Then she walked out without looking back.
I crawled back to the bed, barely breathing.
After what felt like an eternity, my phone rang.
“Thank you, Claire!”
I sneered.
“You’re thanking me too early, Ethan Hayes.”
“Claire Summers! Are you trying to ruin me?”
His furious roar echoed through the phone from the exhibition hall.
On the giant screen of the exhibition, a video was playing —
Zoey and Ethan, having sex in the studio.
When I first saw the video, my nails dug deep into my palm.
Especially when I heard Ethan moaning “Zoey” over and over, his hands groping her shamelessly.
That night, the entire exhibition went viral.
Screenshots flooded Facebook.
When Ethan stormed into the hospital room like a man possessed,
I calmly set down my book and glanced at him.
I had seen this scene before — but the roles had changed.
Years ago, when my mother was rushed into the ICU,
I had offered a huge reward for a donor, but everyone failed the match test.
When I was sitting hopelessly in the hospital,
I met Ethan, a street artist selling sketches.
He was the one match who succeeded.
I tried to pay him to settle the matter, but he refused any money — he only asked for a chance.
Maybe he truly was a struggling artist.