still owed.
The same silence she kept for three straight days in the ICU waiting room before she finally broke down and told me she had sold our house.
Everything we had went to keeping me alive.
And for what?
For a disease that started because I gave away parts of myself to save a boy whose family threw me away like garbage.
My immune system collapsed six months after the third extraction, exactly as the doctors had predicted. First came the chronic fatigue, then the kidney damage, then the bone deterioration that left me unable to walk some days.
Then, eighteen months ago, leukemia.
The cruelest irony of all.
I had donated my marrow to save someone from blood cancer.
Now blood cancer was killing me.
"Mom," I said softly.
She did not look up.
"Mom, I just want to see him."
The apple peel broke. The knife slipped and nicked her thumb. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red against her pale skin.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then she finally spoke.
"When you coded on the table last month," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "do you know what the nurses told me? They said your heart stopped for forty-seven seconds."
I said nothing.
"Forty-seven seconds, Sophia. And do you know what brought you back?"
I knew.
She had screamed Alexander's name until the walls shook.
She had shouted, "You promised me you'd live long enough to tell him the truth! You promised!"
My mother was not a woman who believed in miracles or romance. She was practical, sharp-tongued, and brutally honest.
But she had learned years ago that the only thing strong enough to pull me back from the edge was Alexander's name.
So she used it. Every single time.
She hated him for it.
She hated that her daughter's will to live depended entirely on a man who did not even know she was dying.
"Three months," she said now. "The doctor said three months. And you want to spend them planning his wedding to another woman?"
"I want to spend them near him."
"He thinks you're a thief."
"I know."
"He thinks you cheated on him."
"I know."
"He will be cruel to you. His mother will make sure of it."
I reached over and took her hand, careful to avoid the cut on her thumb.
"Then at least when it's over," I whispered, "I'll know I saw him one last time. And that will be enough."
She pulled her hand away.
But not before I felt her fingers tremble.
The next day, Alexander came home.
I heard about it from Victoria, who called at seven in the morning to inform me that Alexander and his fiancée, Meredith Chen, would be arriving at noon.
She wanted me at the Ashford estate by eleven.
"And Sophia?" Victoria added before hanging up. "You look... unwell these days. Perhaps wear something with a high collar. And some color on your face. I'd rather Alexander not ask uncomfortable questions."
I wanted to laugh.
Uncomfortable questions.
As if Alexander would look at me long enough to notice anything at all.
She sat in the plastic chair beside my bed, peeling an apple with a knife so dull it kept slipping. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were red but dry.
I knew that silence.
It was the same silence she had kept five years ago when she found me unconscious in a rented apartment with a fever of 105 and blood in my urine.
The same silence she kept while she carried me to the emergency room on her back, because we had no money for an ambulance after Victoria drained our savings on fake "medical bills" she claimed Ethan still owed.
The same silence she kept for three straight days in the ICU waiting room before she finally broke down and told me she had sold our house.
Everything we had went to keeping me alive.
And for what?
For a disease that started because I gave away parts of myself to save a boy whose family threw me away like garbage.
My immune system collapsed six months after the third extraction, exactly as the doctors had predicted. First came the chronic fatigue, then the kidney damage, then the bone deterioration that left me unable to walk some days.
Then, eighteen months ago, leukemia.
The cruelest irony of all.
I had donated my marrow to save someone from blood cancer.
Now blood cancer was killing me.
"Mom," I said softly.
She did not look up.
"Mom, I just want to see him."
The apple peel broke. The knife slipped and nicked her thumb. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red against her pale skin.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then she finally spoke.
"When you coded on the table last month," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "do you know what the nurses told me? They said your heart stopped for forty-seven seconds."
I said nothing.
"Forty-seven seconds, Sophia. And do you know what brought you back?"
I knew.
She had screamed Alexander's name until the walls shook.
She had shouted, "You promised me you'd live long enough to tell him the truth! You promised!"
My mother was not a woman who believed in miracles or romance. She was practical, sharp-tongued, and brutally honest.
But she had learned years ago that the only thing strong enough to pull me back from the edge was Alexander's name.
So she used it. Every single time.
She hated him for it.
She hated that her daughter's will to live depended entirely on a man who did not even know she was dying.
"Three months," she said now. "The doctor said three months. And you want to spend them planning his wedding to another woman?"
"I want to spend them near him."
"He thinks you're a thief."
"I know."
"He thinks you cheated on him."
"I know."
"He will be cruel to you. His mother will make sure of it."
I reached over and took her hand, careful to avoid the cut on her thumb.
"Then at least when it's over," I whispered, "I'll know I saw him one last time. And that will be enough."
She pulled her hand away.
But not before I felt her fingers tremble.
The next day, Alexander came home.
I heard about it from Victoria, who called at seven in the morning to inform me that Alexander and his fiancée, Meredith Chen, would be arriving at noon.
She wanted me at the Ashford estate by eleven.
"And Sophia?" Victoria added before hanging up. "You look... unwell these days. Perhaps wear something with a high collar. And some color on your face. I'd rather Alexander not ask uncomfortable questions."
I wanted to laugh.
Uncomfortable questions.
As if Alexander would look at me long enough to notice anything at all.