Chapter 5

After school, I headed straight for the hospital.

My condition was deteriorating.

I needed to get some proper painkillers.

The original Emily had a bank card—it was what Michael Sterling, the family heir, gave her as compensation when she first returned.

If over-the-counter painkillers worked, I wouldn't even bother with the hospital.

At the gastroenterology department,

Dr. Evans was young. Maybe early thirties. She'd been assigned my case after Noah brought me in.

She looked at my chart, then at me, then back at the chart.

"Miss Sterling, your tumor markers have spiked since last week. Are you eating?"

"When I can."

"When you can, or when they let you?"

I didn't answer.

She leaned forward. "I'm going to be direct. Without treatment, you have four to six months. With aggressive treatment—surgery, chemo—you might have years. Maybe decades."

"I know."

"Then why haven't you—"

"Because no one is going to pay for it. And I'm not going to beg."

Dr. Evans went very quiet.

"The Sterling family," she said carefully, "is one of the wealthiest in this city. Your father sits on the hospital's board of donors."

"My father doesn't know I'm sick. And I'd like to keep it that way."

She stared at me with an expression I'd seen before—on the faces of every doctor who'd treated me in my past life. That mix of frustration and helplessness when a patient has already given up.

"Miss Sterling. Emily. You're seventeen years old."

"In both lifetimes," I murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I left with a prescription for stronger painkillers. The bank card had enough for two months' worth.

After that, I'd figure something out. Or I wouldn't. Either way.

Walking out of the hospital, I nearly bumped into Daniel Sterling.

He was leaning against his car, arms crossed, headphones around his neck. His gaming streams usually ran until dawn—what was he doing here at four in the afternoon?

"Followed me?" I asked flatly.

"I saw blood in the sink last night." His voice was low. Careful. "Looked up the symptoms. Didn't like what I found."

"So you tracked my phone?"

"Michael gave you that phone. The family plan has location sharing."

Of course it did. Privacy was another luxury the real daughter didn't get.

"It's not your problem, Daniel."

"You're my sister."

The word hit like a physical blow. In six months, he'd never once called me that.

"Since when?"

He flinched. Looked away. "Since I saw you drinking cold water at three AM, trying not to make a sound while you were in pain."

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to push past him like I'd pushed past everyone.

But I was so tired. And the painkillers hadn't kicked in yet.

"Drive me home?" I whispered.

Daniel opened the car door without a word.

We drove in silence. He turned the heater on—even though it was summer—because he'd noticed I was always cold.

At a red light, he said quietly: "I'm going to tell Michael."

"Don't."

"Emily—"

"If you tell them, they'll make it about themselves. About how they failed. And then Sophia will cry, and everyone will comfort Sophia, and I'll still be dying in the guest room."

Daniel's hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

"Then what do you want me to do?"

I looked out the window.

"Just... be my brother. For whatever time I have left. That's enough."

The light turned green. Daniel didn't move for a long time.

The car behind us honked.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, put the car in gear, and drove.