Chapter 7
The next morning, I woke to blood on my pillow.
Not much. Just a thin line from my nose, already dried to rust.
My mother saw it before I could hide it. She said nothing. She simply wiped it away with a warm cloth and brought me my pills.
Six pills in the morning. Four at night. A body that was less a body now and more a chemistry experiment running on borrowed time.
I took them all without water.
The phone rang at eight.
Not Alexander. Victoria.
"Sophia, I need you at the house this afternoon. Meredith wants to finalize the invitation list, and I'd like you to handle the calligraphy. You always had such beautiful handwriting."
I almost laughed.
My hands shook so badly now that some mornings I could not button my own shirt. But Victoria did not know that. Or did not care.
"I'll be there at two," I said.
When I arrived at the Ashford house, only Meredith was in the living room.
She was on the phone, laughing, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. When she saw me, she held up one finger and mouthed, "One sec."
I sat down carefully on the edge of the sofa and waited.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Meredith finally hung up and turned to me with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that. My sister. She talks forever."
"No problem."
She studied me for a moment, her head tilted like a bird examining something it could not quite categorize.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
I braced myself.
"Of course."
"Did you actually love Alexander? Back then?"
The question hit me square in the chest.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I can't figure you out." She crossed her legs and leaned back. "Victoria says you stole money and ran off with some guy. Alexander says you broke his heart so badly he didn't date anyone for three years after. But you're sitting here, helping plan his wedding, looking at him like..."
She paused.
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like you'd die for him."
The words hung in the air between us.
Then Meredith laughed lightly, breaking the tension.
"Never mind. Forget I said anything. Let's look at invitations."
We worked for an hour.
My hands trembled the entire time, but I hid it by keeping them pressed flat against the table whenever I was not writing. The calligraphy was slower than it should have been. Meredith noticed but said nothing.
Then Alexander walked in.
He had come from the hospital. Still in his white coat, stethoscope hanging from his pocket. He looked exhausted but sharp. Clinical. Like a man who had spent years learning how to keep the world at a surgical distance.
"How's it going?" he asked, directed at Meredith.
"Great. Sophia's handwriting is gorgeous." She held up a finished invitation. "Look."
Alexander barely glanced at it.
But then his gaze drifted to me. To my hands, specifically.
I realized too late that they were shaking visibly against the table.
I pulled them into my lap.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"A little."
He stared at me for a beat too long.
Then he shrugged off his coat and dropped it on the back of the sofa. Not on me. Not near me. Just in the general vicinity, as if the gesture meant nothing.
"The heating in this room has always been bad," he muttered, already walking toward the kitchen.
Meredith watched him go, then looked at me.
Her smile had not changed.
But something behind her eyes had gone very, very still.
That night, as I was leaving, Alexander caught me at the door.
"Sophia."
I turned.
He stood in the hallway, half-shadowed, his expression unreadable.
"Are you sick?"
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"You heard me. Are you sick?"
Two seconds. That was all the time I had to decide.
Tell the truth and watch him spiral. Watch him abandon his wedding, his fiancée, his future. Watch him tear his family apart to find out what happened.
Or lie.
"No," I said. "Just tired. I haven't been sleeping well."
He searched my face like a doctor examining a patient who was clearly lying.
Then he stepped back.
"Get some rest," he said. And closed the door.
Not much. Just a thin line from my nose, already dried to rust.
My mother saw it before I could hide it. She said nothing. She simply wiped it away with a warm cloth and brought me my pills.
Six pills in the morning. Four at night. A body that was less a body now and more a chemistry experiment running on borrowed time.
I took them all without water.
The phone rang at eight.
Not Alexander. Victoria.
"Sophia, I need you at the house this afternoon. Meredith wants to finalize the invitation list, and I'd like you to handle the calligraphy. You always had such beautiful handwriting."
I almost laughed.
My hands shook so badly now that some mornings I could not button my own shirt. But Victoria did not know that. Or did not care.
"I'll be there at two," I said.
When I arrived at the Ashford house, only Meredith was in the living room.
She was on the phone, laughing, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. When she saw me, she held up one finger and mouthed, "One sec."
I sat down carefully on the edge of the sofa and waited.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Meredith finally hung up and turned to me with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that. My sister. She talks forever."
"No problem."
She studied me for a moment, her head tilted like a bird examining something it could not quite categorize.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
I braced myself.
"Of course."
"Did you actually love Alexander? Back then?"
The question hit me square in the chest.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I can't figure you out." She crossed her legs and leaned back. "Victoria says you stole money and ran off with some guy. Alexander says you broke his heart so badly he didn't date anyone for three years after. But you're sitting here, helping plan his wedding, looking at him like..."
She paused.
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like you'd die for him."
The words hung in the air between us.
Then Meredith laughed lightly, breaking the tension.
"Never mind. Forget I said anything. Let's look at invitations."
We worked for an hour.
My hands trembled the entire time, but I hid it by keeping them pressed flat against the table whenever I was not writing. The calligraphy was slower than it should have been. Meredith noticed but said nothing.
Then Alexander walked in.
He had come from the hospital. Still in his white coat, stethoscope hanging from his pocket. He looked exhausted but sharp. Clinical. Like a man who had spent years learning how to keep the world at a surgical distance.
"How's it going?" he asked, directed at Meredith.
"Great. Sophia's handwriting is gorgeous." She held up a finished invitation. "Look."
Alexander barely glanced at it.
But then his gaze drifted to me. To my hands, specifically.
I realized too late that they were shaking visibly against the table.
I pulled them into my lap.
"Are you cold?" he asked.
"A little."
He stared at me for a beat too long.
Then he shrugged off his coat and dropped it on the back of the sofa. Not on me. Not near me. Just in the general vicinity, as if the gesture meant nothing.
"The heating in this room has always been bad," he muttered, already walking toward the kitchen.
Meredith watched him go, then looked at me.
Her smile had not changed.
But something behind her eyes had gone very, very still.
That night, as I was leaving, Alexander caught me at the door.
"Sophia."
I turned.
He stood in the hallway, half-shadowed, his expression unreadable.
"Are you sick?"
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"You heard me. Are you sick?"
Two seconds. That was all the time I had to decide.
Tell the truth and watch him spiral. Watch him abandon his wedding, his fiancée, his future. Watch him tear his family apart to find out what happened.
Or lie.
"No," I said. "Just tired. I haven't been sleeping well."
He searched my face like a doctor examining a patient who was clearly lying.
Then he stepped back.
"Get some rest," he said. And closed the door.