Part One
Friday, April 5 – 6:30 PM
I always thought of myself as a rational person. The kind of nurse who can handle a seven-car pileup in the ER without breaking a sweat. But rational flew out the window the day I quit my job for Vincent Rell.
I grip the steering wheel of my Honda Civic, staring up at the old brick warehouse converted into lofts—Vincent’s place. My stomach is doing tiny flips like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. I’ve just tossed away a steady paycheck, health insurance, and maybe my sanity, all because one charming guy said he was dying and needed me.
“Idiot,” I mutter under my breath, swiping at a rogue tear. Whether I’m talking to myself or to him, I’m not sure. Probably both.
I climb out of the car into the crisp spring air and heft a box of my scrubs and textbooks from the trunk. This is really happening. I’m about to play live-in hospice nurse for a guy I was casually dating.
We hadn’t even defined our relationship before all this. Almost-boyfriend is the term I use. We were in that tentative stage—sweet text messages, a few sleepovers, but still dancing around the “what are we” talk—when he dropped the bombshell over coffee one morning: leukemia. Aggressive. Maybe six months left, tops.
I remember the diner’s fluorescent lights flickering as he said it, like even the universe was wincing. My heart plummeted to my shoes. I think I whispered “Oh my God” about ten times while he explained in a shaky voice that he didn’t want to scare me away. He looked so vulnerable, eyes shiny with tears he was trying not to shed. Seeing him like that twisted my insides in knots. And it triggered that deep-buried caregiver part of me—the part that runs toward disaster instead of awaybetterhealth.vic.gov.au.
The next thing I knew, I was volunteering to do anything—anything—to help him through this. That turned into me resigning from County General so I could move into his loft and take care of him full-time. Extreme? Yeah. But I couldn’t imagine lying in bed at night knowing I wasn’t doing everything possible to help someone I… well, someone I cared about deeply.
Vincent insisted I didn’t have to uproot my life. “I can’t ask you to put your life on hold,” he had murmured, fingers trembling around his coffee mug. But I’m stubborn when my mind’s made up. I basically told him, “Too bad, I’m doing it.” When a determined nurse decides to help, good luck stopping her.
So here I am: a 28-year-old nurse with a savior complex, about to barge into a loft and devote myself to a man I’m not even officially dating—because he might not live to see next year.
I balance the box on my hip and buzz his unit. The intercom crackles. “Who is it?” Vincent’s voice comes through, tinny and weak.
“It’s me,” I say, pressing the button with my elbow. “Your personal nurse slash chef slash court jester reporting for duty.”
A beat, then the door unlocks with a loud clack. I shoulder it open and step into the industrial-style lobby. No elevator—of course not. Huffing, I lug my stuff up one flight of concrete stairs to #2B.
By the time I reach his door, I’m winded and a drop of sweat is wiggling down my temple. Pull it together, Harper. He’s the sick one, not you. Before I can knock, the door swings open.
Vincent stands there in a loose gray t-shirt and flannel pants, looking thinner than he did a week ago. His sandy-brown hair is unkempt and his skin is pale, almost waxy. Despite that, he gives me a crooked smile. “Hey, you.”
“Hey,” I reply softly.
For a moment, we just stand there in the doorway, looking at each other. My heart lurches seeing him so frail. This is real. He’s sick, and I’m here.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. As I pass, he takes the heavy box from my arms despite my protest. “I got it,” he insists, carrying it a few steps before setting it down. I notice he’s moving slowly, like it takes effort.
The loft looks like he attempted to tidy up. I smell bleach and lemon cleaner, with an undercurrent of something medicinal. The open space has exposed brick walls and high ceilings, and in one corner by the big windows he’s set up what looks like a mini hospital: a narrow bed with rails, an IV pole next to it, and a tray filled with amber pill bottles. My stomach twists at the sight, making it all brutally real.
“You really went all-in on the patient aesthetic,” I joke gently, trying to lighten the heaviness I feel in my chest. My voice echoes slightly off the rafters.
Vincent half shrugs. “Figured it’s easier this way. I, uh, rented the bed and stuff from a medical supply place. A neighbor helped me set it up.”
I nod, stepping over to the “sick corner.” The IV bag hanging from the pole is filled with a pale yellow liquid. There’s masking tape on it with “Morphine” scrawled in marker. The nurse in me flags that as odd—IV morphine usually isn’t a big yellow bag, and labels are printed, not handwritten tape. Maybe it’s a custom cocktail or a nutrient drip? I decide I’ll ask about it later. No need to play 20 questions right this second.
“You thirsty? Hungry?” I ask, turning back to him. “I can make tea, soup, a five-course dinner—name it.”
He manages another small smile as he sinks onto a beat-up leather couch. “I’m okay. Don’t fuss too much or I’ll get used to it,” he teases, though his voice is thin.
He pats the couch and I join him, leaving a respectful distance. Up close, I can see purplish shadows under his eyes and how sharply his collarbones stand out under the shirt. My brain automatically starts assessing: Skin cool, a bit clammy; breathing a little shallow; he’s exhausted. Probably in pain too but hiding it.
My chest tightens with empathy. I just want to wrap him in a hug, but I also don’t want to hurt him if he’s sore. “So,” I say, keeping my tone light, “Nurse Harper is officially on duty. What’s the plan, boss? Movie marathon? Puke your guts out? Both? I’m ready for anything.”
He actually chuckles softly. “Maybe a movie later. I’m kinda tired right now. The meds… they knock me out.”
“Of course.” I reach over and give his hand a light squeeze. “You should rest. Don’t try to play host or anything. I’ll unpack and get myself situated, okay? If you need anything, even something silly, just say the word. I mean it.”
His fingers curl around mine for a moment. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, eyes glistening.
The raw sincerity in his voice makes me swallow hard. “Hey,” I say softly. “I’m here because I want to be. You’re not a burden, got it? And for the record, you’re stuck with me now.”
He nods and blinks away what might be tears. “Thank you. I really… I can’t thank you enough.”
He holds my gaze, and for a second I wonder if he’s about to say something more—something that scares and excites me in equal measure. But he just smiles faintly and looks down. “Sorry. I get emotional over dumb things these days. Like, I’ll cry at a car insurance commercial. It’s ridiculous.”
“Cancer makes you soft, huh?” I attempt a joke, then wince. “Sorry—bad joke.”
“It’s okay,” he assures me. “Gallows humor, I get it.” He rubs his temple. “I think I’ll lie down now, if that’s okay. Feeling a little lightheaded.”
“Sure. Let me help you.”
I hover as he stands. He’s unsteady but waves off my arm. Slowly, he shuffles to the hospital bed and eases himself onto it with a muffled groan. I notice him grimace as he swings his legs up.
“Pain?” I ask quietly.
“A little. Mostly my legs. Kinda like that deep bone ache when you have the flu.” He settles back against the pillows, face tight.
Bone pain. That can be a leukemia symptom. Could also be from treatments. I recall that some chemo meds cause aches too. It’s one more confirmation that yes, he’s really sick. Why do you keep looking for confirmation? I chide myself. Of course he’s sick. Who would lie about that?
“I’ll let you rest,” I say, pulling the thin blanket over him. He closes his eyes with a nod. “I’m just gonna unpack and be right here if you need anything.”
He mumbles a thanks, already seeming half asleep. The meds must really wipe him out.
I spend the next twenty minutes quietly putting away clothes in the small dresser by the bed, and stacking my nursing textbooks on a shelf. I’m not sure why I brought those—security blanket, maybe. The loft is mostly one big room, so I try to stay quiet.
Vincent’s breathing evens out, soft and rhythmic. Watching him sleep, I feel a fierce protective surge. I’m really doing this. I’m actually here, watching over him.
My eyes drift to the IV bag again. It’s swaying gently, catching the glow from the setting sun outside. That yellowish fluid still bothers me. Morphine drips I’ve administered were always clear. Maybe it’s mixed with something? I sniff the air but only smell a bit of antiseptic and plastic from the IV line. I make a mental note to check the bag more thoroughly later, maybe when I change it.
I pour hot water from the electric kettle into a mug, letting a chamomile teabag steep. Light is fading, the loft growing cozier by the minute. I turn on a small lamp by the couch so I don’t trip over anything.
As I sit on the couch with my tea, I finally allow myself to exhale. The adrenaline of the past few days is wearing off, leaving exhaustion and a swarm of second thoughts. Did I just make a huge mistake? What if I mess up his care? I’ve handled critical patients, but this is different. This is personal.
My phone buzzes with a text, probably my sister Maya checking in for the millionth time. I’ll reply later; I don’t have the energy to reassure her that I haven’t completely lost it.
From the bed, Vincent gives a soft groan and shifts in his sleep. I’m instantly on alert, setting the mug down. But he quiets again, sinking back into whatever dreams or nightmares he’s having.
I wrap a throw blanket around myself and flick on the TV, volume low. Some late-night cooking show plays, but I’m not really watching. My eyes keep drifting to the sleeping figure a few feet away.
Something about this situation feels surreal. The silence, the medical equipment casting weird shadows on the wall, me sitting here on edge. In the ER, I’m used to constant noise and crises. Here, the quiet is unnerving. It leaves too much room for thoughts.
My gaze lands on the IV stand once more. A nagging voice at the back of my mind wonders again why that fluid is tinted gold. Most likely vitamins… right? There’s a simple way to know: check the label under the tape. But that might wake him. It can wait until morning.
I sip my tea and scold myself internally: Stop looking for problems. He’s sick. Everything here makes sense. He probably just has his own way of doing things at home.
But as midnight approaches, I notice I’m rubbing the same spot on my forearm over and over—a telltale sign of my anxiety. Why am I so uneasy? I chalk it up to the pressure of not wanting to fail him. I’ve never been solely responsible for someone outside a hospital. It’s scary.
Finally I turn off the TV and curl up to sleep on the couch. It’s not the most comfortable, but I don’t want to invade his bed and there’s nowhere else to crash except the floor. I can handle a couch for a while.
In the darkness, I replay the day in my mind—the too-clean loft, the odd IV bag, the unchecked meds on that schedule. Little things I’d normally brush off.
Everything’s fine, I tell myself. He’s sick. I’m here to help. Everything’s going to be fine.
Still, as I finally let sleep take me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stepped off a ledge—and I have no idea how far I’m about to fall.
Part Two
Sunday, April 7 – 2:00 PM
Two days into being Vincent’s live-in caregiver, I’m already exhausted. Mornings start with coaxing him to eat a few bites of toast and swallow his pills. Afternoons are a blur of laundry and tip-toeing around while he naps. Nights… nights are the hardest, when he whimpers with bone pain that even his meds barely touch. I rub his back and murmur comfort until he drifts off again. It’s heartbreaking and draining—but every time he looks at me and whispers “Thank you,” I feel a surge of purpose that keeps me going.
Still, that nagging feeling from the first night hasn’t gone away. Little things tickle at the back of my mind, just faint enough to ignore.
For instance, this morning I woke to find him out of bed, watering his big monstera plant by the window. He looked steady on his feet, even had a bit of color in his cheeks. I was shocked—relieved, even, to see him with energy. But an hour later he was curled up under blankets again, pale and shaky with a “migraine.” The swing was so sudden it gave me whiplash. I know illness can fluctuate, so I brushed it off.
Then yesterday I found one of his pills on the floor under the bed. Maybe it was an accident. But this afternoon, when I handed him his pain meds, I realized I never actually saw or heard him swallow them. He said “thanks” and closed his eyes, but the suspicious nurse in me noticed there was no telltale gulp of water. Tiny inconsistencies. Easily explained… yet they’re piling up.
As I’m mulling this, my phone buzzes on the counter. It’s my sister, Maya, probably checking in for the millionth time. I sigh and answer, bracing myself.
“Harper! Finally,” she exclaims, voice tight with worry. “I was about ready to drive over there and make sure you weren’t chopped into pieces.”
I roll my eyes despite the fond smile creeping on my face. “I’m fine, Maya. Everything’s fine.”
She blows out a breath. “You haven’t been answering. I know I said my piece already, but I’m seriously freaking out. You quit your job to take care of a guy you’ve been dating for, what, five months? It’s wild.”
I press the phone to my ear and step further from Vincent’s bed. He’s napping with an eye mask on, earbuds in for his meditation music—he can’t hear us. “I know it’s crazy. But it’s my decision. He needed help.”
“You have the biggest heart ever, I get it,” she says. “I just hope it’s not going to get broken. Or used.”
My hackles rise. “He’s not using me. He didn’t even ask me to do this—I offered.”
There’s a pause. “Har, listen. Just… are you absolutely sure he’s telling the truth? About everything?”
I freeze. “What? Why would you even ask that?”
She groans. “Because something feels off about this. Maybe I’m paranoid. But you barely know him, and now you’re living in his home playing nurse. Have you met any doctor of his? Seen any proof beyond what he’s told you?”
I start to protest, then falter. I’ve seen his medications, his hospital bed, his IV… but all that came from him. I haven’t actually gone to an appointment or spoken to his doctor.
“He has an oncologist,” I say defensively. “Dr. Cantor, at St. Mary’s. He gets chemo there, outpatient.”
“Okay. Have you ever gone with him to St. Mary’s? Or seen paperwork?”
“He… he usually goes with a cousin,” I admit. “I haven’t needed to. I’m taking care of him at home.”
Maya’s silent for a beat. “Harper, I love you. I’m not trying to upset you. But people lie about crazy stuff sometimes. Scams, sympathy, who knows. Remember that woman who faked cancer for donations? It happens.”
“That’s totally different,” I snap, though a cold prickle of doubt travels up my spine.
She gently persists, “Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. Verify what you can. For your own peace of mind, if nothing else.”
My mouth is dry. I rub a hand over my forehead. “I… okay. I’ll be careful.”
“I’m on your side, you know,” she says softly. “I’m worried about you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I love you. I’ll call later, okay?”
“Love you too. Stay safe.”
I hang up, heart pounding. My sister’s words stir up everything I’ve been trying to suppress. Now I’m seeing suspicion everywhere, like a lunatic. I focus on cleaning up the lunch dishes, scrubbing the counter furiously. He swallowed the pills. Stop imagining things.
Yet an image flashes: that capsule I found on the floor yesterday. What if he’s spitting pills out when I’m not looking? But why would someone in pain avoid taking their pain meds? None of it makes sense. Unless… he doesn’t really need them?
My hands still in the soapy water. A cold dread creeps in. No. No way. I can’t go down that rabbit hole. I’d be accusing him of an unspeakable level of deception.
And yet, the idea once planted doesn’t vanish. It takes root, fed by every inconsistency I’ve noticed. The unmarked IV bag. The miraculous burst of energy watering a plant that vanished when I saw him.
A knot forms in my stomach. I need to know. I need some kind of proof that all this suffering isn’t just… a twisted act.
Before I fully know what I’m doing, I find myself grabbing my car keys.
I scribble a note and leave it on the counter: “Went to grab groceries & prescriptions. Back soon. <3” It’s true enough—I’ll swing by the pharmacy on my way back if I have to, for appearance’s sake. But groceries aren’t my first stop.
As I quietly slip out of the loft, heart hammering with guilt and nerves, I tell myself I’m just being thorough. I’m doing this to put my own fears to rest so I can better focus on Vincent.
I’m going to the hospital. The one he said handles his treatments—St. Mary’s, downtown. It’s time to verify, once and for all, that my sister’s suspicions are unfounded.
Monday, April 8 – 10:15 AM
The oncology department at St. Mary’s Hospital smells like antiseptic and wilted hope. I flash my old hospital ID badge to get past a harried-looking receptionist, mumbling something about needing to check on a patient record. It’s technically true—I do need to check a record, just not one for my hospital.
Armed with the name of Vincent’s supposed oncologist, I make my way to the nurses’ station on the chemo infusion floor. My pulse thuds in my ears. What am I even going to say? Maybe I can pretend I’m coordinating home care for him.
I spot a motherly-looking nurse at a computer and approach. My voice comes out low and steady. “Excuse me, could you help me find a patient? I’m his home nurse and want to confirm his appointment schedule.”
She gives me a distracted smile. “Sure, honey. Name?”
“Vincent Rell,” I say, spelling it out. “Thirty years old, leukemia patient. He sees Dr. Cantor, outpatient.”
She nods and clicks around on her computer. I see the reflection of the screen in her glasses as she navigates a patient lookup. My heart is a runaway train. This is crazy. I shouldn’t be doing this. Any second, the floor could fall out from under my world.
“Hmm,” the nurse murmurs, frowning at the monitor. “Rell, Vincent, you said? How do you spell Rell again?”
I repeat it, hands clenched at my sides.
Her frown deepens. “I’m not finding a Rell with Dr. Cantor or in our leukemia clinic… Let’s try a general search.”
Keys clack as she types and scrolls. Then she shakes her head.
“No, sorry. We don’t have a Vincent Rell in our system at all. Are you sure he’s treated here at St. Mary’s?”
The world tilts. My stomach plunges through the floor.
“No… that can’t be,” I stammer. “Maybe he’s listed under a middle name or a nickname?”
The nurse looks sympathetic but firm. “We search by legal name. If he was getting chemo here or seeing Dr. Cantor, he’d be in our system. Perhaps he goes by a different last name?”
I plaster on a fake smile. “Maybe that’s it. I’ll double-check with his family. Thank you.”
She nods. “No problem. Good luck.”
I back away on unsteady legs, thanking her with a weak wave. I manage to make it to the parking garage and slip into my car.
Then I just sit there in the dim silence, hands shaking on the steering wheel, as the truth crashes over me in waves.
Vincent Rell is not a patient at St. Mary’s. He never was.
A hollow scream builds in my chest. I clench my teeth to hold it in. Hot tears blur my vision as betrayal and confusion duke it out inside my heart.
How could he… how dare he? If this is some mistake, it’s the most absurd mix-up in history. But every strange little thing I’ve noticed suddenly arranges itself into a pattern I was too blind to see.
My almost-boyfriend isn’t dying. He’s lying.
And I’m about to walk back into his loft and pretend I don’t know a damn thing—at least until I figure out what to do next.
Part Three
Monday, April 8 – 12:30 PM
I take a few extra minutes in my car to compose myself before heading back into the loft. My face in the rearview mirror looks pale and drawn, eyes still red-rimmed. I practice a neutral expression to mask the storm inside me.
When I finally unlock the door and step in, Vincent is sitting up on the couch, idly flipping through one of my nursing textbooks (upside down, I notice). The sight almost makes me laugh.
“You’re back,” he says, looking up. There’s a tension in his voice, like maybe he did notice something off about the way I left. “Everything okay?”
“Yep. Sorry I took a while.” I hold up the pharmacy bag I picked up as cover. “Refilled your anti-nausea meds and grabbed some groceries.” I set the bags on the counter, hoping I seem normal. My heart is thudding wildly, but I force a breezy tone.
He nods, eyes flicking over me. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that alone… I could’ve managed to ride along.”
“You kidding? And let you carry bags?” I feign lightness as I unload bread and apples I bought. “I needed to stretch my legs anyway.”
He puts the book down and stands, a bit wobbly on his feet. Instinctively, I step toward him to help, then catch myself. Now that I know his unsteadiness is probably an act, watching it makes my stomach churn.
He shuffles toward the hospital bed. “I should rest a bit. Feeling kinda wiped out.”
No doubt, con artistry must be exhausting work.
“Of course,” I say, mustering concern. “Do you need anything? Lunch?”
He shakes his head as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Maybe later. My stomach’s off.”
I nod and tug the curtains to dim the sunlight. I help lift his legs onto the mattress. The gestures have become automatic to me, but now each touch feels strange. False. I pull the blanket over him, my hands steady even as anger simmers beneath.
“I’ll be right here,” I assure him softly. He gives me a weak smile before closing his eyes.
In minutes, he appears asleep. Whether he actually is or not, I can’t tell. He’s a good actor, after all.
I retreat to the kitchen area, my mind racing. I have to be smart. Bursting out with accusations right now would get me nothing but lies or denial. I need proof—tangible evidence of his deceit. Something I can slam down in front of him (and maybe the police, a vengeful part of me adds).
My eyes land on the IV pole and bag by his bed. That damned “morphine” drip. If my hunch is correct, it’s not morphine at all.
Quietly, I tiptoe closer to the IV stand. Vincent’s breathing remains slow and steady; he doesn’t stir. Up close, the fluid in the bag has a slight golden hue. My heart pounding, I gently lift the bag off the hook and hold it up to the light.
The tape label with “Morphine” is covering the real manufacturer label. With careful fingers, I peel the tape halfway back. Beneath, printed text reads: “500ml Dextrose Saline IV”. Dextrose saline is basically sugar water.
I sniff the bag’s injection port and catch a whiff of something fruity. Apple juice.
You’ve got to be kidding me. My stomach flips with anger. I draw out a tiny sample with a syringe and dab a drop on my tongue. It’s unmistakable: watered-down apple juice.
“Oh, you son of a—” I bite off the curse and hang the bag back up, my cheeks burning.
Vincent doesn’t stir. How long has he been pumping himself full of harmless sugar water, playacting it’s morphine? That would explain why he’s never groggy or constipated from opioids, why he’s alert enough to water plants at dawn.
I feel sick. Part of me wants to rip the whole setup out and fling it across the room.
Instead, I cap the syringe and slip it into my pocket as evidence.
Next, I shuffle through some papers stacked on the side table. Mostly junk: a takeout menu, an instruction sheet for the IV pump. Then I strike gold: a folded letter with a hospital logo.
It’s a fake hospital bill for nearly $20,000, conveniently due tomorrow. The low-res logo and lack of contact info give it away immediately. It’s obviously forged. I carefully refold it and put it back exactly where it was, resisting the urge to scrawl “LIAR” across it in red ink.
As I step back, I hear Vincent rustle on the bed. I slip away from the tray, heart hammering, and quickly grab a book from the coffee table to pretend I was just reading.
He sits up a bit, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, you’re still here,” he says groggily.
“Where else would I be?” I reply, keeping my voice even. I slide a bookmark into the novel I’m holding as if I was engrossed.
He yawns. “What time is it?”
“Almost two.” I approach the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
He sighs. “Same. Achy.”
I reach down and straighten his blanket, hiding my revulsion. “Maybe a little more of your IV will help?” I suggest. My words have a razor’s edge, but he doesn’t catch it.
“Maybe,” he mutters. “Meds are slow today.”
I have to turn away to roll my eyes at that. Of course the “meds” are slow—apple juice isn’t exactly a narcotic.
I go back to the kitchen to busy myself, needing distance before my anger shows. As I start chopping a few vegetables (more for distraction than necessity), I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s scrolling on his phone now, looking perfectly absorbed and content for a supposedly terminal patient in agony.
A hot rush of contempt flares in me. I’ve seen real patients fighting for their lives—children, mothers, old men. I’ve held their hands and seen true pain and bravery. And here is Vincent, lounging and scrolling, playing pretend. It makes me want to scream.
Suddenly, Vincent speaks up. “Harper?”
I school my face into neutrality and turn. “Yeah?”
He’s holding his phone to his ear now. “One sec,” he whispers, covering the mouthpiece. “Hospital billing department.”
My eyes narrow. Show time.
He takes his hand away and immediately his tone changes into one of strained worry. “Yes, this is Vincent Rell… I know I’m behind on payments.”
I stand frozen, the knife still in my hand. He’s doing this right in front of me? A live performance?
He glances at me with a troubled frown, then looks away as if embarrassed. I silently set the knife down and inch closer, listening intently.
“I’m so sorry,” he continues into the phone, voice breaking pathetically. “It’s just been hard… I lost my job when I got sick and… please don’t send it to collections yet. I can get some money together soon. I—”
He falls silent, as if the person on the line is berating him. I swear I can hear a faint murmur, but it could be a recording or just his imagination.
“Yes, I understand,” Vincent chokes out after a moment, laying it on thick. “$20,000 by the end of the month… I-I don’t have that. I’m… yes, I have someone helping me. She might be able to—no, I can’t ask her for that kind of money. She’s already done so much…” His voice breaks into a soft sob.
My blood runs cold. That “she” is me. He fully intended to hit me up for a colossal sum and is acting like he can’t possibly ask—making it seem like my idea.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, both to hide my outrage and in case I literally vomit.
Vincent continues, voice trembling: “Please, just a little more time. I’m begging… hello? Hello?” He pulls the phone from his ear and lets out a heavy, despondent sigh. Then he gently sets the phone on the coffee table and covers his face with his hands.
I stand in the kitchen, adrenaline buzzing through my veins. I have to restrain every fiber of my being from lunging at him.
After a moment, he looks up at me with eyes shining. “That was St. Mary’s billing,” he says miserably. “They… they said if I don’t pay about $20k by the end of the month, they’ll send collectors. Might even sue.” He gives a bitter laugh. “I guess dying isn’t enough—they want to bankrupt me too.”
I stare back, doing my best impression of shock and concern. If I open my mouth, I might start shrieking.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t want you to hear that.” He casts his gaze downward in shame. “I’m so sorry. I hate that you have to deal with… all my mess.”
He’s good. The wounded pride, the reluctant admission of hardship—if I didn’t know better, I’d be in tears and reaching for my wallet. But I do know better.
My fingers dig into the counter as I force out words around the lump in my throat. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault,” I say quietly.
Inside, I’m boiling: You lying, scheming piece of garbage.
He looks up, clearly surprised by my gentle tone. “Harper, no, I can’t let you—”
“Shh.” I move over and place a hand on his shoulder. He looks genuinely startled by the contact. “If it comes to it, I have some savings,” I say softly. “Let’s not worry yet. We’ll figure it out. Focus on your health, okay?”
He blinks. “You… you’d do that? For me?”
I offer a faint, earnest smile. “Let’s take it one crisis at a time.”
Vincent’s lower lip trembles. He pulls me into a hug, burying his face against my stomach. “You’re amazing,” he chokes out. “I don’t deserve you.”
I stare over his shoulder, my hand lightly on his back. He’s trembling—whether from fake tears or the shock that I seemingly still believe him, I don’t know. I let him cling to me for a moment, biting back the bile rising in my throat.
After a long moment, he releases me and sinks back into the couch, wiping his eyes. His expression is an odd mix of relief and confusion—like he can’t quite believe I fell for it.
I mumble something about needing to use the restroom and slip away, my legs like jelly. The moment I shut the bathroom door, my mask falls. I twist the faucet on to hide any sound and stare at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed with anger and shame.
I run the faucet and let out a silent, furious scream, tears pricking my eyes. I will not let that bastard see me cry.
He doesn’t know it, but the game has changed. I have all the proof I need that his deception runs deeper than I ever imagined.
The question now is: What the hell am I going to do about it?
Part Four
Tuesday, April 9 – 1:45 AM
I lie awake on the lumpy couch, listening to Vincent’s soft snores sawing through the darkness. My mind won’t shut off. Every time I close my eyes, I see that self-satisfied smirk he wore after the fake phone call. The urge to scream the truth at him is almost unbearable.
But I hold back. Not yet. One more night, I tell myself. One more night under his roof to gather every piece of evidence I can. Then I’ll decide what to do.
Around 1:45 in the morning, I carefully slip out from under my blanket. The loft is lit only by the streetlights filtering through the high windows. Vincent is out cold on his hospital bed. Or at least, he appears to be. I watch his chest rise and fall steadily. If he’s faking sleep, he’s doing a thorough job.
My heart hammers as I tiptoe toward his desk where his laptop sits. He normally keeps it shut, but tonight the lid is open, the screen dark. Holding my breath, I gently ease into the chair and wiggle the mouse. The screen springs to life.
It’s open to a web browser. And it’s not even locked—amateur move, Vincent. A pang of guilt hits me for snooping, but I crush it swiftly. He lost any right to privacy when he decided to turn my life upside down with lies.
The browser opens to some kind of video streaming site. I squint at the name: Sympathy Hub. There’s a login page active, with a username already filled in: SickBoy30. It’s waiting for a password.
My pulse spikes. Is this what I think it is? Sympathy Hub… could this be a platform for people like him—people seeking or exploiting sympathy? The fact that his username is “SickBoy30” sends a flare of anger through me.
I click “Forgot Password” on a hunch. A hint question pops up: “favorite drink + year.”
Oh, Vincent, you fool. His favorite drink is literally apple juice (he once joked it was his blood type). As for a year, I guess his birth year—1994.
I type applejuice1994 and hit enter. After a tense second, the site logs in. I’m in.
Immediately I’m greeted with a dashboard of video thumbnails, comments, and a live chat box. At the top is a banner: “TerminalFeed: Dying Man’s Daily Battle”.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. One thumbnail is clearly a snapshot of me and Vincent on the couch, viewed from behind. I click it with a shaking hand.
A video player pops up and begins to buffer. When it plays, I nearly fall out of the chair. It’s dated two nights ago. In the video, I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, gently massaging his leg and murmuring that it’s going to be okay. I remember that moment; he’d woken with “leg cramps” and I was trying to soothe him. I see myself looking worried and compassionate—totally unaware I’m being filmed. The camera angle is wide, capturing most of the loft from a high corner.
Chat messages scroll alongside the video:
- LovingHeart77: “His poor girlfriend is an angel. 💔”
- SympaFan: “I live for these late-night comfort streams. So raw and beautiful.”
- NurseFetishist: “Wish I had a hot nurse taking care of me 😏”
- CaringSoul: “This is so heartbreaking yet I can’t look away.”
My hands clamp over my mouth. A hot mix of embarrassment and fury floods me. Hundreds of people—maybe more—have watched these incredibly intimate moments. They watched me stroke his hair, hold his hand, all while I thought it was private.
Bile rises in my throat. I slam the laptop closed for a second, afraid I might scream. But I have to know more. I force myself to reopen it and click on Vincent’s profile.
His page loads with a dramatic black-and-white photo of him looking gaunt and sad. (When did he even take that? Did he use makeup?) The bio reads: “30M with terminal leukemia sharing my journey. Any support helps. #ChroniclingTheCourage”.
Support. Right. There’s a link to a donation platform and Patreon. My jaw tightens as I click the donations tab—he’s raised over $12,000 from his “followers” for supposed medical bills.
A strangled noise escapes me. This isn’t just about fetishizing sympathy; he’s making money. Lots of it.
Hands shaking, I scroll through more of his page. There are text posts (likely written when I’m not around) where he waxes poetic about battling illness, facing death, cherishing each day. It’s nauseatingly well-written and inspirational. No wonder he hooked an audience.
There’s also a schedule: he streams live every few days around 7 PM. I spot yesterday’s date and time—right when he staged that debt collector call. The archived video is titled, “Facing Financial Ruin on My Deathbed”. My stomach twists as I click it.
It’s all there: a recording of Vincent on the couch, phone pressed to his ear on speaker. You can hear the tinny voice of his “caller” (probably a voice-modulated recording he queued up). And you can see me in the background, coming over worriedly and then kneeling by his side. The stream captures my soft offer to use my savings to help. The chat goes wild at that:
- SympaFan: “Omg she offered her savings… She’s a saint.”
- CancerKing: “I’m sobbing. Faith in humanity restored.”
- User128: “This content is gold. So much emotion.”
- DyingLight: “I wish someone loved me like that. 😢”
I slam the laptop shut so hard I’m amazed the screen doesn’t crack. My face burns with humiliation. That monstrous bastard. He manipulated me and paraded my deepest compassion in front of an audience for applause and cash.
Tears of rage blur my vision. I swipe them away, chest heaving. I’ve seen enough.
As I rise, something on the bookshelf catches my eye: a tiny blinking light near a decorative vase. I step closer and find a small webcam cleverly nestled among the knickknacks, aimed at the couch and bed. A second one is mounted by the kitchen shelf, pointing toward where I usually sit.
They were here all along, those little red eyes, broadcasting my life without my knowledge.
I back away, suddenly feeling dirty and exposed in my own skin. How many strangers watched me in my pajamas? Watched me cry when I thought he was in pain? God, did they even see me change clothes?
I flee to the bathroom, hand clamped over my mouth to hold back a sob. In the darkness, I lean on the sink and let a few tears slip out. But beneath the tears, steel is forming.
I know everything now. Every sordid, disgusting detail. And I have more than enough evidence: the syringe of apple-juice “morphine,” the fake bill, and now access to his entire online charade.
I wipe my eyes and inhale deeply. Confronting him alone, in the dead of night, might be satisfying—but it’s not enough. I need to make sure he faces real consequences.
I recall a conversation with a regular ER patient, Detective Luis Cabrera. I still have his card in my wallet. He once told me not to hesitate if I ever needed help or advice. Well, if ever there was a time…
Heart pounding, I quietly unlock my phone and find his number. I press call and lift the phone to my ear, voice barely above a whisper. “Hi, Detective Cabrera? It’s Harper Lang… I-I need your help. It’s urgent.”
As I quietly relay a concise version of the nightmare I’m living, a new feeling blooms in my chest—something like hope, edged with vengeance.
By the time I hang up, the detective is on his way over. We agreed it’s safer to have backup and a plan. I step out of the bathroom, every nerve on fire. I know exactly what I have to do.
This show is over. And when the sun comes up, Vincent Rell is going to face his final curtain.
Part Five
Tuesday, April 9 – 8:00 AM
Dawn breaks dull and gray. I haven’t slept a wink. Detective Cabrera is parked a block away in an unmarked car, waiting for my signal. We decided he’d stay out of sight—if I confront Vincent openly, perhaps he’ll slip up or confess. Cabrera wanted to be nearby in case things go south. I’ve got my phone in my back pocket, set to speed dial 1.
My hands are sweaty as I pour two mugs of coffee in the kitchen. Vincent shuffles out of bed right on cue, drawn by the smell. His hair is messy, eyes still puffy with “sleep.” Or perhaps he was up late editing his next sob-story update—I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Morning,” he mumbles, giving me a bleary smile. He looks so… ordinary. Not like a man about to have his entire world upended.
“Morning,” I reply. The coffee mug nearly cracks in my grip.
He sinks onto the couch, yawning. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”
I force myself to walk over and hand him a mug. “Not really,” I say. “I had a lot on my mind.”
He takes a sip and winces dramatically, as if even hot coffee might be too much for his constitution. I watch, jaw tight. How did I ever fall for this act?
“I’ve been thinking,” I begin, sitting down in the armchair opposite him. My voice sounds calm, measured—betraying none of the adrenaline surging through me.
“About what?” he asks, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch over his lap. Ever the frail patient.
“About… all of this.” I gesture around the loft. “Your illness. Our plan to pay for your treatment.”
His expression flickers just a bit. “You really shouldn’t worry about the money, Harper. I-I’ll find a way. I’ll sell the loft if I have to.”
Laying it on thick even now. I stare into my black coffee. “We could always ask St. Mary’s for a payment plan,” I say lightly.
He immediately shakes his head. “They, uh, already offered and it wasn’t great. I don’t want to drag you into that.”
I set my mug down. Now or never. “Maybe I could talk to Dr. Cantor about it,” I suggest, looking directly at him. “You know, see if the hospital has any charity funds or something.”
Vincent’s fingers tighten around his mug. “No! I mean… Dr. Cantor is extremely busy. And he wouldn’t discuss my case with you without me there. Privacy laws.”
His voice has a faint edge of panic. I feel a grim satisfaction.
“Right, HIPAA and all that,” I nod. “It’s just… funny, though. I actually went to St. Mary’s yesterday.”
I drop this casually, watching him over the rim of my cup.
He freezes, the mug halfway to his lips. “What?”
“I had to pick up your prescription, remember?” I lie smoothly. “While I was there, I asked about your records at the front desk—just to confirm your next chemo appointment.”
My heart is thudding. I see a muscle in his jaw twitch.
Vincent lowers his mug. “Why would you do that?” There’s defensive tightness to his tone now.
I shrug, feigning innocence. “I thought I’d surprise you by coming along to your session. To support you. But—” I tilt my head, “—they couldn’t find any record of you, Vince. Zero. Nada.”
His face goes blank. For a couple of seconds, the mask slips and I see raw fear in his eyes.
“I-I don’t know who you talked to,” he splutters. “They must’ve made a mistake. You probably gave them the wrong spelling or something.”
“I spelled it out for them,” I say, voice hardening. I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I also noticed a few other… anomalies. Like the morphine IV that smells suspiciously like apple juice.”
His mouth falls open. “What are you—”
“And the chemo schedule you left out? Dr. Cantor’s name is misspelled on it.” I snort. “I should’ve caught that one earlier, honestly.”
He puts his coffee down, hands visibly trembling now. “Harper, just… hang on. I can explain.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” I interrupt, fury seeping into my tone despite my resolve to stay calm. “Perhaps you’d like to explain the hidden cameras around your loft? Or should we skip to the part about Sympathy Hub?”
He goes sheet-white. Absolutely bloodless. Bingo.
“I found your little livestream,” I say, enunciating each word slowly. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall. “I saw EVERYTHING, Vincent. The videos of me, the donation page, your crocodile tears for your audience—I know.”
He’s shaking his head rapidly, like a broken automaton. “No, no, you’ve got it wrong—”
“Stop.” I stand up, unable to sit still with the rage rolling through me. “Just stop. No more lies. No more performance.” I practically spit the word.
He stands too, hands outstretched as if approaching a skittish animal. “Okay… okay. I screwed up,” he says quietly. His eyes dart around, searching for something—an escape, a script, I’m not sure. “I was going to tell you the truth, I swear. I just… I didn’t know how to after it went so far.”
A red haze of anger blurs my vision. “You were going to tell me? When, Vincent? After you wrung me dry emotionally and financially? After your little internet fan club got bored of your fake tragedy?”
He flinches. “It’s not like that. You have to understand—I…” he swallows. “It started small. At first it was just a stupid forum, and people were paying attention to me and I—I got addicted to it. It felt good to have strangers care. Then I realized I could make some money… and then when I met you, I—”
“Don’t you dare try to make this into some sob story of your own,” I cut in, voice low and shaking. “You targeted me. You played on my compassion. You made me give up my life for you!”
He winces, tears welling in his eyes—whether real or not, who knows. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping closer. “Harper, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant for you to quit your job, I—”
“Bullshit!” The curse explodes out of me. “You absolutely meant for me to do that. That was the whole point, right? What’s a better prop in your little show than a real nurse girlfriend doting on you?” I let out a bitter laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Was I boosting your views, Vincent? Is that it? I was just part of your content?”
He’s openly crying now, face contorted. “It’s not like that,” he babbles. “I mean yes, people were invested in you taking care of me, but I wasn’t doing it just for that. I—I really care about you, Harper. That part was real. I just… everything got out of control.”
I stare at him, astonished at the audacity. “You don’t get to say you care about me. You don’t destroy someone’s life and then claim you care.”
He takes another step, reaching as if to touch my arm. I slap his hand away and he stumbles back, bumping into the coffee table. He actually staggers, arms windmilling—just for a moment, he looks like a frightened, unsteady patient again.
Instinctively, I step forward as if to catch him, then stop myself. He catches his balance on the edge of the couch. His expression shifts—panic giving way to a quick flicker of calculation behind his eyes.
I know that look. He’s about to try something.
Vincent presses a palm to his chest. His face contorts in an exaggerated grimace. “H-Harper… I….” he gasps.
I fold my arms, not moving. “Don’t,” I warn coldly.
He ignores me. With a guttural groan, he crumples to his knees on the floor. One hand grabs the couch cushion, the other clutches at his chest. His eyes roll back and he slumps onto his side.
It’s so over-the-top I almost laugh. Almost.
He’s apparently going for either a heart attack or a seizure—it’s not even clear. To the untrained eye, it might look convincing. But I see how controlled his “collapse” is; he manages to fall without hitting his head or the coffee table.
“Vincent,” I say flatly. No response. He lies there, limp and “unconscious.”
Oh, he’s really committing to the bit.
I crouch a few feet away, observing. His breathing is normal—too steady and too quick for someone who supposedly just fainted. And I swear I see the tiniest peek of his eyes, checking if I’m buying it.
Anger surges anew, washing away any last shred of pity. Even now, he thinks he can manipulate me with one final act.
Fine. Two can play this game.
I lean over him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Vincent!” I shout, injecting panic into my voice. “Oh my God! Stay with me!”
He doesn’t stir. I feel for a pulse at his neck—strong and racing. Definitely not the thready pulse of someone crashing. I suppress a smirk.
Time to end this farce.
I give his cheek two firm slaps. Not gentle taps—real slaps, hard enough to sting. His eyelids flutter minutely, but he keeps them shut. Wow, he’s dedicated.
“Help! Someone help!” I yell toward the open window, my voice ringing off the brick walls. I kneel over Vincent’s limp form, my mind racing. This has to end—one way or another.
Part Six
Tuesday, April 9 – 8:15 AM
Vincent’s eyes flutter open at the sound of my yelling. For a split second, confusion crosses his face—like an actor forgetting his lines. He quickly scrambles upright from the floor, realizing his collapse ploy isn’t going to plan.
“W-what are you doing?!” he stammers, still trying to sound weak, but panic leaks through.
I step back, heart hammering. “Ending this,” I reply, voice cold.
Right on cue, the loft door bangs open. Two uniformed paramedics rush in (Detective Cabrera must have arranged them in advance). They must have been waiting nearby, because that response is lightning fast.
One medic, a stocky woman in navy scrubs, kneels next to Vincent. “Sir? Are you alright? We got a call about a collapse.”
Vincent looks utterly flabbergasted. He didn’t expect actual professionals. “I— I’m fine,” he sputters, trying to regain control. He shoots me a look of pure venom, as if I’m the villain here. “This is a misunderstanding, I just got lightheaded.”
The paramedic isn’t convinced. She starts checking him methodically: pulse, blood pressure. Her partner asks me, “What happened?”
“He… collapsed suddenly,” I say, arms crossed. I don’t even bother to feign much emotion. Let Vincent dig his own grave now.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Vincent insists, attempting a feeble cough. But his facade is cracking; sweat beads on his forehead, likely from fear rather than illness.
The medic gives him a dubious look. “Your vitals are normal. No sign of a seizure or cardiac event. Are you sure you lost consciousness?”
Vincent flushes. “Maybe it was just a dizzy spell.”
The two medics exchange that look—I know it well. It says BS detected. They’ve likely seen their share of fakers.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital? Get checked out?” the female medic asks pointedly.
“No, really. I feel fine now,” Vincent insists, practically shooing her hands away.
She glances at me. I give a slight shake of my head, signaling that I’m okay and this is indeed what it looks like. Her lips press thin, but she nods. “Alright. We can’t force you.”
As the medics pack up, Detective Cabrera steps in through the open door. He’s in plainclothes, badge at his hip. His eyes flick between me and Vincent.
Vincent notices him and bristles. “Who are you?”
Cabrera fixes him with a steely gaze. “Detective Luis Cabrera, KCPD.”
Vincent blanches. “Police? Why—”
I cut in before he can spin up another lie. “I invited him.”
Vincent glares at me, betrayal and panic swirling on his face. He’s realizing I didn’t just call an ambulance—I called the cops.
The medics quietly exit, sensing the tension.
Cabrera clears his throat. “Mr. Rell, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Vincent’s eyes dart to the apartment door, gauging escape. Cabrera subtly shifts to block the exit. I step aside, positioning myself between Vincent and his computer—he’s not wiping a damn thing.
“This is absurd,” Vincent says, attempting indignation but coming off as merely terrified. “You have no right to barge in here—”
“We have a report from Ms. Lang that you may be committing fraud, among other things,” Cabrera says evenly. “She’s provided quite a bit of evidence. We’ll need you to come down to the station.”
Vincent gawks at me. “Harper… you called the cops on me?” His tone is a wounded whimper.
I glare back, scarcely believing his audacity. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
He opens his mouth to plead, but Cabrera steps forward. “We have enough for an arrest, Mr. Rell—fraud, falsification, possibly larceny from those donations. That’s just for starters.”
Vincent starts blubbering, “Wait—please, can we just talk? Harper—” He tries to appeal to me with those big, fake eyes. “Don’t do this. I—I’m sick, I need help.” Still clinging to his lies.
I just shake my head. “No, Vincent. You need help, alright—just not the kind you pretend to.”
Cabrera takes out his handcuffs. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”
As the cuffs click around his wrists, Vincent lets out a sob—a real one, from terror. “Please…”
I have to look away. It’s ugly, this whole situation. I feel a sick mix of vindication and pity and disgust.
Cabrera guides him toward the door, reciting the Miranda rights. I follow numbly, every step feeling like I’m walking out of a nightmare.
But we’re not quite done yet.
“Detective, wait,” I say as we reach the hallway. I meet his eyes. “The livestream…”
He nods. “Already on it.” Cabrera looks at Vincent with a hint of a smirk. “We have officers monitoring your Sympathy Hub page, Mr. Rell. I believe there’s a stream scheduled for later today, isn’t there? A ‘live update’?”
Vincent’s face floods with fresh horror. Clearly, he had planned to go live to spin some story or solicit more money.
“We’ll be taking over that broadcast,” Cabrera continues. “With your cooperation or without. Might as well come clean for your viewers, don’t you think?”
Vincent opens and closes his mouth like a fish. He seems on the verge of fainting for real this time.
Cabrera starts leading him down the hall. I trail behind, heart pounding. It’s actually over. The nightmare is ending.
Two Weeks Later – Wrap-Up
They say betrayal cuts deepest when it comes from someone you truly cared about. As I write this, two weeks have passed since Vincent’s arrest, and the wound is still raw. But each day, it scabs over a little more.
The fallout was, in a word, intense. News of Vincent’s con spread quickly. Sympathy Hub was shut down and all his videos and donation records were seized as evidence.
Detective Cabrera tells me Vincent is facing a laundry list of charges. To my surprise, other women came forward with eerily similar stories of being duped by him. Knowing I wasn’t the only one he targeted oddly brings me some comfort; I wasn’t alone, and it truly was his twisted pattern.
I’ve given my detailed statement and handed over the evidence I collected. There’s talk of a trial, though his lawyer might push for a plea deal. Honestly, I don’t care as long as he never gets to do this to anyone else again.
I wish I could say I’m over it, that I’ve heroically moved on. The truth is, I’m still working through a lot of emotions. Guilt, for one—I replay every red flag I missed, every time I enabled his lies. I feel angry at myself as much as at him. A therapist has been helping me understand that I was manipulated by an expert con artist—that it’s not my fault.
The public nature of it all has been its own kind of trauma. Knowing thousands of strangers watched my private moments… I had nightmares about it for a while. I’m avoiding looking at any comments or internet chatter. Let the digital dust settle on its own.
On the bright side, my sister Maya has been my rock. She only said “I told you so” once—then we both cried and she apologized for not pushing me harder. We’re closer than ever. I’ve learned to value the people who genuinely care about me—like Maya—over anyone who just wants to use me.
Work-wise, I’m not back in the ER yet. I needed time to recover. My former manager was surprisingly understanding and left the door open for me. I’m undecided if I’ll return, but I do miss the sense of purpose caring for real patients.
Regaining my confidence as a nurse will take time. Vincent exploited my empathy, but I’m working to trust that part of myself again.
There are moments of grief, too. I did love the person I thought Vincent was. Realizing he never really existed is a kind of mourning. But I won’t let what he did define me or snuff out my compassion. If I shut off my heart, then in a way he wins, and I refuse to let that happen.
Last night I slept a full eight hours for the first time in ages. This morning I sipped coffee and watched the sunrise from my own apartment. I felt… okay. And that’s something.
I even found myself laughing at a silly animal video my sister sent me. In that moment of genuine laughter, I realized I’m going to be alright. Life goes on.
I don’t know exactly what the future holds. But I do know that I have reclaimed my story. I’m not just a character in someone else’s tragedy-porn livestream. I’m the author of my life again, pen firmly in hand.
And moving forward, I intend to write a story for myself that is honest, healthy, and mine.