Chapter 7 No.7

Chadwick scrambled off the sofa, knocking over a lamp in his haste. He grabbed the phone.

"Hello?"

Johnna sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She watched the blood drain from Chadwick's face. He looked like he had been punched in the gut.

"I'm coming," he said. "I'm coming right now."

He hung up and looked at Johnna. His eyes were wild.

"It's Ansley," he said. "Gussie says she took pills. She's... she's unresponsive."

Johnna felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Suicide attempt.

Chadwick was already pulling on his pants. "I have to go."

The door to their room opened. Grandfather Dyer stood there, leaning on his cane, fully dressed in a three-piece suit. He must have been listening. Or maybe he had spies everywhere.

"You are not going alone," Grandfather said. His voice was like grinding stones.

"Grandfather, this is an emergency," Chadwick snapped.

"It is a potential scandal," Grandfather corrected. "If you run to your ex-girlfriend's bedside alone while your wife is in the house, the press will eat us alive. Stock prices will wobble." He pointed his cane at Johnna. "She goes with you. You present a united front. You are supporting an 'old family friend'."

Chadwick looked at Johnna, pleading.

Johnna felt bile rise in her throat. This was sick. "I'm not going."

"You will go," Grandfather said, his eyes narrowing. "Or I will have my security team pay a visit to that little restoration studio you slipped into yesterday. I have people looking into the building's ownership as we speak. I can have the place condemned by noon."

Johnna stared at the old man. He was a monster. He didn't know everything yet, but he knew enough to destroy her sanctuary.

"Fine," she spat.

Ten minutes later, they were in the family helicopter, cutting through the grey morning sky toward Manhattan.

They landed on the roof of a private hospital on the Upper East Side. They rushed down the stairs to the VIP wing.

The hallway was crowded with Heath family members and private security. Gussie Heath, Ansley's mother, saw Chadwick and launched herself at him, wailing theatrically.

"She just wants to be loved!" Gussie screamed, glaring at Johnna over Chadwick's shoulder.

Johnna stepped back, pressing herself against the wall. She felt like an intruder in a soap opera.

Through the glass window of the private room, she could see the bed.

Ansley lay there. She was hooked up to monitors, but she looked... peaceful. Perfectly arranged. Her blonde hair was fanned out on the pillow. She was wearing a silk nightgown that looked suspiciously like one Johnna owned.

Johnna squinted.

The profile. The slope of the nose. The way the hair was cut.

It wasn't just that Ansley was beautiful. It was that she looked like Johnna. Or rather, Johnna looked like her.

A memory flashed in Johnna's mind. Chadwick, three years ago, seeing Johnna for the first time at a gallery opening. The look on his face hadn't been lust. It had been recognition. Shock.

He hadn't fallen for Johnna. He had fallen for a ghost. He had married her because she looked like the girl he couldn't have.

The realization hit her so hard she grabbed the handrail to keep from falling. She wasn't the protagonist of this story. She was the understudy. The cheap replica.

Chadwick pulled away from Gussie and rushed into the room. He knelt by the bed, taking Ansley's hand.

Ansley's eyelids fluttered open. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek.

"Chad," she whispered.

Johnna watched through the glass. She felt her heart turn to ice. It wasn't pain anymore. It was absolute, freezing clarity.

Grandfather Dyer appeared beside her. "Focus," he muttered. "Look concerned."

Johnna looked at him, then back at the pathetic scene in the room.

"No," she said.

She pushed past the old man and opened the door to the room.

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