JENNIE
I hated when people sugar-coated things. Straight and to the point was how I preferred it—and a rather infamous lack of bedside manner was the reason why I had elected to see Dr. Wallis in the first place.
"I feel that it's best not to trivialize the more serious diagnoses," he warned, living up to his brutal reputation. "So I'll just come right out and say it: you're dying, Jennie."
He sounded so formal. Hell, he could have offered me a handkerchief for all the emotion his voice held: "Here, miss. It's clean."
I felt tempted to laugh, but that pesky meaning couldn't be ignored.
Dying.
It took me only a second to process it.
Dead.
Dying.
Dead.
It took even less for the words to sink, like a stone, to the pit of my stomach and settle there, heavy and solid, but I wasn't surprised. Startled, perhaps—it was devastating news—though, in a sick way, I figured I'd always known that, rather than pass away peacefully in my bed of old age, I would die a horrible death. My own mortality had fascinated me ever since I'd smuggled my first horror film from the servant's break room as a teenager and watched it while huddled beneath my blankets.
'That will be me,' some cynical voice had whispered inside my head, and I had known then, as surely as I knew my own name that I would die just like the unfortunate bimbo at the mercy of the knife-wielding psychopath. While I hadn't expected said death to come in the form of a terminal illness that would turn my own blood into the murder weapon, I had to admit that it was pretty violent in its own right.
"Hemohemorrahgia," the doctor began, reiterating the speech he'd given just minutes before. "It occurs in less than one percent of the world's population, but it is fatal in ninety percent of all reported cases. There is no cure, and—"
I stopped listening.
Hemohemorrahgia. Ironically, I had never even heard of the cause of my impending demise until a few months ago—and the disease had been a guess, thrown out by a frustrated doctor as the potential cause of a bevy of symptoms.
Why was I so tired all the time?
Why did even breathing exhaust me?
Why had a paper cut required a blood transfusion, donated platelets, and stitches to stop the bleeding?
After months of tests a team of medical professionals had all reached the same grim conclusion.
"The prognosis is rather bleak, Mrs. Kim," the doctor continued, "but I think it's better if we honestly discuss your options—"
"Miss," I corrected absently.
Dr. Wallis wrinkled his nose, causing the black frames of his glasses to twitch. "Pardon?"
"It's Miss Kim." I unlaced my fingers and held up my unadorned hand. "I'm not married."
"Oh."
From the way he swiftly glanced me over, I could tell that he had never looked up from my chart long enough to give me a good appraisal before—despite this being our tenth meeting. I could guess what registered now as his gaze took me in: dull brown hair, sallow skin, and brown eyes.
"Oh," he repeated and his tone revealed what even he was too polite to say, despite his reputation: no wonder. "Well, Ms. Kim, I can arrange a consultation with social services or grief counseling. Whomever you need to help you through this very difficult time—"
"It's fine."
"Pardon?"
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice louder. "I said it's fine. I don't need anything, thank you." I shifted in my seat and fidgeted with the hem of my skirt as an uncomfortable thought took hold. "I guess this means I'll have to draw up a will though." I couldn't keep the petulant whine out of my tone.
I'd always dreaded the day I would have to draw up one of those legal documents to ensure that—after my unfortunate demise—the family fortune wasn't devoured by money-hungry lawyers.
At least the 'To whom I bequeath' part would be easy; I would leave everything to Rosé, the little sister I hadn't seen in three months. My, would she be ecstatic to finally get her hands on our parent's millions. True to stuffy, upper class thinking, they had left control of the estate to me, the responsible one, rather than my "willful harlot" of a little sister, as Father had put it.
Despite everything, I felt myself smile thinking of her. Beautiful, blonde and unashamedly brash, Rosé was the type of person who everyone secretly wanted to be—myself included. She slept with billionaires for diamonds, and had jettisoned off to Paris rather than attend her final semester of university because, according to her, studying was, "As boring as balls."
One could only imagine what mischief she would get into with the family fortune at her disposal. Though, the prospect of being berated for eternity by the spirits of my parents did temper my curiosity a bit. In Mother's eyes, dying before the 'black sheep' would have been simply unacceptable.
"Ms. Kim, I do have to suggest some form of counseling," Dr. Wallis insisted. For once, he almost seemed concerned—at least until I realized that he would probably get a hefty referral fee from whomever he 'suggested' I see next. "A colleague of mine is one of the leading psychiatrists in the country. In fact, he's here right now for a seminar. I could—"
I shook my head. "No thank you."
I didn't need anyone to soften the blow of what I'd anticipated for half of my life. There wasn't much else that needed to be said anyway.
I was dying, the sky was blue.
I wondered if they were serving pasta in the cafeteria today …
"A-are you sure?" Dr. Wallis sputtered. "He has a rather extensive reputation—"
"Positive," I replied. "Can I go now? Please?" I attempted to stand without waiting for an answer, and the doctor rushed forward.
"Miss Kim!"
He caught me by the shoulder, and it was a good thing he did because, despite my bravado, it had been a struggle to even haul myself out of the chair. Deep down I knew that the doctor's firm grip was the only thing keeping me upright. He frowned as he steadied me, and reached across his desk to press the button on a small intercom with his free hand. Instantly, a sweet sound of acknowledgement came from the other end.
"Yes, Doctor Wallis? Should I send in—"
"Natalie," Dr. Wallis said over her, "have a nurse bring a wheelchair and escort Miss Kim to the inpatient wing."
"Yes, sir."
I waited until he took his finger off the button before wrenching my arm away, even though I had to cling to my vacated chair to keep my balance.
"No. No hospital," I hissed. The hell was I staying in this horrible place for another night. "No more tests. I can walk to the car quite fine on my own."
"I can't let you do that." Dr. Wallis shook his balding head as if he thought I was a child who needed placating. "Ms. Kim, accept the wheelchair at least. The liability …"
So nice to know that he only cared about me falling on hospital property out of fear that I might sue for it. Sighing, I dug into my purse with a shaking hand and withdrew my checkbook. After scribbling out a figure, I slapped the sliver of paper down onto his desk and gave it a little shove in his direction.
"Buy a new wing," I said, confident that the figure drying in ink was more than enough to do so. "On behalf of the Kim family. Dedicate it to—" I snickered. "Bloodbath Five-Thousand."
"Pardon?" The doctor frowned.
"Nothing. Can I go now?"
I figured that I had my answer when he didn't prattle on about counseling or liabilities, especially when I heard the delicate crinkle of a check being stuffed into a pocket.
Wrestling my purse strap over one shoulder, I turned for the door. Near the threshold, I added without turning around, "I'll be sure to let Natalie know that you've changed your mind."
The very pleasant Natalie sent me on my way with a smile and an enthusiastic, "Have a good day, Miss!"
Oh, Natalie. If only.
I had barely gone two steps from the door that marked the entrance to Dr. Wallis' office suite before I found myself shaking. I had to lean against the wall and dig my heels into the carpet just to keep from sliding down to the floor.
In the end, I only managed to stagger three more steps before collapsing altogether.
My stomach heaved and, in a flurry of colorful liquid, I coughed up a breakfast of toast and jam right in front of a sign that proclaimed, 'Hand washing: the best defense against germs!'
Lovely. You would think—considering how hefty my medical bill was—that the drugs they gave me during my stay would at least help combat my symptoms.
They didn't.
Gazing forlornly at my puke, I wondered if I should have donated a statue or something to go along with that new wing. Or at least tip the poor janitor unfortunate enough to have to clean up the mess, some grand, kind gesture to mark my final days. Instead, I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity for another minute before I finally found the strength to drag myself upright on unsteady limbs—mentally berating myself the entire time.
I should have let Harper walk me in like he'd insisted. He was the driver who'd served my family faithfully for over fifteen years—and I had threatened to fire him just to keep him from escorting me inside. I just couldn't shake the thought of what that would have looked like; the heiress, too needy to walk into a damn hospital without the company of a paid companion.
Never in a million years did I want to be that woman, the one with diamonds dripping from her neck who couldn't even catch a cold without the whole damn world holding its breath. Though, at least that woman never had to muck up her own vomit with a crumpled napkin fished from her purse and stagger down the hall before someone came by to notice the mess.
How many floors was it to the garage? Three? Five? I fished Dr. Wallis' business card from my coat pocket and scoped out the location of his office: the fourth floor.
Funny. It was a struggle to go even four feet.
The halls stretched for a hundred miles in either direction. My vision drifted in and out of focus, and with every step, I wobbled precariously on my heels. Damn those years of Cotillion where not wearing proper footwear in public had been seen as an even greater sin than forgetting white gloves at tea.
My thoughts were a blur, the only goal being to make it to the elevator without causing a scene. People were already staring at me: the woman in the burgundy peacoat clinging to the wall for dear life.
Easy does it, girl, I chanted while urging my aching limbs forward. Easy does it …
I didn't even see her coming.
Wham!
I went sprawling. There was no scream, no gasp, just the sensation of everything suddenly jolting into motion like a tape slammed into fast forward. I hit the ground hard, hearing the sound before I really felt the pain.
"Are you all right?"
The voice came from a million different directions at once. I couldn't see—everything was white …
But it was a full minute before I realized that the odd light came from someone who stood above me, so pale they practically glowed. I blinked frantically until the figure came into full focus.
She looked like a doctor, a beautiful, angelic doctor with hair the color of spun gold and skin paler than snow. She must have been foreign too, judging by that startlingly rich accent. English? As young as she was—mid-thirties at least—she definitely wasn't one of the old geezers consulting on my case.
She said something else that I couldn't discern, worried eyes scanning my body up and down. They were the oddest color. Gray?
I didn't realize I was still sprawled out on the floor until she offered a hand to haul me back to my feet. Dazed, I took it and a jolt went through me as her fingers entwined with my own. She was cold—painfully so—but I held on.
"Are you all right?"
Rather than answer, I peeked through my hair, relieved to find that the hallway was empty of anyone else.
"I'm fine," I lied. My chest heaved with the effort to suck in oxygen. Pain danced down my spine while I clung to the person's hand a little longer than necessary in an effort to regain my balance. "Just a little dizzy, is all."
She gave me a funny look. It wasn't quite a smile, but the mocking tilt to that stern mouth seemed amused all the same. "Are you sure?"
A sudden rush of warmth coated my chin as I nodded my assurance that I was perfectly all right—within seconds, I found it near-impossible to breathe out of my nose.
"Damn it."
I recognized the sensation and what it entailed—but seeing as how I had used the last of my tissues to muck up my own vomit, I was forced to pinch the bridge of my nose with just my fingers. Desperate to staunch the blood flow, I tilted my head back, and that slight motion alone nearly knocked me off my feet. My body tensed, bracing for another impact. Only it never came.
The next second I found myself shoved onto a bench instead. Firm fingers batted my own away and replaced them with what felt to be a wad of cloth. I glanced down and recognized the shape of a white handkerchief with a monogrammed corner sporting the letters L.M in black thread.
Her initials?
"Thank you," I mumbled around a drizzle of blood.
I figured I should have been alarmed, but I was more worried that Harper would notice the crimson stains on my coat. The old coot was sharp—he would figure out the truth no matter how much I lied. A third nosebleed in as many days might have been enough cause for him to drag me back into the hospital this time, whether I was willing or not.
"That's quite a lot of blood."
The casual observation brought my attention back to the stranger, and I felt my eyes widen as I observed her closely for the first time: blond hair, firm jaw line, perfect, glowing skin.
Altogether, she was probably the most beautiful person I had ever seen—but those piercing eyes honed in on the stream of blood issuing from my nose without a shred of real concern. She made no move to get help, and a bizarre emotion itched at the back of my mind.
Unease?
I didn't miss how that gallant smile never reached her eyes, and with every second that passed, the uneasy feeling became full-blown suspicion.
She wanted something. Years of dealing with people who coveted whatever my family name could garner had made it second nature to spot a hidden agenda. When he reached out—perhaps to merely adjust my sloppy grip on her handkerchief—I jerked back, spraying blood in a vicious arc.
"I'm fine."
She retreated, but for the briefest moment I caught something flashing across her gaze that I shouldn't have: annoyance —as if my reaction had not been a part of her plan.
Or months spent virtually alone had simply made me paranoid. I shook my head and pressed my nose more tightly into the handkerchief.
"I'll promise not to press charges against you for running into me if you go away," I mumbled into the cloth. Guilt pierced me at the rudeness; years of forced etiquette seemed to be draining from my body just as quickly as my blood.
Though, damn it, I was dying anyway.
"Really?"
I glanced up, only to find that the odd, mocking tilt to her mouth was back. Was she toying with me? "Seriously, I'm fine, so you can go now, please—"
"Pardon me for saying this, but you don't look very fine."
I wanted to take offense, but it was the truth. Designer clothes speckled with blood, skin so pale it was almost see-through, hands painted red. I must have looked horrible.
"In fact," the stranger continued, "I would go so far as to say that you are anything but fine, Jennie Kim."