Those galas were torture chambers—hypocritical small talk, ear-splitting music. For a deaf person, it was nothing short of an execution ground.
I washed the sticky soup from my face and changed into plain, clean clothes.
I had an appointment.
The doctor had warned me my condition was deteriorating rapidly. Without intervention, I would lose even the faint perception of light I had left.
Yes.
In addition to the deafness, my vision was failing.
I slid on a pair of sunglasses and hailed a taxi to the hospital.
In the consultation room, the doctor reviewed my test results, his brow furrowed. He shook his head grimly and wrote on a notepad:
**[Ms. Delgado, immediate hospitalization is required.]**
I took the pen. **[How much?]**
He held up five fingers.
Five hundred thousand.
To the former heiress of the Delgado family, that sum used to be the price of a single haute couture gown.
To me now?
Astronomical.
After the Delgado bankruptcy, our assets were frozen. Joshua was my only lifeline.
And he had just cut the cord.
I looked at the doctor and shook my head.
**[Just prescribe painkillers.]**
He sighed, his eyes heavy with pity.
When I left the hospital, the sky was a bruised purple. Rain was coming.
I stood by the curb, scanning for a taxi, when a black Maybach screeched to a halt in front of me.
The window rolled down.
Joshua's stern profile.
"Get in."
I froze. Hadn't he banned me from the gala?
"Isabella said she didn't want you moping at home alone. She insisted I pick you up." His eyes narrowed. "Faith, behave yourself. Do not embarrass me tonight."
*Ah.*
So that's it.
Isabella wanted an audience. She wanted to watch me stumble and fail in high society. A deaf woman at a gala—nothing more than a freak show. An oddity to be mocked.
I pulled the door open and slid into the backseat.
The car was suffocating.
Isabella's perfume saturated every inch of air—sweet, cloying, utterly pungent.
I lowered the car window, inviting the biting wind inside. Beside me, Joshua Sawyer's brow furrowed, but he remained silent. The luxury sedan sped toward the resplendent, gilded banquet hall.
To anyone else, it was a party.
To me, it was an execution ground.
The hall was ablaze with light, yet stepping inside felt like wandering into a silent film. Mouths moved, expressions shifted—laughter, disdain, curiosity—but the world remained dead silent. Equal parts panic and absurdity clawed at my chest.