Chapter 2

The world went white with pain.

They didn't call a doctor for Chloe's "cut," which was barely a scratch. Instead, Ethan held me down while Mark went to see a doctor friend of his. He came back not with bandages, but with a horrifying proposition.

"Chloe is a pianist," Mark said, his voice devoid of any brotherly affection. "Even a small scar on her arm could ruin her career. The doctor said the best way to prevent scarring is a skin graft."

He looked at me, his eyes like chips of ice. "You did this. You will provide the skin."

I struggled against Ethan's grip. "I didn't do anything! She did it to herself!"

"Stop lying, Sarah," David said, his voice laced with disgust. "We all saw you. Just accept the consequences."

They dragged me to a private clinic. There was no anesthesia. Just the cold steel of a scalpel against my arm. I felt a piece of my own flesh being lifted, a searing, blinding pain that made me scream. They were taking a piece of me to fix a wound that wasn't even real.

Through the haze of agony, I saw Chloe watching from the doorway, a faint, satisfied smile on her lips.

The pain was too much. My world faded to black.

I was in a stark white room. The smell of antiseptic was heavy in the air.

Ethan stood over my bed, his face a cold mask. "She's just a crazy woman. Don't listen to a word she says." He was talking to a doctor I didn't recognize.

The scene shifted. I was on the street, rain pouring down, my clothes soaked. The front door of my home was shut. Mark stood on the other side of the glass, his face impassive. "You are no longer a Miller. Don't ever come back."

Another shift. I was in a small, cramped office. David sat across from me, a pen in his hand, a stack of papers on his desk. He didn't look at me as he spoke to someone on the phone. "Yes, the psychiatric evaluation is complete. Severe paranoia and violent tendencies. She's a danger to herself and others."

Then, the final scene. The mental institution. The white walls closing in. The blank faces of the other patients. The heavy, locked door. I was alone. Utterly and completely alone.

I woke up with a gasp, my arm throbbing. The room was dim.

"Sarah? You're awake."

I turned my head. It was Mark. He was sitting by my bed, a bowl of soup in his hands. Ethan and David were there too, their faces showing a flicker of something I hadn't seen in a long time: concern.

"You passed out from the pain," Ethan said, his voice softer than I'd heard it in months. "The doctor said you need to rest."

David pushed a stray piece of hair from my forehead. "We were worried. You were so pale."

For a fragile moment, it felt like old times. Like the world had reset. My brother, my fiancé, my best friend. They were here. They cared. Hope, stupid and treacherous, flickered in my chest.

Then, a soft moan came from the other side of the room.

"Ethan...?"

It was Chloe. She was lying in the other hospital bed, her arm bandaged.

In an instant, the three of them moved. It was like a switch had been flipped. They were at her bedside, their voices a low murmur of comfort and concern.

"We're here, Chloe. How are you feeling?"

"Does it hurt? Should I call the nurse?"

"Don't worry, we won't leave you."

I was forgotten again. The brief warmth vanished, leaving behind a chilling emptiness.

Chloe looked over at me, her eyes full of fake sympathy. "Oh, Sarah, you're awake. I'm so sorry this happened. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gotten so close to you."

Mark turned to me, his face hard again. "Chloe is the victim here, Sarah. You should be apologizing to her. Because of you, she might never be able to play the piano again."

"And look what you did to yourself," Ethan added, gesturing to my bandaged arm. "This is what your jealousy gets you. Maybe this will teach you a lesson."

I tried to sit up, a sharp pain shooting through my arm. The movement pulled at my IV line, and I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my skin.

"I'm bleeding," I whispered.

But they didn't hear me. They were all focused on Chloe, who had started to cry again. They were cooing at her, promising her the world, assuring her that everything would be okay.

They walked out of the room, clustered around Chloe, leaving me alone in the sterile silence, watching a small pool of my own blood form on the white sheets.

It wasn't their fault. I knew that now. They were puppets, and Chloe held the strings. The world' s script demanded their devotion to her, and their cruelty to me.

I lay there for a week. They never came back. My parents sent a nurse, but they didn't visit. They were too busy, the nurse said, taking care of "poor Miss Davis."

The world outside my hospital window continued to revolve around Chloe. I saw news alerts on my phone. 'CEO Ethan White Buys Out Music Hall for Private Concert for Pianist Chloe Davis.' 'Famed Academic David Green Dedicates New Research Paper to His Muse, Chloe Davis.' 'Mark Miller of Miller Corp Pledges Million-Dollar Donation to Arts Foundation in Chloe Davis's Name.'

Chloe, for her part, made sure I knew it too. She sent me pictures. Pictures of her on a yacht with Ethan. Pictures of her at a fancy restaurant with David. Pictures of her in a new convertible with Mark.

Each picture came with a message.

'Thinking of you! Wish you were here to see how happy they make me!'

'Ethan said he' s never felt this way about anyone before. Isn't that sweet?'

'Mark told me I' m the sister he always wished he had.'

The pain in my arm became a dull, constant ache. The pain in my heart followed suit, numbing itself into a cold, hard knot of resignation.