Diana's POV
The TV in my hospital room was playing the reality show preview special, and Isla was smiling like a robot.
I knew that smile. I'd seen it a thousand times before, but I always pretended I hadn't. It was the smile Isla used when she was breaking inside but didn't want me to know.
My sister showed on screen in a gorgeous red dress at some beach party. She was laughing at something someone had said. Her teeth were perfect. Her hair was beautiful. Her makeup was perfect.
But her eyes were dead.
I'd seen those dead eyes before. The night our parents' car crashed. The night Isla came to the hospital and told me they weren't coming back. She'd smiled then too, while she was crying on the inside. I was only fourteen years old, and I already understood: my sister knew how to hide when it hurt.
The show cut to clips of Isla talking about Jesse. On camera, she said things meant to make people angry. She called him selfish. She said he didn't deserve love. She played the evil perfectly.
But I knew the truth.
Isla had cried when she said his name. I'd never met Jesse Moreno in person, but I'd heard about him for three years. Isla talked about him like he was a ghost haunting her—someone she couldn't forget even though she was trying her best to pretend he didn't matter.
My phone buzzed on my bedside table. A text from Nurse Patricia saying my food was here. But I ignored it. I was still watching my sister pretend to be someone she wasn't.
Then the show cut to an interview. The host asked Isla, "Do you feel bad about destroying couples on this show?" Isla's smile never wavered. "Not at all. It's just a game. Nothing's real here."
But her hand moved to her neck. The same spot she always touched when she was lying. Our mom used to say Isla had a tell. Everyone did, if you paid close enough attention.
I grabbed my phone and typed: "You okay?"
I hit send and waited.
The answer came back in three seconds. Too fast. Like she'd been waiting for me to text.
"Always. Focus on getting better."
There it was. The lie. Not because she wasn't okay—though clearly she wasn't—but because she was trying to protect me. Trying to make me think everything was fine so I wouldn't worry about her instead of my own health.
I hated when she did that.
"Stop lying to me," I texted back.
This time, there was a longer break. I watched the show continue. Isla on screen now, going through a garden at night. The narrator was saying something dramatic about "secrets and scandals."
My phone finally buzzed again.
"I'm fine, Di. Really. Just tired from shooting. How are your numbers looking?"
Translation: Stop asking questions about me. Change the conversation. Focus on yourself.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I typed: "My white blood cell count is steady. But you're doing something bad. I can tell. Tell me what it is."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Nothing's bad. I promise."
The show kept playing. Isla on screen again, this time in a dramatic scene where she was arguing with someone called Vanessa. The preview made it look like Isla was the villain starting fighting.
But I could see it now, watching her face. She didn't want to be doing this. Whatever this show was, whatever part she was playing, it was hurting her.
And she was doing it for me.
The realization hit me like a punch.
All of this—the show, the embarrassment, the fake evil character, the lying smile—Isla was doing it because I was sick. Because I needed medical care. Because our parents had died and she'd sworn to take care of me, and she'd never broken that promise, not even when it meant killing herself.
I felt tears beginning to form, but I pushed them away. I needed to be strong right now. Not for me. For her.
I called her.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then Isla answered, and I could hear noise in the background. Voices. Music. People.
"Hey, baby," she said, and her voice was different. Softer. More real than the version on TV. "You shouldn't be calling. Won't the nurses get mad?"
"I just watched you on the preview special," I said.
Silence.
"Diana—"
"Your eyes are sad," I interrupted. "And you're lying to me about why. But I know you. I know what that lie means."
"Di, it's just a show—"
"You're in trouble," I said. It wasn't a question. "Something bad is happening there, and you're not telling me because you think I'm too sick to handle it."
I heard Isla take a shaky breath.
"Nothing's happening," she lied. "I'm just playing a part. It's acting."
"Isla, I can—"
"Listen to me," she said, and suddenly her voice was anxious. "If anything bad happens, if anything seems weird or wrong, I need you to call Dr. Martinez and tell him everything I'm about to tell you. Okay? Will you remember?"
My heart started pounding. "What? Isla, you're scaring me—"
"I'm signing a power of attorney document," she said very quickly. "I already did it with a lawyer before I came here. If something happens to me, if I can't access my money or if someone tries to do something without my permission, I need you to be able to make decisions for me. Do you understand?"
"Why would something happen to you?"
"It won't," she said, but she sounded like she was lying again. "I'm just being careful. Just in case."
"In case of what?"
"I have to go," she said. "They're calling me. But Diana? I love you. No matter what happens, no matter what you see on that show or what you hear, know that everything I do, I do to keep you safe. Okay?"
"Isla, wait—"
She hung up.
I sat there holding my phone, feeling like something inside me was breaking. My big sister—the woman who'd raised me alone, who'd fought for me every single day, who'd given everything—was in trouble.
And she didn't want me to know.
I did what she'd asked. I called Dr. Martinez. It was late, but he answered anyway because he knew I wasn't the type to call unless something was wrong.
"Diana? What's happening?"
"I need to tell you something my sister said," I told him. " She's on that TV show, and she said if something happens to her, I need to be able to make medical and legal decisions for her. She said something about a power of attorney."
Dr. Martinez was quiet for a moment.
"Did she say anything else?" he asked slowly. "Anything about being in danger?"
"No. But she sounded scared. She said not to worry, but she was definitely scared. "
Another pause.
"Diana, I need to tell you something," Dr. Martinez said slowly. "And I need you to listen carefully because this is important."
"What?"
"Your sister called me three days ago. Before she went to that show. She asked me to record everything about your condition. Your medical data, your treatment history, all of it. She said she was worried something might happen and she wanted to make sure everything was on file."
My mouth went dry. "What kind of something?"
"She didn't say. But Diana, the way she said it..." Dr. Martinez took a breath. "I think your sister is involved in something important. Something she's trying to protect you from. And I think you need to tell me everything she just said. Word for word."
I told him everything. The weird intensity in her voice. The power of attorney. The "if something happens to me" comment.
"I'm going to contact someone," Dr. Martinez said when I was done. "Someone who can help. But I need you to do something for me."
"Anything."
"Don't tell your sister we talked. And if anyone comes to see you—anyone from that show, anyone connected to your sister—you tell me instantly. Do you understand?"
"No," I whispered. "I don't understand any of this."
"I know," he said. "But I'm going to find out what's going on. And I'm going to help your sister. I promise you that."
He hung up.
I sat in my hospital bed, staring at the TV where Isla was still playing the villain, still smiling that dead smile, still acting everything was okay when clearly it wasn't.
My phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number.
"Diana Chen? We need to talk about your sister. It's important. Meet me outside the hospital tomorrow at noon. Come alone. Don't tell anyone. —M.W."
M.W.
The producer's name.
Marcus Webb was texting me directly. The man my sister was afraid of. The man who clearly had something on her that made her ready to go on a reality show and destroy herself on camera.
And he was reaching out to me now.
Which meant he knew exactly where I was and exactly how to use me to control her.