But Alison brushed it off with a casual, “Just an upset stomach.”
Then one day, she showed up at the hospital, pale as a ghost.
“S-something’s wrong,” she muttered.
I had her lie down on the exam table and did a quick check.
The results weren’t good. Her muscles were showing early signs of fatigue and loss of tone—classic wear and tear. Things were not holding up well.
“You and your boyfriend really need to stop. Or at least tone it down, or it’s going to get you—”
Before I could finish the sentence, she snapped.
“You’re just jealous because I actually know how to enjoy life, while you’re trapped in your miserable little bubble!”
She wasn’t going to let go of Owen. That much was clear. She never could stand the idea of me being happy. Over the years, anytime a guy showed the slightest interest in me, she’d swoop in like a hawk, flaunting her charm until he forgot I even existed. It wasn’t about love—not for her. It was about winning. Always proving she was somehow better.
I gave her a sweet little smile. “Suit yourself. I’ll prescribe you something to help with the pain.”