Chapter 2

The rain was coming down in freezing, violent sheets by the time I reached my apartment building.

Marty, my landlord, was waiting by the door with an expectant look.

"Today's gig go smooth?" he asked, rubbing his fingers together.

I unzipped my duffel bag. I pulled out half of the cash I had just earned from the funeral home. I slapped the crumpled bills into his palm.

He was the one who hooked me up with the mortuary job. Splitting my income with him fifty-fifty every shift was my ongoing "thank you" fee.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Marty grunted, thumbing through the cash with a greedy smirk.

I didn't reply. I turned and pushed through the heavy fire door toward the stairwell.

I turned and dragged my exhausted body up the stairs. By the time I reached the second-floor landing, a wave of fatigue hit me. I leaned against the cold handrail, rubbing my aching temples in the dark, trying to summon the energy for the next two flights.

Down in the lobby, Marty assumed I was already gone. The heavy fire door to his management office creaked open, followed by the flick of a lighter.

Because of the old building's hollow stairwell, his voice drifted up with perfect clarity.

"Hey, Ethan."

My breath hitched. My hand froze on the icy railing.

"Yeah, yeah. The blood-sucker just paid up," Marty laughed. "Squeezed her dry."

I held my breath. I pressed my ear against the cold steel frame of the door.

"Raise the rent?" Marty asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Are you sure, man? She’s already eating instant noodles every night. I think she’s skipping meals to pay for your meds."

A pause. Marty snorted loudly.

"A fifty percent hike? Damn, you're brutal. But I get it. Keep her broke so she can't afford to propose to you, right? Smart move, Major Hale. A guy in your position can't be tied down by a mortician."

My stomach violently twisted.

Propose?

Just last week, I had hinted to Ethan that once his "treatment" was over, we could finally go to City Hall. He had looked so panicked, coughing up fake blood into a napkin. I thought it was because he felt inadequate. I thought he was just insecure about his illness.

He was just buying time.

"Hey, thanks for the wire transfer, by the way," Marty continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seventy-two grand split between me, Dr. Whitmore, and the rest of the crew? You are so generous.Actually, you didn't have to do that."

The concrete wall spun around me.

Seventy-two thousand dollars.

Three weeks ago, I drained my secondary savings account. Seventy-two thousand dollars. I wired it directly to Ethan’s "Swiss specialist" for an experimental lung transplant protocol. It was every dime I had saved over five long years. Every skipped meal, every sold pint of plasma, every sleepless night.

It wasn't a medical fee.

It was a bonus pool.

He took my blood money and tipped his accomplices for playing their parts. He paid them with my life.

"Alright, man. Enjoy your night with Sloane," Marty chuckled. "I'll post the eviction notice tomorrow if she doesn't cough up the new rent."

The call ended.

I didn't cry. The tears simply wouldn't come.

I walked up to the fourth floor. I unlocked unit 4B.

The apartment smelled like mildew and desperation. Ethan’s dirty socks were still kicked into the corner. His empty coffee mug stained the cheap countertop.

I walked straight into the bedroom. I grabbed a small duffel bag.

I threw in three pairs of jeans, a few shirts, and my laptop.

I walked back to the kitchen counter. I looked down at my left hand. The cheap, plastic alloy ring dug into my skin, turning my finger green.

I pulled it off. I dropped it into his dirty coffee mug. It landed with a hollow clink.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out.

I marched down the stairs and pushed through the front doors into the pouring rain.

I didn't get three steps before I saw it.

A sleek, black Maybach pulled up to the curb, its wide tires hissing against the wet pavement.

The rear door popped open.

Ethan stumbled out.

Seeing me, he was doing his signature "dying man" hunch, coughing violently into his sleeve.

"Elena!" he gasped, his voice a perfect, raspy whisper. "Baby... what are you doing out here in the rain?"

I stopped. I stared at him. The sheer audacity of his performance was almost impressive.

"I... I went out to the pharmacy to get my painkillers," Ethan panted, taking a weak, trembling step toward me. "The storm caught me. I couldn't breathe, Elena. I thought I was going to die on the street."

He pointed a shaking finger back at the Maybach.

"Luckily, some good Samaritans saw me. They gave me a ride home."

A chauffeur in a tailored suit stepped out holding a massive black umbrella. He opened the passenger door.

High heels clicked against the wet asphalt.

Sloane Bennett stepped out. Immaculate. Stunning.

"Are you alright, Ethan?" Sloane asked. Her tone was dripping with fake, polite concern. "Make sure you get inside quickly. You don't look well."

"Thank you, Sloane," Ethan coughed into his fist. "I owe you my life."

They were putting on a show right in front of my face.

But my eyes weren't on Ethan anymore. My gaze was locked on Sloane.

Specifically, on her neck.

A silver gavel pendant rested against her collarbone.

I stopped breathing.

The streetlights caught the flash of her wrist as she adjusted her coat. A vintage, platinum-set diamond bracelet.

My mother’s heirlooms.

Three years ago, Ethan's "condition" crashed. He needed an emergency lung bypass. I didn't have the cash.

I took the only things my mother had left me—her judicial gavel pendant and her wedding bracelet. I cried for two days. Ethan held me, crying with me, swearing he would buy them back for me one day.

He arranged a "private collector" who paid me pennies on the dollar to speed up the sale. I sold my family legacy to save his life.

And all this time, the "private collector" was actually Ethen himself.

He took my mother's jewelry and draped it over his mistress.

"Elena? Baby?" Ethan reached out, his hand trembling. He finally noticed the duffel bag. "Why do you have a bag? Where are you going?"

I stepped around his outstretched hand. I walked straight toward Sloane.

The chauffeur moved to block me, but Sloane waved him off with a smirk.

"Can I help you?" Sloane asked.

I stopped inches from her face. The smell of her expensive perfume mixed with the rain.

I reached out my hand, palm up.

"My mother's heirlooms," I said, my voice dead and cold. "Give them back."