Chapter 5

My father finally spoke up.

Not to protect me.

To protect himself.

"Anya, keep your hands to yourself. There are cameras in here."

He pulled Anya back and looked down at me from where I lay on the floor.

"Emma. I'm asking you one last time. Are you signing or not?"

"If you don't sign, don't expect another cent from me. Ever."

"And don't bother coming home."

I was on the floor, soaked in cold sweat from the pain.

But I started laughing.

"Home?"

"The home where my surgery money was handed to the person who broke my hand so she could buy a violin?"

"The home where my own father lied for the person who attacked me?"

"Richard. Did you forget?"

"I already cut ties with you."

With my left hand, I pulled a backup phone out of my pocket.

The screen showed it was recording.

"Anya shoving me just now. All of you pressuring me to sign a false statement. I got it all."

"This time, I'm not letting any of you walk away from this."

My father's face went white.

"You… you set me up?"

I pushed myself up off the floor, inch by inch.

Like a hawk with a broken wing — but with the eyes of something far more dangerous.

"You taught me, Dad."

"A physician deals in objective facts."

My father panicked.

He was one of the top specialists in the country. He knew better than anyone what reputation was worth.

Anya shoving me — causing a second injury. Combined with audio of them pressuring a victim to sign a false statement and admitting to falsifying the original assessment.

If any of this got out, his career was finished.

"Emma, give me the phone."

His tone softened. Trying to use family as leverage.

"We're family. We can talk this through."

"Anya just has a short temper. She didn't mean it."

I watched his hand reach toward me.

"Grab the phone, Anya."

Sandra's voice cut across the room.

Anya lunged for it.

I'd been ready. I hit send.

The file went straight to cloud storage — and simultaneously to several prominent music journalists I'd already contacted.

"Too late."

I dropped the phone on the floor.

"It's already out."

Anya stomped it to pieces, then grabbed my collar.

"You little—you set me up?"

Then the door burst open.

Security flooded in, followed by my attending physician.

"Hey! What the hell is going on in here!"

The doctor took one look at me on the floor — blood seeping through the bandaging — and went pale with fury.

"She's in recovery. This is deliberate assault!"

"Call the police. Right now."

The police arrived fast. It was a hospital — a public space — and the conduct was flagrant.

Anya was cuffed on the spot.

Sandra threw herself on the floor, wailing that I was trying to frame them.

My father stood in the corner like a statue someone had forgotten to animate.

He looked at me. No guilt in his eyes. Only the stunned, burning anger of a man who'd been defied.

"Emma. You've deeply disappointed me."

His voice was hoarse, but he was still trying to hold onto that tone — authoritative, above it all.

"Is this you destroying Anya? Destroying your own father?"

I climbed back into my treatment chair. The nurse came over and rewrapped the bandaging.

Blood seeped slowly through the gauze, blooming like something ugly.

I looked up at him. My voice was perfectly calm.

"Dad, it's not me that's destroying you."

"It's your greed. Your favoritism. And that self-righteous idea you have of what 'integrity' looks like."

I paused, like I was just reminding him of something routine.

"Also — while you still have a license, find yourself a good lawyer."

"I'm going all the way with this."

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That night, the video went viral.