Chapter 1

"Molly' s recital is her last dream, Jocelyn. Your hands are a perfect match. It' s just a small risk."

Ethan' s voice was calm, reasonable, like he was asking me to pass the salt at dinner, not to sacrifice my entire future.

We were in his pristine apartment, the one overlooking the conservatory where we both studied. My cello, my ticket out of a life I' d fought to escape, leaned against the wall.

I stared at my hands. They weren' t just flesh and bone; they were my voice, my story, the only things of value I had ever truly owned. Eight years with Ethan, and he looked at them like they were spare parts.

"No, Ethan," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "Absolutely not."

His face, usually so handsome and charming, tightened.

"Don' t be selfish. Think about what Molly is going through. Her hands are failing her. This is her one last chance."

Molly Blakely. His childhood friend. The girl who claimed a rare nerve condition was stealing her dream of being a pianist. The girl who looked at me with a mix of pity and contempt.

"And my dream?" I asked. "What about my scholarship? My career? My hands are my life."

"You' re being dramatic," he scoffed. "I' ve given you everything. A good life, a way out of that hellhole you came from. The least you can do is show a little gratitude and help my friend."

He said it so easily, as if the eight years I' d spent by his side, the love I thought we shared, was just a transaction. I was the charity case, and the bill was finally due.

I refused again. I told him it was insane. He didn't argue further. He just gave me a look I had never seen before-cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of affection.

He said he was throwing a small get-together, a "support party" for Molly, to cheer her up after my refusal. He begged me to come, to show there were no hard feelings. Like a fool, I believed him.

The party was at his friend's penthouse. The moment I walked in, the atmosphere felt wrong. Ethan' s friends, the ones who always looked down on me, were watching me too closely.

Ethan handed me a drink. I took a sip. That was my last clear memory.

I woke up on a leather couch. My left hand was wrapped in thick white bandages. A sharp, chemical smell filled my nostrils. Two of Ethan' s friends were holding my shoulders down. A man I didn't recognize, with a cheap-looking medical bag, was packing his things.

Panic seized me. I tried to move my fingers, but they felt distant, numb. A deep, terrifying tremor started in my palm, shaking my entire arm.

Molly stood over me, a triumphant smirk on her face. She gestured to my bandaged hand.

"Look at her hand shake," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Guess you won' t be playing that cello anytime soon."

I looked at Ethan, my heart shattering. He wouldn't meet my eyes. He just stood by the window, his back to me.

"It was for a good cause, Jocelyn," he said, his voice flat. "Stop being so dramatic."