Chapter Three

Chloe's POV

Searing pain shot through my scalp.

Kelvin dragged me backward by my hair. I stumbled and fell, the back of my head slamming into a fire hydrant. White light exploded across my vision.

"You think saying 'cancel the wedding' is the end of it?" Kelvin's voice pressed down from above. "Emily's about to be discharged, and you just had to cause a scene today, didn't you?"

Allen stood there, unmoving.

Emily's eyes instantly welled with tears. "Kelvin, don't do this... It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gotten sick. If it weren't for me, Chloe wouldn't have donated her kidney, and she wouldn't be angry..."

"Stop talking nonsense!" Kelvin yanked my hair harder. I heard the sound of strands breaking. "Can you choose whether to get sick? Some people are just selfish—can't stand seeing others happy!"

Allen finally moved. He walked over, but instead of pulling Kelvin away, he crouched down to look at me.

"Chloe, apologize," he said softly. "Say sorry to Emily, then go back to your room. I'll pretend today never happened."

"I did nothing wrong," I said.

Allen's eyes turned cold.

"Fine." He stood up and nodded to Kelvin. "Let her cool off."

Kelvin smiled. I'd seen that smile seventeen times before—the same expression whenever he "taught me a lesson" for Emily's sake.

He dragged me toward the emergency exit. I struggled, my surgical incision tearing open, warm blood soaking through my hospital gown.

Allen turned back to the room. As the door closed, I heard Emily's laughter.

"Let go..." I rasped.

Kelvin didn't stop. He kicked open the emergency exit door and hauled me up the stairs. One step, two steps—my knees slammed against the concrete, bones making dull thuds.

He kicked open the rooftop door.

Cold wind rushed in, slicing across my skin like blades. I wore only a thin hospital gown, my seven-day-old incision exposed to the bitter wind.

"Stay here until you come to your senses." Kelvin threw me to the ground and turned to lock the door.

The iron door slammed shut.

The lock clicked.

I lunged forward, pounding on the door. "Kelvin! I'm having an allergic reaction! I need antihistamines! Let me out!"

Footsteps faded away outside.

I slumped against the ground. My throat began to swell, as if invisible hands were choking me. The rash spread to my neck, every breath bringing sharp, itchy pain.

I curled up in a corner. In the distance, the city glowed with Christmas lights, faint cheers echoing from the streets. In the hospital parking lot below, I spotted familiar cars. My family, my fiancé, all surrounding Emily as she was whisked away like a princess cherished by royalty.

The car left the hospital and turned right—toward Brazilian Flame restaurant, Emily's favorite.

I coughed, tasting blood.

My body temperature was dropping. Surgical blood loss combined with the allergic reaction—cold seeped into my bones like countless needles.

I fumbled through my pockets. Empty. My phone was in my room, along with my insulin pump and emergency call button.

I was going to die here.

When this realization surfaced, I felt strangely calm. Like reaching the end of a marathon—once you fell, you didn't have to get back up.

Something glinted in the corner.

I crawled over, my fingers stiff with cold. It was an old lighter, its metal casing mostly rusted.

I pressed down. A flame shot up an inch, flickering violently in the wind.

I cupped that tiny light. The heat was pathetically weak, but at least it was warm.

Snow began to fall.

Fine flakes landed on my hands, melting instantly. I stared at the flame, remembering Christmas Eve when I was seven. Emily hadn't come yet. Mom held me by the fireplace while Dad and Kelvin assembled a Christmas train set. The air smelled of hot cocoa and gingerbread. Mom called me her little champion, said I'd win Grand Slams someday.

The flame wavered.

Age ten, Emily's first year with us. My tennis coach said I had rare talent and suggested sending me to Florida for training. Dad shook his head. "Too expensive. Emily needs tennis lessons too." That afternoon, I watched Emily secretly feed my training schedule into the paper shredder.

The flame grew smaller.

Sixteen, the finals of the US Junior Championships. I had a 102-degree fever but finished the match anyway. I collapsed during the award ceremony. When I woke up, the hospital room was empty. A nurse said my family had gone with Emily. "She has an exhibition match tomorrow. Can't be delayed."

The flame turned blue.

Twenty-five, I earned a wild card for a professional tournament. Allen proposed at the celebration dinner, the diamond ring sliding onto my finger just as Emily suddenly collapsed. Diagnosis: kidney failure. Dad looked at me. "You're her sister. You have the highest compatibility rate."

The flame began to flicker.

Last week's operating table. Allen kissed my forehead before anesthesia. "After you donate your kidney, we'll get married. I promise."

The flame went out.

The lighter had run out of fuel. Darkness swallowed everything. Snow fell harder, accumulating on my eyelashes. My throat swelled until I couldn't breathe—every inhalation felt like swallowing glass.

I lay down, gazing at the snowy sky.

It was better this way.

I wouldn't have to count how many times they loved Emily anymore. No more staring at my phone in the middle of the night, waiting for a "good night" text that would never come. No more fantasizing that someday they'd remember I was allergic to nuts.

This was the eighty-eighth time they chose not to love me.

Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

When the rooftop door was finally opened, my world had already fallen into complete darkness.