Gabriella’s P.O.V

The cuffs bit into my wrist with every step, a reminder that I wasn’t a patient to them—I was a prisoner. The nurse’s grip was firm on the other end of the chain, guiding me down the long, sterile corridor like I might bolt at any second. And maybe I would.

My mind was racing, turning over ideas, trying to stitch together some kind of plan. I knew now, after what I’d said to my father, there was no coming back from it. He wouldn’t help me. Maybe he ...