Chapter 4

I stood there holding the phone. Frozen.

The head nurse looked at me with something like pity.

"Emma… maybe you could call your mom?"

My mom?

The woman who had to log every grocery receipt and get it approved?

I shook my head.

"It's okay."

"Please start the discharge paperwork."

"But your hand—"

"I'm not getting treated."

If the world was going to be this rotten, I didn't have to keep pretending to be a good girl.

I went home once — while no one was there.

I packed everything that was mine.

Except for the written declaration severing ties with my father. That I left behind.

My rare vinyl records. My formal gowns. Every gold medal I'd earned since childhood.

All of it went up on eBay.

Priced to sell. Cash only.

With that money, I rented a small apartment in the next town over — one with an elevator.

Then I found a private rehabilitation center.

I'd missed the optimal treatment window. I'd never play technically demanding pieces again. But the doctor said with enough hard work, I could regain basic use of my hand for everyday life.

I used to be the national youth piano championship winner.

Now I was someone who couldn't hold a fork without trembling.

But I didn't cry.

I'd cried all my tears out that afternoon. There was nothing left.

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Half a month later.

I was in the middle of rehab, sweating through grip exercises with a silicone ball.

The door to my room swung open.

My father walked in with Anya and Sandra. The three of them moved like they owned the place.

His face was tight. He was holding a document.

"Emma! What are you doing hiding out here?"

"Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?"

I ignored him. Kept squeezing the ball, jaw clenched.

Every squeeze felt like tearing something loose inside my hand.

Anya was chewing gum, bored out of her mind.

"Told you she was hiding, Dr. Lin."

"So dramatic. It's just a hand injury. It's not like she's dying."

My father dropped the document on my bedside table with a slap.

I glanced at it.

Voluntary Waiver of Liability.

For the competition organizing committee.

"Word got back to the committee that Anya hurt someone. They're threatening to revoke her entry."

My father said it like he was stating obvious logic.

"If you sign this — admit that you hurt yourself accidentally — they'll reinstate her spot."

"Anya is on the verge of winning gold. You can't let something this small ruin her future."

I hurt myself.

I stopped moving. I turned and looked at him.

"She waited until I wasn't looking and brought a solid wood piano lid — dozens of pounds — crashing down on my hand."

"And you're calling that me hurting myself?"

"Dr. Lin, how do you even say that out loud?"

His eyes shifted for just a second. Then the authority snapped back into place.

"If you say it happened that way, then that's how it happened."

"I'm the certified expert. I know how to handle these things."

"Sign it. Stop wasting everyone's time."

Sandra chimed in helpfully from the side.

"Exactly, Emma. We're practically family. Why make everything so tense?"

"If Anya gets banned, how is she supposed to have a career?"

"Why do you have to be so vindictive?"

I looked at the three of them.

And suddenly the whole thing felt almost absurd.

"And if I don't sign?"

Anya spat her gum on the floor, crossed the room, and shoved me — hard.

I was already off-balance. I hit the ground.

My right hand caught the floor. The pain was blinding.

"Ahh—"

I cried out.

My father flinched, started instinctively toward me.

Anya stopped him.

"Don't baby her, Dr. Lin."

"She's faking."

"Emma, listen to me. You're signing this today whether you want to or not."

"Every time I see you, I'll make you hurt. Every single time."

She raised her foot — in heels — directly over my bandaged right hand.

"Stop!"

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