Chapter 4 - The Dose He Never Got to Give Me
Marisol saved me.
She stepped through the doorway before Christian could connect the syringe.
“Mr. Prescott?”
He turned.
“What?”
“Medication administration has to be documented.”
Christian smiled.
“I was just moving the line.”
“No, sir.”
The friendliness vanished from his face.
He slid the syringe into his pocket.
I kept pretending to sleep.
Every instinct wanted me to open my eyes.
I didn't.
Not yet.
Christian kissed my forehead again.
“I'll be back tomorrow.”
He left.
Marisol locked the door.
Gabriel pulled the curtain.
I sat upright.
“What was in it?”
Marisol found the discarded cap.
“No label.”
Gabriel stared toward the hallway.
“He was going to drug her.”
“Or worse.”
I looked at both of them.
“No assumptions.”
They stared.
“What?”
“If we start deciding every frightening thing means murder, we become easy to manipulate.”
Fear wants simple villains.
I had Christian.
That was already enough.
I didn't need to invent additional crimes.
We needed proof.
Marisol arranged a legitimate medication transfer to another floor under a privacy protocol. Officially, I remained in my room.
Unofficially, I spent the night in a secure post-operative suite under another patient code.
Christian never noticed.
At 3:40 a.m., Gabriel accessed his management backups.
Contracts.
Tour insurance.
Image licensing.
Endorsement agreements.
That was where I found the reason Christian needed me alive.
Five years earlier, shortly after we began dating, Christian signed a massive morality-and-brand partnership with Halcyon Media.
The public loved us.
Famous singer falls for ordinary nonprofit arts director.
Except I wasn't ordinary to their business model.
Market research showed Christian’s likability among women rose twenty-three percent when photographed with me.
Family-friendly endorsements doubled.
Ticket sales among older demographics surged.
My face was worth money.
Literally.
Halcyon’s contract contained a relationship-continuity clause.
If Christian abandoned me through scandal, he could lose tens of millions.
If I voluntarily withdrew because of illness or trauma?
He retained most rights.
My attack wasn't simply about Sabrina’s private wedding.
It created the perfect exit condition.
Christian could publicly care for his “injured fiancée,” preserve his wholesome image, keep sponsorships and maintain a private family elsewhere.
“He planned to keep you,” Gabriel whispered.
“Yes.”
Not marry and leave.
Keep.
Dependent.
Grateful.
Invisible.
Then I found another contract.
My signature appeared on it.
Granting Halcyon perpetual rights to my name, image and personal life story in connection with Christian’s brand.
I had never signed it.
Gabriel went silent.
“That contract funded his last album.”
“How much?”
“Forty-two million.”
My attack was horrific.
The fertility betrayal was monstrous.
But another truth emerged:
For years, Christian had been selling pieces of my identity without me knowing.
Then Gabriel whispered:
“I know who forged your signature.”
“Who?”
May you like
He looked ashamed.
“Me.”
