Chapter 2

Nicole' s perfectly composed face froze. Her eyebrows, which I used to think were the most beautiful things in the world, furrowed in confusion.

"What are you talking about, Ethan? This is for Martha. Don't be a fool."

"I'm not," I said, turning to walk away. "But I won't sell myself. Not even for her."

I left her standing there, stunned, the check still in her hand. But I didn't go far. I slipped into the shadows of the parking garage across the street, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew where she would go.

I pulled out my cheap phone and started recording.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, she hurried towards a private, secluded wing of the hospital. I followed, keeping my distance. Through a large window, I saw her enter a lavish private room. Caleb Johns was lying in the bed, looking pale but with that same charismatic smile plastered on his face.

I zoomed in with my phone.

Nicole leaned over and kissed him, a long, passionate kiss that made my stomach churn with a familiar, acidic burn.

"I got it," she whispered, her voice filled with a devotion she never showed me. "I have the money. I just need to convince him. The liver is guaranteed. It's a perfect match. You're going to be fine."

The video was shaky, but the audio was clear. It was everything. The proof of her betrayal, the confirmation of my worst nightmare.

My hands were trembling, not from fear, but from a cold, hard rage. There was no other choice. I had to make the call I had avoided my entire life.

I walked away from the hospital, found a quiet alley, and dialed the number I had memorized but never used. It rang twice before a crisp, professional voice answered.

"Blakely residence."

"I need to speak to Andrew Blakely," I said, my voice hoarse.

"And who may I say is calling?"

I took a deep breath. "Tell him it's Ethan. His grandson."

There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end. Then, a flurry of activity. Less than a minute later, a deep, gravelly voice, a voice I'd only heard on old records, came on the line.

"Ethan? Is it really you?"

"It's me," I said, cutting through the emotion. "I'll come back to Nashville. I'll take over the business. I'll do whatever you want."

A choked sound, almost a sob, came from the other end.

"But on one condition," I continued, my voice hard as steel. "You get my mom-my foster mother, Martha-the best transplant team in the country. Right now. No questions asked."

"Done," Andrew Blakely said, his voice thick with joy and relief. "Whatever you need. A jet is on its way to Memphis. She'll be at Vanderbilt before sunrise."