Chapter 1

The air in the small, cramped apartment felt thick, heavy with the scent of Chloe' s lavender perfume and the lingering smell of burnt toast from breakfast. I looked at the guitar case resting on my bed. It wasn't just wood and strings, it was my grandfather' s hands, my father' s songs, my entire history packed into a worn leather shell. The vintage Gibson was the only thing of real value I owned, a direct link to a family I barely knew but whose music flowed through my veins.

And I was about to sell it.

"Are you sure about this, Alex?" Chloe asked, her voice soft and laced with a manufactured worry that I, in my blind love, mistook for genuine concern. She lay on the couch, a thin blanket pulled up to her chin, her face pale. She had made it look so convincing for weeks, the faint spells, the supposed shortness of breath, the "test results" she'd printed from some online template.

"I'm not sure," I said, my voice rough. "I'm certain. The doctor said this treatment is our only shot. The money from the guitar will cover the first round."

"But your music... your grandfather..."

"It's just a thing, Chloe," I lied, my heart clenching. "You're not. I can always make more music. I can't get another you."

She gave me a weak, grateful smile that I would later see in my nightmares. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. It felt cool, but I told myself it was the fever breaking. I picked up the heavy case, the weight of it feeling like an anchor pulling me down. Every step toward the door felt like a betrayal of my past, but I believed it was for our future. I promised her I'd be back as soon as I had the cash. The man I was meeting, a music executive Mark had "helpfully" set me up with, was known for paying top dollar for rare instruments.

The meeting place was a sterile, high-end recording studio downtown. The executive, a man named Mr. graves, looked me over with cold, calculating eyes. He didn't care about the music, only the investment. He plucked the strings once, his face impassive.

"It's a fine instrument," he said, his voice flat. "I'll give you what you asked for."

The wad of cash he pushed across the table felt dirty. I counted it quickly, my hands trembling. This was it. This was Chloe' s chance. As I stuffed the money into my pocket, a wave of profound loss washed over me, so strong it almost buckled my knees. I had to get out of there. I mumbled a thank you and turned to leave.

As I walked down the hallway, I heard voices coming from a side room, the door slightly ajar. Laughter. Familiar laughter.

"I can't believe he actually did it!"

It was Chloe' s voice. Clear, bright, and utterly devoid of the weakness she had been faking for a month. My blood ran cold. I froze, pressing myself against the wall, my ear close to the gap in the door.

"He looked like a kicked puppy when he left," she continued, and another voice joined in, high-pitched with glee. One of her friends, Jessica.

"And Mark got the whole thing on camera from the security feed! His face when he handed over that dusty old guitar? Priceless!"

Mark. Her ex-boyfriend. The same Mark who had set up this meeting. The same Mark I had beaten for the conservatory scholarship two years ago, a victory that had apparently earned me his unending hatred.

"He's such a pathetic loser," Chloe sneered, and the sound shattered my world. "Thinking his little music career was ever going anywhere. This is for humiliating Mark, for thinking he was better than us. And this money? A new wardrobe and that trip to Bali are looking pretty good right now."

Another friend giggled. "What about his 'life-saving treatment'?"

"Please," Chloe scoffed. "The only thing sick around here is his taste in women. He'll believe anything I tell him. I'll just say the treatment was a miracle success. He's too stupid to question it."

The words floated in the air, each one a separate, sharp-edged piece of glass embedding itself in my brain. I remembered every sacrifice. The extra shifts I worked at the diner, the meals I skipped so she could have a new dress, the nights I stayed up writing songs for her, songs she probably laughed at with them. I remembered her telling me how much the scholarship meant to Mark, how devastated he was. I had felt guilty then. Now I felt like a fool.

The world tilted on its axis. The sterile hallway seemed to warp and twist around me. I stumbled back from the door, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a cry. The cash in my pocket felt like a burning coal against my leg. My prized guitar, my family heirloom, sold to fund their vacation, to pay for my own humiliation.

I crashed through the studio's main doors and out into the biting New York wind. The city noise was a deafening roar, a chaotic symphony that matched the storm inside me. I leaned against the cold brick of the building, gasping for air. The betrayal was so absolute, so profound, it felt like a physical assault. My lungs burned, my vision swam. I slid down the wall, the rough brick scraping my back, and landed hard on the dirty pavement. My body shook uncontrollably, a storm of grief and rage and disbelief racking my frame.

I was nothing to her. Less than nothing. I was a joke. A means to an end.

My phone, the cheap one I kept because I spent all my money on her, buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my fingers numb, expecting a text from Chloe asking if I had the money yet. But the number was unfamiliar, a London area code. I almost ignored it, but some instinct made me answer, my voice a broken whisper.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking with Mr. Alex Miller?" a calm, professional British voice asked.

"Yes," I managed to choke out.

"My name is Arthur Henderson. I am the solicitor for the estate of the late Mr. Alistair Miller. I'm afraid I have some sad news. Your grandfather passed away last week."

I felt a distant pang of sadness, but it was buried under the fresh, gaping wound of Chloe's betrayal. We were estranged. I hadn't seen him since I was a child.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, my voice hollow.

"Mr. Miller has named you the sole beneficiary of his entire estate," Mr. Henderson continued, his tone gentle. "It is... quite substantial. It is imperative that you come to London as soon as possible to discuss the particulars."

The words barely registered at first. Estate. Beneficiary. Substantial. It sounded like a movie. It couldn't be real. But then, a tiny, desperate spark flickered to life in the black hole of my despair.

London. A way out.

"I..." I swallowed, my throat raw. A decision formed in my mind, swift and absolute. I was done. Done with Chloe, done with Mark, done with this life that was built on a foundation of lies. "I'll be on the next flight."

I hung up the phone, my hand still shaking, but for a different reason now. I looked at the wad of cash I had pulled from my pocket. It was meant to be her salvation. Now, it was my escape. I stood up, my legs unsteady but firm. I walked away from the studio, from the life I thought I had, and didn't look back.

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