When the Billionaire plays

"Molly's recital is her last dream, Jocelyn. Your hands are a perfect match."

That' s what Ethan said, calm as if asking for salt, not for me to give up my entire future.

We were in his pristine apartment, my cello, my ticket out, leaning against the wall.

He wanted me to sacrifice my livelihood, my identity, my very hands, for his childhood friend, Molly, who claimed a rare nerve condition was destroying her dream of being a pianist.

I refused, firmly.

His handsome face tightened. "Don' t be selfish. I' ve given you everything. A good life, a way out of that hellhole you came from. The least you can do is help my friend."

Before I could process the betrayal in his words, to realize I was just a charity case and the bill was due, he invited me to a "support party" for Molly.

I drank the glass he handed me, and that was my last clear memory.

I woke up on a leather couch, my left hand wrapped in bandages, a sharp, chemical smell in the air.

Panic seized me as two of Ethan's friends held me down.