Chapter 8 Don’t act cheap with me.

Elena's POV

My mother's name flashed on my phone screen for the fourth time.

I'd dismissed the first three calls while handling a case, but I knew perfectly well that if I ignored this one, she'd probably drive straight to my office.

"Mom."

"Elena! Thank God you finally answered!"

The voice on the other end was so shrill I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've called you? Are you working late again? I've told you a thousand times not to push yourself so hard! Did you go to that spa Sabrina found for you?"

If there were a mirror in front of me right now, I'm sure I could see exactly how exhausted I looked.

Days of back-to-back work and last night's harrowing events had worn down every last bit of my patience.

"Mom, I'm busy."

I put the phone on speaker and set it on my desk, taking a sip of stone-cold coffee while continuing to review the contract in front of me.

"What do you need?"

Her voice immediately sharpened.

"What! I gave birth to you, and I can't even call my own daughter? We love you so much—we even had Sabrina for you! This is how ungrateful you are?"

Here we go again.

Every single time I didn't do exactly what my mother wanted, she pulled out this script. I could practically recite it word for word by now.

I was exhausted, drained in every way.

What could I even say? It was the truth, wasn't it?

My mother repeated those words over and over, but I still had so many documents to handle.

My mind felt hazy—did they really do all this for me?

They called it love, but all I felt was exhaustion and suffocation.

I rubbed my temples, trying my best to keep my tone pleasant.

"Of course not. You can call me anytime. I'm sorry."

As always, once she heard my apology, her anger subsided.

Sometimes I wondered if she deliberately called when I was busiest, just to make sure she'd hear me apologize and submit completely.

"Actually, I just wanted to ask if you went to that spa Sabrina arranged for you. You know your leg pain has been getting worse."

73 Berlin Street.

Gang shootout.

Blood.

And that strange masseur.

My hand jerked, and coffee sloshed onto the open contract.

Damn it.

I grabbed tissues from the box on my desk and blotted frantically at the contract, but the brown stain glared up at me accusingly.

I hit the intercom.

"There's a contract that needs to be reprinted."

As I hung up, my mother's voice grew even shriller.

"Your mother is on the phone with you, and I expect you to pay attention instead of abandoning me to do something else. God! This is my fault for not raising you better!"

"Mom, you know that's not what I meant! I just need to reprint a contract."

But she was already lost in her own world.

"Work! Work! Is that all you know? Do you have any idea how much trouble Sabrina went to for you? You didn't even go, did you?"

All I know?

How else would Sabrina afford that lavish coming-of-age party, not to mention that absurdly expensive study abroad program?

My mother continued on the other end.

"Since you were little, what haven't I given you? This whole family serves you, and I expect you to learn some gratitude and accept what we do for you!"

I felt numb.

I'd been hearing these words since I was five years old.

My mother's lectures were like a broken record—once the needle dropped, it was always the same tune.

You owe this family.

I chose silence as usual, because I knew it was the fastest way to end the conversation—obedience.

"Sabrina just called asking if you went to that spa. Don't break her heart."

The bitter ache in my chest was hard to bear.

Maybe the gunshot wound had made me vulnerable, made it harder to endure the way I used to.

"If Sabrina hadn't insisted on street racing the day she got her license, if she hadn't crashed and then run away in fear, if my leg hadn't been pinned under that car for five hours before anyone found me, my leg would be fine!"

I exhaled sharply.

I'd said it.

I'd finally said it.

I knew I was about to face my mother's fury, but I didn't regret the words.

"Elena! How many times do I have to tell you? You were in the passenger seat! As her older sister, you should have been watching her!"

My mother's voice yanked me back to reality.

"Get downstairs now! I'm coming with you!"

I knew I hadn't misremembered, but ever since that day, somehow the entire family had aligned on the same version of events.

My mother's sharp voice came through the phone again.

"Hurry up! If you don't come down, I'm not leaving today!"

"What!"

I sat up straight.

"Where are you?"

"Downstairs at your office!"

I walked to the window and looked down.

There she was, standing in front of the building, phone in one hand and an insulated lunch container in the other.

I stood at the window in silence for about a minute.

That container probably held apple pie.

Sometimes I really couldn't tell whether my family loved me or not.

Maybe they did, in their way.

I grabbed my car keys and headed downstairs.

The car merged into the night, and soon we were on Berlin Street.

When we pulled up to 73 Berlin Street and got out, the spa's lights were off.

The blood on the ground had been cleaned up—everything was as if nothing had ever happened.

No lights.

Probably closed, right?

Please—I really didn't want to see that pervert masseur again.

Under my mother's expectant gaze, I reluctantly knocked on the spa door.

On the third knock, the heavy walnut door swung open from inside—it was him.

That masseur.

"Well, don't just stand there!" my mother's voice urged from behind me.

The creepy masseur wore a professional smile—

"Ms. Elena! You still haven't learned to call ahead for an appointment, but... please, come in."