I wore the dress from our first anniversary. Navy silk. It still fit. I'd kept it in the back of the closet wrapped in tissue paper for three years.

Maxwell noticed when I came out of the bedroom. His eyes moved over me and something softened in his face. "You look beautiful," he said.

I almost believed him.

The restaurant was the same one he'd chosen three years ago. Le Bernardin. White tablecloths. Soft lighting. A corner table overlooking Central Park. The sommelier remembered us. He smiled when he poured the champagne.

"To us," Maxwell said. He raised his glass.

I touched mine to his. The crystal made a clean sound.

For the first time in months, I felt something close to hope. Maybe the last three days had been enough. Maybe Fallon moving out had cleared the air. Maybe we could finally—

Maxwell's phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced at it. Just a glance. But I saw the micro-flinch. The one I'd learned to dread.

He picked up the phone. His thumb moved across the screen. His jaw tightened.

"What is it?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. His eyes were still on the screen.

"Maxwell."

He looked up. "It's Fallon. Her pipes burst. The whole apartment's flooding."

I set down my glass. "Call a plumber."

"She doesn't know how to—" He stopped. Rubbed his face. "She's freaking out, Serenity. She doesn't know what to do."

"She's twenty-eight years old."

"I know, but—" He was already standing. Already reaching for his coat on the back of his chair. "I'll be back in an hour. I just need to make sure she's okay."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His lips were warm. His cologne smelled like cedar.

"Order for both of us," he said. "I'll be right back."

Then he was gone.

I sat at the table. The champagne bubbles rose and popped. The sommelier came by and asked if I was ready to order. I told him we needed a few more minutes.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty.

I texted Maxwell. *How's it going?*

No response.

The couple at the next table got their appetizers. The woman laughed at something the man said. He reached across the table and took her hand.

I checked my phone again. Nothing.

The sommelier returned. His smile was thinner now. "Would you like to order, ma'am?"

"Not yet," I said. "He'll be here soon."

But I didn't believe it.

An hour passed. The champagne went flat. The candle burned low. The waitstaff started avoiding my eyes when they walked by.

I called Maxwell. It rang four times and went to voicemail.

I tried again. Same thing.

The couple at the next table paid their bill and left. Another couple took their place. They ordered wine. They fed each other bites of scallops.

I sat alone at a table set for two.

At nine-thirty, I signaled the waiter. He came over quickly. Relieved, maybe.

"Just the champagne," I said.

He nodded. He didn't ask about the empty chair.

I paid the bill with the credit card Maxwell had given me for our anniversary last year. The one with both our names on it. I left a thirty percent tip because I didn't want the waiter to remember me as the woman who got stood up on her anniversary.

I took a cab home. The driver didn't try to make conversation. I watched the city lights blur past the window.

The penthouse was dark when I got back. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked to the bedroom and took off the navy silk dress. Hung it back in the closet. Wrapped it in tissue paper.

I put on one of Maxwell's old t-shirts and got into bed.

I didn't cry. I just lay there in the dark with my eyes open.

Maxwell came home at six in the morning. I heard the front door open. Heard his keys hit the table in the foyer. Heard his footsteps in the hallway.

He came into the bedroom. I didn't move. I kept my eyes closed.

He got into bed beside me. The mattress shifted. He smelled like coffee and something else. Perfume, maybe. Not mine.

I waited until I heard his breathing slow. Then I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

When I came out of the bedroom three hours later, Maxwell was in the kitchen. He had a bouquet of white roses on the counter. Expensive ones. The kind that came from the florist on Madison Avenue.

He turned when he heard me. His face was tired. Guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Last night got out of hand. Fallon was in a bad state. I couldn't leave her alone."

I poured myself coffee. Black. No sugar.

"You could have called," I said.

He ran his hand through his hair. "My phone died."

"You were gone for nine hours."

"I know. I know. But she was—" He stopped. Looked at me. "You know how fragile she is, Serenity. I couldn't just walk out."

I took a sip of coffee. It burned my tongue.

"It was our anniversary," I said quietly.

"I know." His voice had an edge now. Defensive. "And I feel terrible. But you're being unreasonable. You know what she's been through. You know what she's dealing with. I thought you'd understand."

I looked at him. At the man who'd knelt beside my hospital bed ten years ago and promised to spend the rest of his life making it up to me.

"I do understand," I said.

I took my coffee to the window. The street below was full of people going to work. Living their lives. Moving forward.

I pressed my thumb against the scar on my right hand. The place where my ring finger used to be.

Maxwell came up behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'll make it up to you," he said. "I promise."

I didn't turn around.

"Okay," I said.

But I didn't believe him anymore.

Diana picked up on the second ring. I heard her kids yelling in the background. Something about a video game. Normal life sounds.

"Hold on," she said. Then, muffled: "Both of you, outside. Now."

A door closed. The noise cut off.

"Okay," she said. "I'm here."

I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone pressed to my ear. The suitcases were still open on the floor. I'd been packing for Iceland. Thermals. Wool socks. The camera I hadn't used since college.

"He canceled," I said.

"The trip?"

"Fallon's in the ER. Appendicitis."

Diana didn't say anything for a moment. I heard her breathing.

"That's the third time this month," she said finally. "Some kind of emergency."

"I know."

"Your anniversary dinner. The Hamptons weekend. Now this."

"I know."

"Serenity." Her voice was careful. "What are you going to do?"

I looked at the thermals folded on the bed. I'd bought them two months ago. Checked the weather in Reykjavik every week. Read reviews of the aurora tour. I'd wanted this since I was sixteen years old.

"I don't know," I said.

"Yes you do."

I closed my eyes. "Diana—"

"You've been describing an exit for months," she said quietly. "You just haven't named it yet."

I didn't answer. My thumb found the scar on my right hand. Pressed against it.

"I'm not ready," I said.

"Okay." Diana's voice softened. "But when you are, I'm here."

We hung up. I sat there for a long time. Then I stood and started unpacking both suitcases. Mine and Maxwell's. I folded everything back into neat stacks. Put them in the closet. Zipped the suitcases and slid them under the bed.

It took twenty minutes. When I was done, it looked like we'd never planned to go anywhere at all.

Maxwell came home after midnight. I was still awake. I heard him in the hallway. Heard him stop outside the bedroom door.

He came in quietly. Sat on the edge of the bed.

"She's okay," he said. "They're keeping her overnight for observation."

I didn't turn over. "Good."

"I'm sorry about the trip."

"Okay."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "We'll reschedule. I promise."

I didn't say anything. After a moment, he got up and went to the bathroom. I heard the water running. Heard him brush his teeth.

When he got into bed, he put his arm around me. His breath was warm against my neck.

"I love you," he said.

I stared at the wall. "I know."

He fell asleep in minutes. I lay there listening to him breathe.

I didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, I called my mother while Maxwell was in the shower. I didn't plan to. I just needed to hear her voice.

"Sweetheart!" She sounded happy. "How are you? Are you excited for your trip?"

"We're not going," I said.

"What? Why not?"

"Something came up."

There was a pause. I could picture her face. The little line between her eyebrows.

"With Maxwell's work?" she asked.

"With Fallon."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Oh," she said. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine."

"Well." My mother's voice brightened. "I'm sure Maxwell had a good reason. He's always so thoughtful."

I closed my eyes. My hand tightened around the phone.

"Mom," I said. "This is the third time this month. He canceled our anniversary dinner. He canceled the Hamptons. Now this."

"I'm sure he didn't want to," she said gently. "You know how responsible he is. If Fallon needed him—"

"I needed him."

Silence.

"Serenity." Her voice was softer now. Patient. "You married such a good man, sweetheart. Don't be so hard on him."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"I have to go," I said.

"Wait—"

I hung up.

I sat in the kitchen for a long time after that. The coffee maker beeped. I didn't get up. The sun came through the window and moved across the floor.

I thought about the Northern Lights. About the aurora tour guide I'd emailed. About the remote cabin with the glass ceiling so you could watch the sky from bed.

I thought about Maxwell's hand on my shoulder last night. The weight of it.

I thought about Diana's voice. *You've been describing an exit.*

I pressed my thumb against the scar on my right hand. The place where my ring finger used to be. The place that still ached sometimes when it rained.

Maxwell came into the kitchen. He was dressed for work. Tie knotted. Cologne sharp.

"You okay?" he asked.

I looked at him. At the man I'd pulled from a burning car. At the man who'd knelt beside my hospital bed and promised to spend his life making it up to me.

"I'm fine," I said.

He kissed the top of my head. "I'll be home by seven."

He left. The door closed. The apartment went quiet.

I sat in the kitchen with my cold coffee and watched the light move across the floor.

Somewhere above the Arctic Circle, the Northern Lights were dancing. Green and gold and impossibly bright.

I would never see them.

I knew that now.

The fever came on fast. One minute I was fine. The next I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled.

Maxwell found me on the bathroom floor. I'd been trying to reach the medicine cabinet. The tiles were cold against my cheek.

"Jesus," he said. He got his arms under me. Lifted me. "You're burning up."

He put me in bed. Piled blankets on top of me even though I was already sweating through my shirt. The room kept tilting. I closed my eyes but that made it worse.

"I'm calling the doctor," he said.

I heard him in the hallway. His voice low and urgent. When he came back he had a thermometer.

"103.4," he said. His face was tight. "Dr. Chen said to monitor it. If it goes higher we go to the ER."

He brought me water. Tylenol. A cold washcloth for my forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

I believed him.

For three hours, he stayed. He changed the washcloth when it got warm. He held the glass while I drank. He checked my temperature every thirty minutes.

Then his phone rang.

I watched him look at the screen. Watched his whole body go tense.

He answered it. "Fallon? What's wrong?"

I couldn't hear her voice. Just Maxwell's responses.

"Okay. Okay, slow down. What did you take?"

A pause.

"No, don't do that. I'm coming right now."

He stood up. Started looking for his keys.

I tried to sit up. The room spun. "Maxwell."

He turned. His face was pale. "Fallon took pills. She's—she says she can't do this anymore. She needs me there."

"I need you here," I said. My voice came out hoarse. Weak.

"I know." He found his keys on the dresser. "But she's talking about killing herself, Serenity. I can't—I have to go."

"You promised," I said. "You said you weren't going anywhere."

He stopped in the doorway. His hand on the frame. For one second I thought he might stay.

"I'll be back soon," he said.

Then he was gone.

I lay there listening to his footsteps fade. Heard the front door open and close. Heard the silence that came after.

The fever climbed. I watched the numbers on the clock change. 8:47. 9:23. 10:05.

I got up once to use the bathroom. Had to hold onto the wall the whole way. My legs shook. When I looked in the mirror my face was gray.

I got back into bed. Pulled the blankets up. Stared at the ceiling.

Midnight came. Then one. Then two.

The fever broke around three in the morning. The sheets were soaked. My hair stuck to my neck. But the shaking stopped. The room stopped tilting.

I got up. Changed my shirt. Drank water from the bathroom tap.

When I came back to bed, I didn't lie down. I just sat there in the dark.

Maxwell came home at dawn. I heard him trying to be quiet. Heard him take off his shoes in the hallway. Heard him ease the bedroom door open.

He stood there for a moment. Looking at me sitting up in bed.

"You're awake," he said.

"Yes."

He came closer. Sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Better."

"Good." He rubbed his face. He looked exhausted. "Fallon's okay. It was—it was a cry for help. She didn't actually take anything. She just needed someone to talk her down."

I didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know the timing was terrible. But she was in a really dark place. I couldn't leave her alone."

"You left me alone," I said quietly.

His jaw tightened. "That's not fair. You had a fever. She was suicidal."

"I had pneumonia."

"You're fine now."

I looked at him. At the man who'd carried me to bed six hours ago. Who'd promised he wasn't going anywhere.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."

He got into bed. Pulled the covers over himself. Within minutes his breathing slowed. He was asleep.

I lay down beside him. Stared at the ceiling.

I thought about the promise he'd made ten years ago. The one at my hospital bedside. *I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.*

I thought about the Iceland trip. The anniversary dinner. The Hamptons weekend. The nights I'd waited alone.

I thought about Fallon's pills that weren't really pills. Her crises that always came at exactly the right time.

I thought about my fever breaking in an empty room.

The sun came up. Light crept across the floor.

Maxwell's arm was heavy across my waist. His breath warm on my neck.

I didn't move. I just lay there and did the math.

Ten years. One hundred twenty months. Three thousand six hundred fifty days.

I'd given him all of them.

He'd given me back nothing I could hold.

I got up. Quiet. Careful not to wake him.

I went to the kitchen. Made coffee. Sat at the table and watched Manhattan wake up outside the window.

People on their way to work. Taxis in traffic. The world moving forward like it always did.

I pressed my thumb against the scar on my right hand. The place where my ring finger used to be.

I'd lost it pulling him from a car wreck. I'd lost ten years being his wife. I'd lost my chance to be a mother.

I was done losing things.

I sat there until the coffee went cold. Until the sun was high and bright.

Maxwell came out around nine. Hair messy. Still in yesterday's clothes.

"Hey," he said. He kissed the top of my head. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I said.

He poured himself coffee. Leaned against the counter.

"I'm really sorry about last night," he said. "I know it wasn't ideal."

I looked at him. At the guilt on his face. The guilt that would fade by lunchtime. The guilt that never changed anything.

"It's okay," I said.

But it wasn't.

And I was done pretending it was.