The city felt close that night, its noises pressed against Vicky's windows like curious fingers. She arrived home bone-tired, every step a small protest. After rinsing the day off in a hot shower, she tied her hair back with a practiced motion and set a pot on the stove, letting the ritual of cooking steady a mind that kept lurching toward the edges of memory.
Her phone rang like a bell in a quiet church. The sound startled her — not from surprise, but from the sudden awareness that someone might be watching the folds of her life. She answered with a voice that tried to appear ordinary.
"Mr. Jackson, I'm so sorry. I'm… I'm in a situation I can't fully explain." She heard the words slip out, brittle and half-true.
"Vicky, slow down," Jack said gently. "Breathe."
"I woke up in the hospital. I don't know how I got there." The confession landed between them and trembled.
"It's okay. Nate told me. I'm just checking you're alright." His tone steadied her like a hand on the back of a chair.
"Nathan called you?" she asked, surprised.
"He did. Take the time you need." Jack's voice was practical but kind. "We have the engagement coming up. If you're not fit to work, we'll manage."
"I can work," Vicky said, squeezing the kettle as if it were something she could squeeze into shape. "I even made pineapple cake for my siblings. I miss them."
"All right. But if you're not well, don't push. We can't risk the event — we could be sued." Jack's corporate firmness wrapped around a hint of worry.
"I won't let that happen," she promised.
"Thank you." The line went soft with the click of good manners. Then Tonia swept into the kitchen like a gust.
"Vicky!" Tonia exclaimed, hugging her hard enough to crease the exhaustion from her shoulders.
"I'm fine, Tony," Vicky lied and felt the lie vibrate.
"You look awful. Are you sure?" Tonia's eyes slid to the bandage on Vicky's hand.
"It's just a wound. It'll heal. How are you?" Vicky asked, grateful for the redirection.
"No. This is about you. Don't hide it — look at your cake. You're sad." Tonia's voice braided compassion with exasperation.
"My cake's fine," Vicky muttered.
"Vicky!" Tonia called again, louder, softer, insistent.
She surrendered. The story poured out — the hospital, the blanks in her memory, girls calling her Paige, the bullet the doctors found, visions of violence that tasted like someone else's hands. She wept without apology. Tonia held her like it was the only thing that made sense.
"Come here," Tonia murmured, arms looping around her. Her face, usually bright, folded into something that was almost fear.
Across the house, Catty prowled Nathan's room and found it empty. She phoned; no answer. He returned just as she was about to holler his name.
"What are you doing in my room?" Nathan asked, surprising her with calm.
"I was looking for you," Catty said, clipped.
"I'm here. What do you want?" His patience was a shield.
"Why did you storm out of lunch like that?" she demanded.
"So you'd stop disrespecting me at the table?" Nathan shot back.
"Disrespect?" Catty blinked, genuinely puzzled.
"Yes. I'm off to the gym. I need you to leave my house." He said it with a flat resolve that made her laugh — and then wince at how small and final it sounded.
"What?!" she sputtered.
"Why are you pretending not to see?" Nathan said. "I don't know how to argue well, but until you learn manners to respect me — your fiancé — don't come around."
Catty stood, mouth open, furious and stunned. "Nathan — we're getting married!"
"Oh, right. Totally forgot," he said with a grin that slid into the doorway as he left. "No marriage." Then he added, softer and crueler, "Just a sneak peek."
Catty reeled. Monica, watching, smiled with a small, private triumph as if she'd staged it all. Nathan's exit left a hollow that could be heard in the clink of cutlery.
Kuku tried to salvage the fragments. "Is this really you, Catty?" he asked later, incredulous.
"That girl is sick," Catty snapped. "If we're caught using someone unstable for our wedding, we could all be ruined. I'm preserving reputations here." She swept from the room like a verdict passed.
Back at the hospital, Evan waited like a clock that had lost its hands. People hurried past him as if he were a lamppost. Then Auguste, a woman whose stride always seemed too loud for the places she walked, brushed by. He recognized her and followed.
She slipped into Magano's operating theatre with a practiced air. Evan stayed at the doorway, watching while the nurse moved between machines.
"How is she?" Auguste demanded the moment she reached the bed.
"She's still in a coma," the nurse said.
Evan peered through the glass and heard his own voice, small and distant: "Mom?"
Auguste's jaw tightened. Her anger hit the nurse like a thrown stone. "If she's so important to you, why don't you pay for her surgery and wake her up?" the nurse said, sharp and practical.
"I can't do that," Auguste said, stepping forward towards the nurse. "I'll make the calls. Meet me where I send you with her."
"You can't move her without her guardian's consent," the nurse replied, textbook and steady.
Auguste produced a handful of cash and shoved it into the nurse's palm with the bluntness of someone used to buying outcomes. Evan saw it happen and felt the room constrict.
"Hi, Aunt," he said, voice trembling. Auguste flinched as if she'd seen a ghost — or as if the ghost had finally answered back.
Her face shifted from irritation to something raw and unguarded when she looked at Evan. For a second there was no posture left, only the sharp vulnerability of someone who'd been called to account.