Chapter 4

Chloe drifted in and out of sleep for days. When she was awake, she was silent. She'd stare at the ceiling, or out the window, but her eyes were empty. She ate what I gave her without protest, took her medicine without a fuss. It was scarier than her tantrums.

Was she waiting for her mother? I didn't know. I didn't dare ask.

The silence in the room was heavy. Broken only by the beeping of machines and my own quiet movements.

One afternoon, she was staring out the window. The city bustled below, oblivious.

"Chloe?" I said softly.

She didn't turn.

"Are you angry at your mom?"

A tiny shake of her head.

"Are you sad?"

Another shake.

I sat on the edge of her bed. "What are you feeling?"

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were dull. "Nothing."

My heart ached.

"You know," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "it's okay to be angry. It's okay to be sad."

She just looked away.

The next day, she asked, "Why aren't you scared?"

"Scared of what?"

"Of getting sick. From me."

I thought for a moment. The truth felt simple, yet huge.

"Because I love you, Chloe."

Her eyes widened. Just a fraction.

"You do?" It was a tiny, doubtful sound.

"Yes. You're brave. And you see things clearly. Even when it hurts."

A small, cynical smile touched her lips. "Brave? Or just stupid?"

"Brave," I insisted. I took her hand. "And you deserve to be loved. Really loved."

I started telling her stories again. Not fairy tales. Stories about strong girls. Girls who fought for themselves. Girls who didn't let anyone tell them they weren't good enough.

Slowly, a tiny spark returned to her eyes.

When she was finally discharged, Mrs. Davis didn't come. She sent the driver.

Chloe didn't ask about her.

Back at the mansion, something was different. Chloe's old room, the one with the sunny window, was being redecorated.

Bright blue paint. Spaceship decals.

"What's going on?" Chloe asked, her voice flat.

One of the painters, a young guy, looked uncomfortable. "Uh, this is for Ethan, miss."

Chloe walked into the room. Her room. Or what was her room.

Mrs. Davis appeared in the doorway, a triumphant smile on her face.

"Isn't it lovely, Chloe? Ethan will adore his new room. The best in the house, for my special boy."

Chloe stared at her mother. "But... this was my room."

"Was," Mrs. Davis said, her voice sweet as poison. "Things change, dear. Ethan needs the space. He needs the sunlight. He's the important one."

"Why?" Chloe's voice was dangerously quiet. "Why is he more important?"

Mrs. Davis's smile vanished. "Because he is. And you, young lady, need to learn your place."

Chloe's fists clenched. "You always liked him better!"

"He's a boy! He'll carry on the family name! What are you?" Mrs. Davis sneered. "A disappointment. A problem."

"I hate you!" Chloe screamed, her voice cracking.

Mrs. Davis's eyes narrowed. She turned to me. Her voice dripped venom. "This is your fault."