Chapter 2

I didn't go home after the jury.

I went to the hospital where they'd treated my ear seven years ago.

I only meant to request a copy of my audiology records — the placement office needed proof of disability for the paperwork. But the doctor recognized me the moment I walked in.

The first thing he said wasn't hello.

"Why did you never come back for the second-stage nerve reconstruction?"

I stared at him. "The what?"

He frowned and pulled up my old file.

The lines scrolled down the screen, one after another.

Auditory nerve — not fully necrotic.

Surgery within three months. Recovery probability: 70%+.

Procedure cost: $180,000. Deposit paid in full.

Insurance: will not cover experimental nerve-graft component. Balance to be private-pay.

Payer of record: my father.

Co-signer on payment and insurance appeal: Sebastian Cole.

My chest went hot, then cold.

They had been that close to saving me.

I scrolled to the next page.

Deferral of Procedure — Signed.

Date of cancellation: the day before Nina flew to Paris.

Reason listed:

Family unable to proceed at this time due to overseas conservatory tuition and instrument purchase for younger daughter. Procedure indefinitely postponed.

The doctor sighed.

"I warned your mother. I told her the recovery window on that kind of nerve damage was very narrow. Once you missed it, we couldn't guarantee anything."

He looked at me carefully.

"She said Nina was in a very fragile state. That she had to go abroad immediately to heal. That they were buying her a new piano so she could start over."

I gripped the printout. My fingers had gone numb.

He kept going, gently. "Your mother was crying, Ms. Ashford. She said — she said you'd already lost one ear. But if Nina couldn't play, her whole life would be over."

I laughed. I don't know why.

It wasn't that my ear couldn't have been saved.

It was that they had signed it away themselves — pulled my name off the surgical schedule with their own hands.

It wasn't that they couldn't come up with a hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

It was that they had decided the chance of me hearing the world again was worth less than a new piano for Nina.

……

When I got home, Nina was sitting in the living room, unwrapping gifts.

Pale silk dress. Cheeks pink. That same small, hesitant voice.

"Wren. You're home."

Beside her stood a brand-new Steinway upright — pale wood, red ribbon still looped around the leg.

My mother beamed. "Nina's welcome-home present. She hasn't touched a piano in this house in seven years."

My father chuckled. "Play whenever you want, sweetheart. It's yours."

Julian ruffled her hair. "You worked so hard, starting over in Paris. It's about time you played at home again."

Sebastian was crouched by the bench, adjusting the height for her.

I remembered, in that moment, seven years ago — Sebastian sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, holding my hand.

"I'll be your right ear, Wren. I promise."

I understood now.

He, too, had decided that Nina's chance to play again mattered more than my chance to hear again.

I walked over to the piano.

I set the copies down on the lid.

The paper was thin. Almost weightless. But when it landed, it hit the room like a slap.

Silence.

My mother's face changed. "Why did you go digging around at the hospital?"

I met her eyes. "So seven years ago, I could have been treated. Is that right?"

Nina's eyes filled instantly. She stood up. "Wren — if you think I took your surgery from you, I'll never touch a piano again. I swear."

My mother pulled her in, held her tight. "It wasn't your fault, sweetheart. That was our decision as parents."

My father's jaw set. He gestured at the housekeeper. "Marta, get these papers off Nina's piano. She doesn't need to see this today."

I watched Marta lift the copies away like they were something dirty.

I looked at the new Steinway, gleaming under the chandelier.

Seven years ago, I had lost my right ear.

She had lost her nerve to play.

And in the end, the thing they'd chosen to rescue was her nerve.

The thing they'd chosen to give up was my life.