Chapter 3

The next day, I saw him again.

It wasn’t fate—just sheer boredom. Hospital life was dull, and being alone gave my mind too much room to wander.

I asked Nurse Riley about the boy. She told me his name was Ethan Harrington—a spoiled rich kid with a childish temper. Because of his family’s influence, the staff tiptoed around him. He caused minor chaos daily, and his parents’ assistants always showed up to clean up the mess.

Sounded like a CW drama. I couldn’t resist seeking him out.

When I reached the garden, he was already “troublemaking” again.

A tall ornamental apple tree stood near the path. Ethan was halfway up its trunk, reaching for unripe green fruit.

His caregiver circled below, flustered, switching between Spanish and broken English: “No, no, Mr. Harrington! Those aren’t safe to eat!”

Ethan ignored her, plucked one, and shoved it into his mouth.

“They’re purely decorative,” I said flatly. “Treated with heavy pesticides. Eating them could damage your kidneys.”

He spat it out instantly, face turning pale green. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

He studied me for a moment. “I remember you. You were here yesterday too. What are you in for?”

I tapped my chest. “Breast cancer. You?”

“Slipped in the bathroom last night. Hit my head on the tub. Concussion.”

“Then get down before you fall and make it worse.”

He climbed down without argument and strode over. Up close, I realized how tall he was—so tall he almost looked too soft around the edges to be sharp-minded.

“Sis,” he said, “you have cancer?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

I teased gently, “Compared to me, don’t you feel pretty lucky?”

He scrunched his nose. “…Yeah.”

“So stop yelling at your parents. Being alive is reason enough to be happy.”

Before my diagnosis, I thought being an orphan—father dead from gambling debts, mother lost to addiction—was the worst tragedy. Then I believed heartbreak was worse. Now, facing death itself, I’d learned that simply breathing was its own kind of grace.

Ethan stared at me, silent for a long while.

The next afternoon, he appeared with a Tiffany-blue box.

“For you,” he said. “Get better. Be happy every day.”

Inside was an elegant swan brooch. I pinned it to my hospital gown and smiled. “You’re sweet, little brother.”

He scratched his bandaged head, cheeks flushing. “My grandmother died of breast cancer. When I saw you under the tree yesterday… she came to mind.”

“She was the best person ever. Raised me from birth. Ever since she passed, everything feels hollow—like nothing matters.”

“You told me to be happy every day. She used to say that exact thing.”

His voice cracked. Tears welled in those big, deer-like eyes.

“Uh,” I said softly, “if you don’t mind… I can give you a friendly hug.”

“…Thanks.”

He wrapped his long limbs around me carefully, then pulled back. “So… we’re friends now?”

Just like that, Ethan found his new pastime. Over the following days, he drifted into my room constantly—chattering about everything, napping on my sofa when exhausted. He treated me like a stand-in for his grandmother, trusting me with secrets no one else heard.

With this overgrown child by my side, hospital life grew lighter. For a while, I almost forgot Adrian Vanderbilt was getting engaged.

But someone was determined to remind me.

The day before the engagement party, a text arrived:

[The Plaza Hotel, Grand Ballroom. Adrian Vanderbilt & Claire Astor Engagement Celebration. Ms. Lila Monroe cordially invited.]

No sender ID needed. The message reeked of Claire’s spite.

She still saw me as a threat—a ghost she needed to exorcise publicly.

My oncologist had warned against emotional stress. Logically, I shouldn’t go.

But peace of mind, I decided, required burning off the rage I’d swallowed for months.

Adrian had left me bleeding and alone. If they wanted a spectacle, I’d give them one.