Chapter 3

Amira Osborne POV:

I recoiled instinctively. "I can' t. I' m allergic to alcohol."

It was true. A severe allergy. One sip could send me into anaphylactic shock. Carter knew this better than anyone.

Francine' s face crumpled into a mask of theatrical sadness. "Oh, dear. Am I making you uncomfortable again? Perhaps I should just leave," she sniffled, turning to Carter with wide, pleading eyes.

His face darkened with rage. The eyes of his parents, my mother, and their guests were all on us. "Amira, don' t make a scene," he gritted out, his voice a low growl only I could hear. "Just drink it."

A memory surfaced, sharp and bitter. Years ago, at a college party, a drunk frat boy had tried to force a beer into my hand. Carter had decked him without a second thought, his voice ringing with protective fury. "She said no. Are you deaf?" He had held me all night, whispering how he' d never let anyone hurt me.

The irony was a physical ache in my chest.

With trembling hands, I took the glass from Francine. I closed my eyes, thought of my mother' s smiling face, and drained the bubbling liquid in one go. The taste was acidic, a harbinger of the poison spreading through my veins.

It took less than five minutes. First came the itching, then the angry red hives blooming across my skin. My throat began to tighten, my breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

Panic flared in my eyes, but I couldn' t call for an ambulance. I couldn' t risk my mother seeing me like this, couldn' t risk the shock to her fragile heart.

Carter, seeing the severity of my reaction, finally acted. He scooped me into his arms and carried me out to his car, his face a mask of strained concern.

As he sped towards the hospital, he didn' t apologize. He defended her. "Francine didn' t know, Amira. She feels terrible. She' s just a very straightforward person, she doesn' t mean any harm."

I lay slumped against the passenger door, too weak to argue, the sound of his voice grating on my raw nerves. I wanted to scream, to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Instead, I said nothing, a bitter silence filling the space between us.

At the hospital, they hooked me up to an IV drip. The antihistamines worked their magic, and the suffocating tightness in my chest slowly eased. Exhausted, I drifted into a fitful sleep.

I woke in the dead of night to a sharp, stinging pain in the back of my hand. My eyes fluttered open. The room was dark and empty. Carter was gone. I looked at my IV line; dark red blood was flowing back up the tube. The drip had run dry.

I fumbled for the nurse' s call button clipped to my pillow. I pressed it again and again, but no one came. A cold dread washed over me. It was broken.

With a groan, I forced my weak body out of the bed, the IV stand rattling beside me. I had to get help. I stumbled to the door and pushed, but it wouldn' t budge. Something was blocking it from the outside.

Panic clawed at my throat. I pounded on the door, my voice hoarse. "Hello? Is anyone out there? Help!"

My cries were answered not by a nurse, but by a sound from the adjacent room. A woman' s breathless moan, followed by a man' s low grunt.

The sounds were sickeningly familiar.

Carter. And Francine.

They were in the room next door. He had left me, with my IV running backward and the call button broken, to be with her. He had locked me in.

I sank to the floor, my back against the door, and listened. I called for help all night, my throat growing raw, my fists bruising against the unyielding wood. And all night, the sounds from the next room continued, a grotesque soundtrack to my utter desolation.

Just as the first rays of dawn painted the sky, the obstruction outside my door was moved. Carter walked in, looking refreshed and satisfied, a smugness in his eyes that he didn' t bother to hide.

Then he saw the blood on the back of my hand, the dried tear tracks on my face. His expression shifted instantly to one of deep concern. "Amira! Oh my god, what happened? Why didn' t you call a nurse?"

I just stared at him, my heart a dead, heavy thing in my chest. I didn' t have the energy to feel anger anymore, only a profound, hollow emptiness.

As he leaned over me, feigning worry, I caught her scent on him-the same expensive, cloying perfume Francine always wore. The smell filled my lungs, and I wretched, turning my head to heave dryly onto the cold linoleum floor.

Ignoring my obvious distress, he bustled around, calling for doctors, playing the part of the devoted fiancé with sickening perfection.

Just as a nurse arrived, my phone, lying on the bedside table, began to ring. It was the property manager from my mother' s apartment building. His voice was frantic.

"Ms. Osborne? You need to get here right away. It' s your mother. There' s been an accident."