Chapter 4

The school café was packed, but I just wanted to hide in a corner somewhere.

I couldn't stop thinking about yesterday. Blake's kiss, the look on his face when I pushed him away, the way I'd said "just friends" like it meant nothing. I'd screwed everything up.

I grabbed my coffee and found a seat by the window, pretending to do homework. But all I could think about was how Blake barely looked at me in the hallway today. That fake smile he gave me before turning away.

"So you're the girl who's keeping my son from getting better."

I looked up to find a woman sliding into the seat across from me like she owned the place.

She was maybe forty, with perfect blonde hair and a suit that probably cost more than my dad made in a month. But it was her eyes that made my skin crawl—cold and calculating.

"Um, sorry, who are you?"

"Isabella Thompson. Blake's stepmother." Her smile was razor-sharp. "We need to have a little chat."

My stomach dropped. In all the times I'd lived through this, I'd never met her. Blake had never even mentioned having a stepmother.

"Blake never said—"

"That I existed?" Isabella laughed. "Seems like Blake's been keeping secrets from you."

She crossed her legs like she was settling in for a business meeting, not cornering some random high school kid.

"Look, I don't know what you want, but—"

"Cut the crap, Maya Rodriguez. I know exactly who you are." Isabella pulled out an iPad, swiped through it, then turned it toward me. "The Bern Neurological Center in Switzerland. Best spinal injury treatment in the world."

The screen showed this insane-looking medical facility, all glass and steel like something out of a movie.

"Ninety percent success rate for cases like Blake's. Real recovery, not whatever you two are playing at."

My heart was hammering. "Then why isn't he there?"

"Because he won't go." Isabella's voice went ice-cold.

She stared at me like I was something stuck to her shoe.

"My stepson says he wants to stay here, do 'regular therapy' at this pathetic excuse for a school. Says he has someone he cares about."

Each word felt like a slap. Blake turned down real treatment because of me?

"I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't. Blake doesn't want you to feel guilty. How sweet."

The sarcasm in her voice could have cut glass.

"But I'm not letting some teenage girl destroy my son's future."

"I'm not destroying anything!" My voice came out louder than I meant. "I'm trying to help him!"

"Help him?" Isabella's laugh made people at other tables look over. "You think those joke exercises will get him walking? You think your little crush is going to work miracles?"

She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper that somehow felt more threatening than shouting:

"Blake needs real doctors, not some kid playing nurse."

I felt sick. "You don't understand what we have—"

"I understand plenty." Isabella pulled out a thick manila folder. "Like how your father Carlos Rodriguez has been taking kickbacks on city construction projects."

Everything went silent.

"What?"

"Fake invoices, offshore accounts, bank records." Isabella flipped through pages of documents like she was showing me a photo album. "Enough to put him away for a decade."

My hands were shaking so bad I could barely focus on the numbers swimming in front of me.

"My dad wouldn't—"

"The paperwork says otherwise." Isabella snapped the folder shut. "Whether the DA sees this depends entirely on you."

And there it was. Not a conversation—a threat.

"What do you want?" My voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Simple. Break up with Blake. Let him go to Switzerland." Isabella's smile was pure poison. "Everyone wins. Blake walks again, your daddy stays out of prison."

"And if I don't?"

"Tomorrow morning, these files land on the district attorney's desk. Your father gets arrested, you lose your house, and Blake gets to watch his girlfriend's dad get dragged away in handcuffs. Think he'll still want to be with you after that?"

Every word hit like a physical blow. I wanted to tell her to go to hell, that this was blackmail, that she couldn't do this. But she was right. Once this got out, everything would be over.

"I need time."

"Twenty-four hours." Isabella stood up, smoothing down her perfect jacket. "By tomorrow night, Blake agrees to Switzerland. Or else."

She didn't need to finish. The threat was crystal clear.

I watched her walk out like she'd just ordered coffee instead of destroying my life.

My phone buzzed. Text from Blake:

[Hey, I know you're avoiding me, but I wanted to apologize. 😔Shouldn't have kissed you. We're still cool, right? You coming to therapy today? Got some good news to share.]

I stared at the screen as tears started falling.

When I got home, Dad was passed out on the couch with blueprints scattered across his chest. He looked exhausted, older than his fifty years, gray creeping into his hair.

I pulled a blanket over him, studying his face. All those late nights, all that stress—was it because he was stealing? Was everything we had built on lies?

If Isabella was telling the truth, if he really did take that money, it was for me. For Mom's medical bills, for my college fund, for giving me a life he never had.

Could I let him go to prison?

But what about Blake? If I walked away, he'd go to Switzerland. He'd actually get better, maybe even walk again. Isabella was right—I was just some high school kid. What could I really do for him?

My phone lit up again. Another text from Blake:

[Almost forgot—thanks for making me believe in miracles again. Whatever happens, I'll never forget what you've given me. Night, Maya.❤️]

I completely lost it.

The tears came hard and fast, and I had to bite my hand to keep from sobbing out loud. I couldn't wake Dad up. Not when his whole world might come crashing down tomorrow.

Was this even a choice? Dad's freedom versus Blake's future?

But there wasn't really a choice, was there? I couldn't send my father to prison. I couldn't destroy both our families.

And maybe Isabella was right. Blake deserved real treatment, not some clueless teenager pretending she could fix him. In Switzerland, he could actually get his life back.

Besides, I'm supposed to die in two months anyway. If Blake's gone, he won't die trying to save me. I won't be stuck in this loop forever.

That made it less selfish, right?

I wiped my face, picked up my phone, and started typing:

[Blake, we need to talk...]