Chapter 1

Chelsea's POV

I was lucky enough to survive. The doctors managed to bring me back.

"The patient has regained a spontaneous heartbeat. Tell her family to get to the hospital immediately!"

When I opened my eyes, I saw the nurse holding my phone, making a second call to Dad.

She turned on the speakerphone, and Dad's voice came through the receiver. "If she's been saved, we'll wait until the party is over. Today is her younger sister's birthday. It only happens once in a lifetime. The whole family can't just leave."

"Your daughter, Chelsea Weston, just went into cardiac arrest. We need to confirm her medical history as soon as possible." The nurse was barely containing her anger as she asked, "Could you tell us what kind of coagulation disorder she has? What medication does she take regularly?"

A brief silence followed on the other end of the line. Dad couldn't answer that question.

I heard Mom take the phone from him and say impatiently, "Her condition isn't that serious. She was only tested once when she was little. Don't let her fool you. She tends to exaggerate things."

The doctor stood beside my bed and glanced at the test results. "Her hemoglobin level is 5.8 g/dL. There's also internal bleeding in her abdominal cavity. And you call that not serious?"

Mom paused for a moment before asking, "Let me ask you this. Haven't you already saved her?"

"She has only been temporarily resuscitated."

Mom said nonchalantly, "Oh, well, just keep monitoring for now. Her younger sister is about to cut the birthday cake. All the guests are waiting. We'll come by later."

The call ended. The nurse was still clutching my phone, unable to put it down for a long time.

I wanted to tell her not to call again, but the breathing tube hadn't been removed yet. I couldn't even manage a single complete syllable, so I could only raise my left hand slightly.

My wrist was bare, save for a faint indentation on the skin.

The doctor noticed it and asked, "Were you wearing a medical ID bracelet?"

I blinked. It was a silver tag about the size of my thumb. My name was engraved on the front, while the back listed my medical condition and emergency treatment instructions.

When I was diagnosed at the age of seven, Mom had personally fastened it around my wrist, telling me never to take it off, no matter where I went.

This afternoon, when my younger sister, Yara Weston, was getting dressed for the birthday party, she felt that her neckline looked too bare.

So, Mom took off my medical tag. She fastened the silver chain around Yara's neck and reassured me, "She's just borrowing it for a little while. I'll return it after the party. You're not even leaving the hotel. What could possibly happen to you?"

Later, the hotel discovered that a box of custom-made commemorative albums documenting Yara's growth was missing. Mom told me to collect it from the printing shop.

It was snowing outside. I told her I felt dizzy and didn't want to go. Yet, she still shoved the collection slip into my hand.

She said accusingly, "Yara is the star of the day. What's so difficult about making one trip for your younger sister? Why do you always start feeling unwell whenever she has an important occasion?"

And so, I went outside. But Yara was still wearing my medical tag.

The emergency doctor found an old medical report, folded into quarters, in my coat pocket. The words had been blurred by the melted snow, leaving only the diagnosis legible.

He placed the report in a clear plastic folder and instructed a nurse to contact the hematology department. Then he looked down at me and asked, "Does your family have a complete copy of your medical records?"

I closed my eyes. They did. Those records were in the bottom drawer of the living room cabinet, along with Yara's childhood health checkup reports.