Chapter 2

Ten years earlier, Lydia had developed a rare blood disorder and needed a closely matched stem-cell donor. The private hospital funded by the Walsh family found me in its registry. I was nineteen, working nights at a nursing home to pay the medical bills for my grandmother, Evelyn Harper.

The hospital did not kidnap me. It was more civilized than that. A Walsh family attorney laid Evelyn's unpaid hospital bills in front of me and promised the foundation would cover every cent if I signed the donation and nondisclosure agreements. If I refused, my grandmother would be discharged from rehab the next morning.

The agreement was dozens of pages long, packed with risks, waivers, and declarations that my consent was voluntary. The attorney gave me ten minutes to decide and reminded me that the foundation helped hundreds of patients and could not make exceptions for an ungrateful family. I asked for an independent lawyer. He said the offer expired that day. Evelyn had just come out of surgery and could barely sit up. There was no choice. Not a real one.

I signed. Over the next month, I endured three bone marrow harvests and repeated blood-cell collections. Severe infections knocked me unconscious more than once, but the doctors kept saying Lydia's counts were unstable and asking me to "volunteer" again. I learned later that she was already in remission. They were stockpiling cells and keeping a living donor on call for her convenience.

The complications wrecked my health. A few years later, crushing headaches sent me in for imaging, and the scans showed a tumor in my brain. Lydia accessed the report through the foundation and had the clinic send every follow-up notice to an abandoned address. By the time I learned the truth, the tumor had compressed my optic nerves. Even the best surgeon could only buy me time.

At first, darkness only flickered at the edges of my vision. I blamed too many night shifts. Then I could not read the signs in the subway, and I sliced my hand while cutting fruit for Noah. I went to a community clinic without telling anyone. The doctor could not find my old scans, so the referral process started from scratch. When a specialist finally pieced the records together, he went quiet and asked why I had missed three follow-ups. That was how I learned the letters that might have saved me had never reached my door.

Alex's questions dragged me back to the present. I lowered my chin. "I was born blind. You've mistaken me for someone else."

He was about to ask more when a familiar voice came from behind. "Mia, I've been looking everywhere for you. It's freezing out here. Why didn't you wait for me?"

Victor Kane had arrived.

Every muscle in my body locked. Victor ran a private club and blackmailed wealthy clients with hidden-camera footage. He was the deepest nightmare of my life.

He reached for me with a show of tenderness, but I jerked back. "Don't touch me. We settled things a long time ago. Please, stay away from Noah."

Lydia seized on those words immediately, leaning close to Alex and whispering, "See? She and Victor never ended things. Those photos from back then weren't a mistake."

Reporters were already camped outside waiting for Lydia. Alex did not send them away. He let every camera capture Victor draping his coat over my shoulders. "You lied to me five years ago so you could run off with him," he said. "Now you want to play the victim to my face. When these pictures hit the tabloids tomorrow, we'll see how long Victor keeps you."

I could not defend myself. Five years earlier, Margaret Walsh had offered me seven hundred thousand dollars in hush money on one condition: I could never tell Alex the truth.

That night, I drank the warm milk the housekeeper brought me. Within half an hour, I was dizzy and weak. I locked myself in the bathroom and called Alex. He answered by telling me that Lydia's medical documentary wanted Evelyn Harper's records and postmortem images, and that Walsh attorneys had already obtained consent for the production.

Glasses clinked on the other end of the call. Lydia was with him, talking to a producer about the documentary's award chances. I said Alex's name again and again. I told him someone was outside the apartment and that there might have been something in the milk. He dismissed it as jealousy and asked why I had to cause a scene every time something important happened to Lydia.

"That consent is forged!" I clutched the phone. "I'm Evelyn's only living relative. I never agreed to let you put her body and medical records on-screen. Alex, please come home. Something is wrong here..."

"The production team is already at the hospital. I'm only calling to let you know." He hung up.