Chapter 8

I spent the next two days in a feverish haze, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When I finally woke, Drake was sitting by my bed.

"Your fever's broken," he said, touching my forehead with the back of his hand. His touch felt like poison.

I stared at the ceiling, my eyes empty and dull.

"Your throat is badly inflamed from the fever and stress," he told me. "It's damaged your vocal cords. But don't worry. It just needs a small surgery. I'll fix you."

My eyes flickered. I tried to speak, but only a rough, scratchy sound came out.

"It's okay," he soothed. "I'll take care of everything."

I relaxed slightly. He was the best surgeon in the city. If he said he could fix it, he could.

Three days later, my band had a gig. It was our last one together. I took a steroid shot to get through the performance, my voice a strained shadow of its former self.

After the show, my bandmates wanted to go out for a celebratory dinner. I refused.

"I'm leaving," I told them, my voice a painful rasp. "I'm quitting the band."

They were shocked. "But what about the wedding?" our drummer asked.

"There's no wedding," I said, looking down. "I'm not getting married."

They knew how much I had loved him. They fell silent, their faces a mixture of pity and concern.

"I'm not going to that grave," I said with a weak smile. "And I'm not giving up on singing. I'll get my voice back."

Their faces relaxed, and they hugged me, wishing me luck.

As I left the venue, Drake was waiting for me. He grabbed my arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm quitting the band," I said as he pulled me toward his car.

"Why?" he asked, surprised.

"I don't like it anymore," I replied, my voice flat.

"Fine," he said, turning the key in the ignition. "It doesn't matter. Your surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I've got everything arranged."

I assumed he would be the one performing the surgery, or perhaps the head of his department. He was the best, and this was my voice. He wouldn' t entrust it to anyone else.

I didn't ask any more questions. I trusted him. One last time.

The next morning, I was lying on the operating table, the bright lights blinding me. The anesthetic was starting to kick in, making my limbs feel heavy.

Then the surgical team walked in.

Leading them was Kalea Hampton.

Drake stood beside her, his role clearly that of an assistant.

My blood ran cold. My voice was my life, my soul. I couldn't let an intern, a manipulative snake, touch it.

Panic seized me. I tried to sit up, to scream, but my body wouldn't obey. The drugs were too strong.

"No..." I managed to force out, my words slurred. "Drake... you do it... please..."

He leaned over me, his face close to mine. He gently stroked my cheek. "Shhh, Elyse. It's okay. Kalea is at the top of her class. This is a great learning opportunity for her. I'll be right here to supervise."

"No..." I begged, my eyes wide with terror.

"Just go to sleep," he whispered, his voice the last thing I heard as the world faded to black. "It will all be over when you wake up."