Chapter 3

I lay unconscious in the damp basement for two full days.

My right hand had swelled to twice its normal size, and a raging fever made me feel as if I were burning alive inside a furnace.

In my delirium, my mind drifted back to three years ago.

Back then, Christian’s startup was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.

I gave up my scholarship to study fashion in Paris, spending endless sleepless nights churning out sketches for him until my eyes burned raw.

He used to say, “Amber, once we take the company public, I’ll give you the most lavish wedding this city has ever seen.”

He used to say, “Amber, you are the most precious person in my life.”

Turns out, the only difference between a vow and a lie is whether it’s been exposed yet.

A bucket of ice water came crashing down over my head, violently ripping me from my memories.

The freezing shock made me gasp. I opened my heavy eyes to find Christian standing above me, holding a torn gown in his hands.

It was the exact piece Cecelia had worn that night.

“Stop playing dead. Get up.”

Christian threw the gown directly onto my bruised face, his tone icy cold.

“Cecelia’s Fashion Week debut is next week. This finale gown must be restored.”

“Aren't you supposed to be some kind of design prodigy? Stitch it back together.”

I stared at the dress, then down at my crippled, deformed right hand, and let out a broken, raspy laugh.

“Christian, are you completely blind?”

“You smashed my hand. The bones are shattered to pieces. How am I supposed to sew?”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Christian crouched down, grabbing my jaw in a bruising grip and forcing my head up.

“Your right hand is broken, but you still have your left, don't you?”

“Amber, don't play dumb with me.”

“You think playing the victim is going to make me soft? In your dreams!”

“If you hadn't damaged the gown in the first place, Cecelia wouldn't have cried her eyes out on stream.”

“You owe her this, and you’re going to pay it back!”

He pulled a photograph from his suit pocket and tossed it onto my lap.

In the photo, my mother lay unconscious in a hospital bed, surrounded by life-support tubes and monitors.

“If you don't sew it, I’ll have them pull her oxygen plug right now.”

“Try me. See if I won't.”

My heart seized, feeling as if an iron hand had clamped down on it and squeezed with all its might.

That was my lifeline. My fatal flaw.

Trembling uncontrollably, I reached out with my left hand and clutched the fabric of the dress.

“I’ll do it... I’ll sew it...”

Tears fell like heavy raindrops onto the delicate fabric. Gritting my teeth against the searing agony in my right arm, I clumsily picked up the needle and thread.

My left hand refused to obey. The sharp needle stabbed repeatedly into my fingertips, staining the white satin with crimson specks.

Christian frowned in pure disgust:

“Don't get your filthy blood on the gown!”

“If you ruin it, you couldn't pay for it if you sold your own organs!”

He stood over me like a warden. The moment my movements slowed or I stopped to catch my breath, a barrage of curses and insults rained down on me.

The basement had no heating; the air was damp and biting cold.

My body burned hotter with fever, my vision swimming in and out of focus, but I didn't dare stop moving.

Cecelia dropped by occasionally to enjoy the spectacle.

Holding a warm cup of coffee, she leaned against Christian’s chest, watching me toil on the floor like an indentured slave.

“Christian, she’s working so slowly. What if she ruins my runway schedule?”

“If I miss the slot, I’ll be completely humiliated in front of all my fans.”

Christian held her tenderly, turning back to bark at me:

“Did you hear that?! Move faster!”

“If you don't finish it tonight, you don't get food, and you don't sleep!”

I could feel the life draining out of me drop by drop.

A strange, dull ache began throbbing deep in my lower abdomen, as if something precious inside me was slowly tearing away.

I assumed it was just starvation or the fever, so I ignored it.

It wasn't until the dawn of the third day.

I finally pulled the last knot tight and collapsed, utterly spent, onto the frigid floor.

Christian snatched the gown, inspected every seam meticulously, and nodded with satisfaction.

“At least you still have some use.”

Without glancing at me a second time, he turned toward the stairs.

Gathering the very last drop of strength in my body, I reached out and caught the cuff of his trousers, my voice a broken rasp:

“Christian... please... take me to a hospital...”

“My hand... it’s dying...”

Christian kicked my grip away, looking down with eyes devoid of any human pity.

“You want to go to the hospital?”

“Fine.”

“Cecelia needs an assistant to manage her train backstage at the show next week.”

“Behave yourself, do your job, and let Cecelia have her moment of glory on the runway.”

“Do that, and I might show some mercy and drop you off at a clinic.”

“Otherwise, you can just rot down here.”