I wake with gauze wrapped around my back like a mummy's bindings, but it can't trap the chill seeping from my wounds.
Alex Hilton sits by the bed, smoking.
Ash falls onto my pillow like shards of glass.
"Susan's pissed. You need to apologize."
He crushes the cigarette with his usual ferocity, smearing ash across my lips.
"Baby, don't be difficult."
The predatory glint in his eyes reminds me of Grandpa Hilton's words:
"He sees you as a trained dog."
He pets my hair approvingly.
"Play something for Susan. She likes Adagio in G Minor."
His voice blends with tobacco smoke, and I recall when he said my flute could melt snow—now it's a tool to entertain his new toy.
The champagne gown chokes me, diamonds blinding under chandeliers.
As I enter the Hilton ballroom, whispers sting like
