Chapter 3

Claire’s POV

They restrained me when I woke.

The straps were padded. The walls were padded. Every corner in the room had been covered. Someone had even removed the plastic lid from the water cup, presumably because the Sutton family legal team had discovered that determination was sharper than most household objects.

Ethan sat beside the bed, exhausted beyond anger.

"What do you want?"

"I have answered this question with remarkable consistency."

"We won't ask you for the kidney. We won't make you apologize to Vanessa. Just stop hurting yourself."

I stared at the ceiling.

The system spoke inside my head. "Their scores are rising."

"I don't care."

"Ethan is at eighteen. Margaret is at twelve. Adrian is at nine."

"Vanessa can sneeze and erase that by dinner."

"You used to celebrate every point."

"I used to believe the points meant something."

Ethan mistook my silence for hesitation. He opened a thermos.

"Mom made chicken soup. You used to like it."

The smell turned my stomach.

For years, I had cooked for them. Ethan liked ginger but not too much. Margaret wanted every trace of oil skimmed from the surface. Adrian claimed garlic lingered on the breath, so I learned which dishes could survive without it. They knew I cooked because the food appeared. They had never cared what it cost me to make it.

Now Margaret had boiled one chicken, and the family wanted a parade.

I gagged.

Ethan snapped the lid closed. "Fine. You don't have to eat it."

The door opened.

Adrian pushed Vanessa into the room in a wheelchair. She wore a soft blue cardigan and no visible medical equipment. Apparently the wheelchair was emotional support furniture.

"I heard you weren't eating," she said. "I wanted to see you."

I closed my eyes.

Adrian moved closer to the bed. "You could at least acknowledge her."

I didn't.

"She dragged herself here because she's worried about you. You keep doing these things to force our attention, and now that you have it, you punish everyone for giving it to you."

I opened my eyes.

"If I wanted your attention, Adrian, I would ask you to explain venture capital at dinner. You'd never stop talking."

Ethan covered his mouth. It might have been a cough.

Adrian's jaw tightened.

Vanessa touched his sleeve. "Don't be angry. Claire is sick."

Then she looked at me.

"If you truly think my death would make you happy, maybe I should—"

She rose from the wheelchair and stumbled toward the padded wall.

It was a beautiful performance. The room had been designed to prevent injury, she had two men within arm's reach, and she moved slowly enough for both to react.

Ethan and Adrian rushed to stop her.

"Vanessa!"

Their attention left me.

One restraint had loosened during Ethan's visits. I pulled free, tore loose from the rest, and crossed the room before anyone understood what I intended.

"If we're doing this," I said, grabbing Vanessa, "let's commit."

Her sorrow vanished.

"Get off me!"

That was the first honest thing I'd heard from her all week.

I dragged her toward the window. Someone had opened it a few inches for ventilation. The safety latch slowed me, but adrenaline made patience unnecessary.

Wind burst into the room.

We were eighteen floors above the street.

Vanessa screamed and clawed at my hands. Her perfect hair shifted under my grip.

"Claire, don't!" Ethan shouted.

Adrian caught Vanessa around the waist.

I climbed onto the ledge with her.

"You said you'd die for us," I told her. "I'm helping."

"I didn't mean it!"

There. Another honest sentence.

I laughed and let gravity decide the rest.

For one clean second, I was airborne.

Then Ethan and Adrian caught Vanessa by the legs.

Her hair came off in my hand.

I had just enough time to recognize the expensive wig before I dropped alone.