Chapter 3
CASSANDRA
Christmas in a hospital is its own kind of vibe.
Paper snowflakes are taped to the windows and doors, and there’s a fake fir tree in the lobby loaded with colorful and cheerful ornaments. The nurses are wearing holiday-themed scrubs, some with tiny reindeer, others with Santas and snowmen. But it’s still a hospital.
I slide into my sister’s room with a bouquet of grocery store–bought tulips. She’s half sitting, half folded into a nest of pillows, hair tied up in a knot. Morning light streams in through the big windows.
The heart monitor beeps its steady, smug cadence. She’s wearing a cozy cardigan over her hospital gown. There’s a book face-down on the tray table.
She looks up and smiles like she’s the hostess of a dinner party, and I’m her favorite guest.
“You brought contraband.”
“They’re legal,” I say, lifting the tulips. “I checked. Unlike an orange, which apparently is a biohazard.”
Clara giggles, amused, before her face tightens the way it’s been doing more often. Pain, fatigue, or the combination of both. She gestures to an empty vase filled with water. I put the tulips in, arranging them as best I can.
“How are you feeling?”
“Cardiac chic,” she replies dryly. “They’re doing the thing where they put the stuff in me that makes my blood glow.”
“Cool. Maybe that means you can be our Christmas tree this year.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying not to worry.”
I hang my coat over the back of the chair, tucking my scarf inside the sleeve so I won’t forget it, just like Clara taught me when we were kids.
Outside the window, the downtown winter sky shines like a slab of ice.
Christmas window clings are placed here and there, and there’s a colorful string of lights looped above the blinds.
Suddenly, I remember the ribbon. Like a “good girl,” I haven’t taken it off since he placed it on my wrist last night.
It’s strange… I could take it off, but I feel like somehow Damien would know.
Besides, I’m already skating on thin ice with how he clocked me as a less-than-skilled sub so quickly.
He doesn’t know for sure, but I’m going to stay on the safe side just in case.
Still, I don’t want Clara to see it. I pull down the sleeve of my sweater, making sure the ribbon is good and covered.
“Did you sleep?”
“A little.” She studies my face in that way only she can. “You look—"
“Like I fought with a pillow and lost?” I say quickly.
“Like you haven’t slept in a week.” She reaches out, and I take her hand. It’s warm and seems smaller than it used to be. “Talk to me, Cassie.”
It’s ridiculous how quickly the lie I brought with me starts gaining strength. It doesn’t have legs yet, but it’s already learned to crawl.
“There’s progress about the money.”
Her eyes sharpen. She’s thirty going on forever, the girl who turned into a parent at eighteen because she had to. “You’ve been to the financial counselor again.”
“Yes,” I say. That part is true. “And I’ve been making calls. There’s a loan being processed.”
Clara’s mouth sets in a line that means she’s trying to be polite but failing. “A loan.”
“It’s not predatory,” I tell her. “It’s a decent rate. It’ll bridge us, and then—”
“And then you’ll be paying for me for the next decade.” She squeezes my hand. “You didn’t spend four years getting that degree and working your way into that boutique just to feed a bank because my heart decided to be dramatic.”
“It’s not dramatic,” I say, sharper than intended. “It’s failing.”
Her expression softens. “I know.” She takes a breath, letting it out slowly. Gallows humor flickers. “I keep telling it to get it together, but it’s very disobedient.”
“What do they call it again?” I ask even though I already know the answer. I want to hear it said out loud, so the words have to be shared between us and not just echoing in my head.
She lifts a shoulder. “The working theory is that I was unknowingly born with a cardiomyopathy, and now it’s all grown up and feral. Plus, there’s a valve that’s been leaking for a while.” She purses her lips. “Severe regurgitation they call it, as if I’m a faucet.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s just a word.” She taps her sternum. “It means the door doesn’t close right, and blood goes backwards. The pump gets tired, then the rest of me does too.”
“And the surgery—”
“Mitral valve repair, if they can manage it.” She’s quoting, being careful. “Replacement, if they have to. They’ll put me on the machine, they’ll stop my heart, they’ll fuss with it, and then they’ll ask it to wake up again. You know, easy peasy.”
My hands are trembling. I tuck them under my thighs. “They’ll fix it.”
“They’ll improve it,” she corrects. I’m not sure if that’s realism or a safety trick, so we don’t get crushed by hope. “That’s the plan.”
It’s like the horrible future is pressing its face against the window from outside. I can see it, and I can also see the man whose presence from last night is still somehow wrapped around me like a blanket. I feel his ribbon, ridiculous and real.
“You said a loan,” Clara’s voice shatters my thoughts. “How far along in the process?”
“It’s moving.” I avoid answering the question directly. “I talked to a woman yesterday. She said we should know within a week, but she says it’s almost certain.”
God, I hate lying to my sister. But there’s not a chance I’m telling her the truth about my agreement with Damien Kozlov.
“A week.” She looks at the little wreath on the door. “Do you think it’ll be clear by New Year’s? The financial counselor has been noisy about deductibles and maximums.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “It’ll clear in time.”
She studies me. “Cassie,” she says firmly, a warning and a plea. “Don’t sell your future to fix me.”
“I’m not. I’m… choosing.”
She squeezes my hand gently. “I do want to live.” She says it without drama, like telling me she wants tea with lemon. “But I don’t want your future to be the price.”
“You raised me,” I reply. “The return on investment is terrible, if I don’t return the favor.”
“That’s not how family works.” Her smile is genuine and brave. “We’re not a ledger.”
I think of The Velvet Ledger and have to swallow a laugh.
“It’s being handled. Let me take care of it.”
The door opens before she can answer. Dr. Miller walks in. He has a gentle kindness that makes people trust him. He’s middle-aged, his hair graying at the temples. He probably jogs before sunrise every morning, then reads to his kids every night.
“Morning, Ms. Hewitt,” he says, nodding at Clara. “Hello, Cassandra.” He checks the monitor, then checks his tablet, looking at us with a small grin.
“So,” he says. “We had a cancellation.”
“The surgery?” I ask, hopeful.
“The week before Christmas,” he says and nods. “Thursday. It’s sooner than we’d planned, but the team can slot it in, and in your case, sooner is better.”
Clara’s shoulders do the tiniest slump of relief. “Sooner is better,” she repeats. “What does that change on my end?”
“It moves up pre-op testing, and unfortunately, the bills.” He glances at me not because he assumes, but because he knows I’ll ask. “Billing will reach out again today, but the deposit and a portion of the projected remainder will be due beforehand. I know that’s not easy during the holidays.”
That’s ten days away.
How much?” I hear myself ask.
“Billing generally handles this, but ballpark, I’d say…” His voice fades as I hear a number with too many zeroes.
Clara nods faintly, trying to be brave. The room tilts. Ten days. Exactly the mark Damien set last night. If I stick it out, if I obey, if I please him, I’ll have what we need one day early. If I fail, Clara doesn’t get that operating room table or that chance.
I swallow the truth back down where it belongs.
“We’ll get the money,” I tell him. “No matter what.”
“Excellent. We’ll go ahead and plan the surgery.”
“I can pay the deposit now,” I blurt out, thinking of the envelope of cash from last night.
Clara glances at me suspiciously. The schedule written on the envelope burns in my brain.
Ten days.
Ten days to keep my sister alive.
Dr. Miller’s voice is gentle as he says, “I’m aware of the burden. But if we wait much longer, we risk further damage. Your ejection percentage has stayed low despite the medication. Speaking from a medical perspective, the earlier date is a blessing. From a financial perspective—”
“A curse,” Clara says evenly.
He doesn’t argue. He tells us in careful words what the plan is. A valve repair, possible replacement. He explains the risks in detail again, the repetition dulling their edge.
He answers Clara’s questions about recovery time and mine about home care. He doesn’t rush, responding thoroughly to every inquiry. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything either, which I appreciate.
“You’re in good hands,” he says as he leaves.
The room fills with a heavy silence after Dr. Miller closes the door. The little wreath suddenly looking like it’s working overtime to bring cheer. Clara presses her lips together, then lets out a dry laugh.
“I still can’t believe insurance won’t cover any of it,” she says. “Figures. The restaurant’s plan barely covers checkups; why would I expect it to cover a valve replacement?” She tips her head back against the pillow. “Guess I should’ve aimed for a desk job with better insurance instead of tips.”
“We’ll manage,” I say a little too quickly.
“We?” She shoots me a look, then stares at the ceiling. “I remember Christmases where ‘we’ was you sweet-talking the utility company into giving us one more week on the lights.”
“Worked most of the time,” I mutter.
“Because you were twelve and dangerous with those freckles,” she says, shaking her head. “This isn’t a utility bill, Cassie. This is surgery.”
“I know that. And I’ll get the money.”
She studies me so long that my skin begins to prickle.
“Is this the part where I ask you how you managed to talk a bank into giving a twenty-two-year-old with no credit history a loan, and you give me a speech about not patronizing you because you’re an adult?”
“Yes.” It’s automatic, the way we fall into the choreography we’ve danced to our whole lives. “And then you tell me you didn’t raise me to be reckless, and I say I’m not, and we both know we’re telling half-truths.”
Her smile is small but genuine. “You’re a good girl,” she says. “You always have been. That’s not an insult.”
“I know.”
Good girl.
The memory of Damien’s voice saying those same words echoes in my head, heat flaring low in my belly that I want to erase but can’t.
Clara reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze.
“I hate this,” she says simply. “The money. The decisions. The surgery. The way my body makes your life harder.”
“Your life is my life,” I respond automatically. It’s true.
“That’s very poetic.” She lifts a brow and smirks. “And maybe a little codependent.”
I laugh because she’s not entirely wrong. “I’m getting the loan,” I say, the lie now standing up and straightening its dress. “We’ll have the rest of the money in time.”
She closes her eyes for a beat. When she opens them again, there’s hope within.
“You’re sure you can do this?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I will make it happen, no matter what.”
“Cassie, promise me you’re not doing anything you can’t undo.”
“I promise,” I say. “I’m not marrying a creepy old rich guy, and I’m not robbing a bank.”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” she murmurs before sighing, long and low. “Alright. Then go ahead.”
“I will make it happen.” I squeeze her hand. “I swear.”
“You always do,” she says. “It’s why I both adore you and want to wrap you in bubble wrap and drop you at a convent.”
I smile, then lay my head lightly against her shoulder, breathing her in. “We’ll make it through this,” I whisper.
She rests her cheek on my hair. “If this goes badly, you know I plan to haunt you, right? Politely, of course.”
“You don’t know how to be polite. You’ll be rearranging my furniture at three a.m.”
“And I’ll organize your mess of a closet.”
We sit like that until the nurse comes in to take her vitals. Clara seems relaxed, and for that I’m grateful. I, however, am still a hot mess, though I don’t tell her.
I stop on my way out and look at her again over my shoulder. We are two women who started as sisters, but became a thousand other things—surrogate mother, best friends, professional worriers, living room dance partners, emergency contacts, and the list goes on.
“Text me when you get home,” Clara says.
“I’m taking the train. It’ll be faster than an Uber when everyone’s trying to out-holiday each other.”
“Don’t forget your scarf.”
I flap it at her. “Don’t worry, it’s tucked in the sleeve like you taught me.”
“Drink something that isn’t coffee.”
“Bossy.”
“Caring,” she retorts.
I lean down and kiss her forehead. “That too.”
Snow begins to fall outside.
In the hallway, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. My phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number.
Today. Noon. The car will be waiting. Be there.
I slide the phone back into my coat without responding.
Ten days.
Christmas is barreling toward me like a runaway train.
The promise I made, sitting on my sister’s hospital bed, her hand in mine…
I will fulfill it. No matter what.
END OF PREVIEW
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