The first call went to voicemail. On the third try, he answered, his voice already clipped with annoyance. “Stella, what is it? I’m in the middle of something. Clare’s having a moment.”

I blinked at the ceiling, swallowing against the taste of iron. “Dad, I’m in the emergency room. I was in a car accident. I think my leg is broken.”

He cut me off, his tone devoid of warmth. “Are you dying?”

“What?” I whispered, the word a small, broken thing.

“Are you dying? Because Clare just bombed an interview she really wanted, and she’s spiraling. She needs support right now. This isn’t the time for drama.”