Chapter 2
Something about that sentence caught my attention.“What?”
She shrugged.
“You and Grant have money.”
“We own a dry-cleaning business. We’re not millionaires.”
“You have savings.”
My pulse quickened.
“How do you know what we have?”
Neither answered.
I tightened my arm around Clara.
“How do you know, Brielle?”
My mother’s expression shifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
That was when irritation turned into fear.
I reached toward the hospital tray.
“Where’s my phone?”
“You don’t need it right now,” Diane said.
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Brielle stepped nearer.
“It means stop acting dramatic and give me the card.”
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
“Natalie.”
“I said no.”
“Give me the damn card.”
“Get out.”
For a moment, she looked genuinely shocked.
Then something ugly surfaced in her face.
“You’ve always thought you’re better than me.”
I blinked.
“Are you serious?”
“You have the business. The house. Grant. Now the perfect baby.”
Her voice cracked on the final word.
And suddenly I realized this was more than entitlement.
She hated me.
Not casually.
Not the ordinary resentment sisters sometimes carry.
There was something old and deeply rooted in her expression.
Something I had failed to see because I’d spent so much time fixing her problems that I never noticed she blamed me for having fewer of my own.
“I don’t think I’m better than you,” I said quietly.
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I think you’re asking a woman who was cut open yesterday to fund an eighty-thousand-dollar birthday party.”
“Stop saying it like that!”
“How else should I say it?”
She moved so fast that I barely registered what was happening.
Brielle lunged toward the bed and grabbed my forearm.
Pain shot through me as I twisted away.
“Don’t touch me!”
Clara woke screaming.
Panic tore through me.
I instinctively curled around her.
“Brielle!”
My mother rushed forward.
For one foolish, hopeful second, I thought she was about to pull my sister away.
Instead, Diane reached for Clara.
“Give me the baby.”
Everything inside me turned cold.
“What?”
“You’re hysterical. Give her to me.”
“No!”
She grabbed the blanket around Clara.
My daughter screamed even louder.
I held on.
“Mom, stop!”
“If you won’t help your sister, maybe you don’t deserve everything you’ve been given.”
I stared at her.
The words made no sense.
Not yet.
“Get away from my baby!”
Brielle grabbed my wrist again.
I screamed.
“SECURITY! HELP!”
My mother tightened her hands around Clara’s blanket.
Then the hospital-room doors burst open.
Grant was standing there.
But he wasn’t alone.
Behind him stood two hospital security officers, a uniformed police officer, and a gray-haired man in a navy suit carrying a leather folder.
My mother went completely white.
Grant didn’t look confused.
He looked furious.
“Take your hands off my daughter.”
Diane froze.
The security officers acted immediately.
One pulled Brielle away from the bed.
The other moved between my mother and Clara.
Brielle started shouting.
“This is insane! We didn’t do anything!”
The police officer looked at her.
“Ma’am, step away.”
Grant rushed to my side.
“Natalie.”
His voice cracked.
I hadn’t even realized I was crying until he wiped the tears from my face.
“Are you hurt?”
“My incision—Clara—”
He checked Clara first.
She was crying, but breathing normally.
A nurse rushed in seconds later, checked my vitals, then examined Clara.
Behind her, Brielle kept yelling.
“This is a family argument!”
The man in the navy suit watched my mother.
Diane stared back at him as if she had seen a ghost.
Then he spoke her name.
“Diane Mercer.”
She said nothing.
He opened his folder.
“My name is Thomas Vale. I’m an investigator with the bank’s financial-crimes division.”
My mother appeared to stop breathing.
Grant turned to me.
“Natalie, I need you to listen to me.”
“What is happening?”
He looked devastated.
“I didn’t go home for the hospital bag.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“I got a fraud alert this morning.”
The room became quiet except for Clara’s small cries.
Grant continued.
“Someone tried to authorize a twenty-seven-thousand-dollar transfer from our business reserve account.”
I looked at Brielle.
She stared at the floor.
My mouth went dry.
“But she needed my card.”
“No,” Thomas Vale said gently. “She needed your verification.”
I stared at him.
“What verification?”
“Your bank uses a secondary identity check for unusually large transfers. They had most of the information already. Account numbers. Your Social Security number. Your mother’s maiden name.”
Slowly, I turned toward Diane.
Thomas continued.
“What they didn’t have was the rotating security code tied to the physical card.”
My hands started trembling.
The party.
The deposit.
The urgency.
They had never intended to borrow the money.
They had already tried to steal it.
“How?” I whispered.
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not all.”
Thomas laid several papers on the tray beside my bed.
“There are three credit accounts in your name that you didn’t open.”
My vision blurred.
May you like
“How much?”
He hesitated.
