The first flash went off before my foot touched the red carpet.

Then a hundred more.

"Olivia! Over here! How does it feel to marry a man who can't say 'I do'?"

"Is it true the Marlowes sold you for forty million?"

I kept my chin up. My dress was ivory silk, simple, chosen by a stylist I'd met for ten minutes. No veil. No bouquet. Nobody had thought to order flowers.

Inside the hall, the guests didn't bother lowering their voices.

"Gold digger," a woman in pearls murmured as I passed. "Look at her. Not even crying."

"Why would she cry? She just hit the jackpot."

A man near the aisle laughed into his champagne. "I'll give her a month. Two thousand says she cleans out the accounts and runs."

"A month? Generous. I'm betting two weeks."

My knees wanted to buckle. I locked them.

Then a cool, dry hand slid into mine.

"Walk with me, dear."

Eleanor Sterling was eighty-one and barely came up to my shoulder. Her silver hair was pinned tight, and she held a black cane topped with a jade handle. When she moved, the whole room went silent.

She didn't lead me to the altar right away. She stopped beside the man with the champagne.

"Mr. Pryce." Her voice was soft. Somehow that made it worse. "Two weeks, was it?"

His face went the color of skim milk. "Mrs. Sterling, I was only joking—"

"Olivia is my grandson's wife." She raised her eyes and swept them across every row. "Anyone who insults her insults me. And I have a very long memory."

Nobody breathed.

She patted my hand like we were out for a stroll. "Shall we?"

---

There was no groom at the altar. Only a framed photograph of Neon on an easel, and a lawyer with a pen.

I signed my name under his. *Olivia Marlowe Sterling.* The ink looked too dark.

Afterward, Eleanor walked me down a long hallway in the east wing and opened a white door.

I stopped on the threshold.

A workbench. A jeweler's saw, files, a polishing wheel. Drawers labeled by gemstone. A window facing the garden, where the light came in clean and even. The kind of light you need to judge a diamond's color.

"This is—" My throat closed. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you have a gift, and gifts should not rot." Eleanor leaned on her cane. "I know what this marriage looks like, Olivia. A trade. A cage."

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be." She touched my cheek. Her fingers smelled like lavender. "As long as you want it, there will always be a place for you in this family."

I'd spent twenty-four years waiting for my own father to say something like that.

I didn't trust myself to answer. So I nodded.

---

The family dinner ended any illusion of warmth.

Twelve people sat at a table built for thirty. Eleanor at the head. Me at her right, in the chair that should have been Neon's.

Across from me sat his uncle. Richard Sterling. Same first name as my father. Same habit of smiling without his eyes.

"So." He cut into his steak. "Olivia. Tell us about yourself. Besides your excellent timing."

"My timing?"

"A family on the edge of bankruptcy. A wealthy heir who can't object." He chewed slowly. "Some might call that luck. Others might call it strategy."

"Richard," Eleanor said.

"I'm only making conversation, Mother."

A young woman with platinum hair leaned forward, her bracelets jangling. Chloe, his daughter. Neon's cousin. She'd been staring at me since the soup.

"I have a question," she said brightly. "Have you bought your black dress yet?"

The table went quiet.

"Excuse me?"

"For the funeral." Chloe tilted her head. "The doctors say his body is shutting down. Six months, maybe less. I just wondered if you're ready to be a widow. You'd look good in black. Very tragic."

Someone snickered. Someone else coughed to cover it.

Eleanor's knuckles whitened on her fork.

I set down my napkin. My pulse pounded in my ears, but my voice came out level.

"I'm not ready to bury a man I've never spoken to, Chloe. Are you?"

Her smile flickered.

"Because you sound like you've been planning his funeral for a while," I went on. "Did you pick the flowers, too? Somebody should. Nobody bothered for the wedding."

Richard's knife stopped moving.

Eleanor made a small sound. It took me a second to realize she was laughing.

"Well," she said, dabbing her lips. "It seems my grandson has married someone with teeth."

Dinner limped on. Nobody else asked me anything.

But I watched them. The way Richard's eyes slid to the family lawyer every time someone mentioned Neon's condition. The way Chloe's mother kept asking about "the trust" and "the board vote." The way the cousin at the end of the table checked his phone whenever the word *hospital* came up.

By dessert, I understood.

Neon's accident hadn't broken this family's heart. It had opened a door. If he died, the Sterling fortune would be split up again.

Every person at this table was waiting for him to stop breathing.

---

His room was at the end of the west wing. Machines hummed softly. A monitor traced his heartbeat in green.

Neon looked different from the photograph. Thinner. Paler. But his face was still striking, even with the breathing tube taped at the corner of his mouth. Dark lashes. A small scar through his left eyebrow.

I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat.

"Hi," I said. Then I felt stupid. "I'm your wife, apparently."

The monitor beeped.

"Your family's lovely, by the way." I rubbed my temples. "Your cousin asked if I had a funeral dress. Your uncle thinks I'm a con artist. I think half of them are counting the days."

I studied his still hands on the white sheet. Long fingers. A pianist's hands, or a jeweler's.

"My sister slept with my boyfriend on Tuesday," I told him. "My father sold me on Wednesday. And today I married you." A short laugh escaped me. "We're quite a pair. Both of us just lying here while other people decide what we're worth."

The machine sighed air into his lungs.

I leaned closer.

"Don't worry. I'm not here to take anything from you. Not your money. Not your company." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want to live like a person again. That's all."

His blanket had slipped off one shoulder. I reached over and tugged it up, tucking the edge beneath his arm the way Mom used to do for me.

My fingertips brushed the back of his hand.

And his index finger moved.

Just slightly. A twitch against my skin.

I froze.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm. His face hadn't changed. His eyes stayed shut.

"Neon?" I whispered.

Nothing.

I stared at his hand until my eyes burned. I told myself it was a reflex. The doctors said that happened. Muscles fire on their own.

Then, from the dark hallway behind me, came the soft click of a door closing.

Someone had been standing there.

Someone had been watching.

The nurse quit on my third day.

"He doesn't need a wife," she told me, peeling off her gloves. "He needs a professional. Good luck."

So I became one.

I moved my things into Neon's room that night. A cot by the window. My sketchbooks stacked on his nightstand. I watched videos on bed baths and pressure sores until two in the morning, then practiced folding a towel the way the hospital manual showed.

"Okay," I said the next morning, wringing out a warm cloth. "This is going to be awkward for both of us. But you can't complain, so I win."

I washed his face first. Then his neck. Then the long, still lines of his arms.

His skin was warmer than I expected.

"Your cousin wore white to breakfast," I told him, working lotion into his palm. "White. Like she was the bride. Your aunt asked if I'd 'gotten used to the money yet.' I said I'd gotten used to the silverware. She didn't laugh."

I bent his fingers one at a time, the way the physical therapist had shown me. Stretch. Hold. Release.

"Your hand moved, you know. That first night." I paused. "I keep waiting for it to happen again."

It didn't.

---

By the second week, his room was the only place in the house where I could breathe.

I'd sit cross-legged on the edge of his bed with my sketchpad, pencil behind my ear, and talk while I drew.

"Your Uncle Richard cornered me in the library today." I shaded the edge of a setting. "He asked if I'd hired a lawyer yet. For the will. I told him I'd hired a physical therapist. He looked at me like I'd spoken Russian."

The monitor beeped its steady answer.

"I know. He's exhausting."

I turned the pad around and held it up to his closed eyes.

Two stones. A sapphire and a white diamond, each in its own separate bezel. Neither one touching the other. But I'd angled them so the light from one would bounce straight into the heart of the other.

"It's for you," I said. "Two people stuck in the same place. Separate. But not alone."

I propped the drawing against his water glass.

"You see, Mr. Neon? Who says trapped people can't have their own light?"

I laughed at myself. Then I leaned over and fixed the pillow under his head.

For a second, I could have sworn his breathing changed.

---

The trouble started with the pills.

On Thursday, the white tablets in his evening tray looked smaller. Rounder. I counted them twice against the chart taped inside the cabinet.

"Rosa," I called to the maid as she passed. "Did the pharmacy change his prescription?"

She didn't meet my eyes. "No, ma'am."

"These aren't the same."

"I only bring the tray, ma'am."

She hurried off. I took a photo of the tray. Then the bottle. Then the chart.

That night, I went down to the medicine room on the ground floor to check the stock myself. The door was unlocked. I didn't think twice about it.

I should have.

---

Saturday morning, eleven people crowded into Neon's bedroom.

"Why here?" I asked, stepping between them and his bed.

"Because this concerns him." Richard closed the door behind the last cousin. "And because you seem to think this room is yours."

Eleanor sat in the armchair by the window, both hands folded on her cane. She wouldn't look at me. That scared me more than anything.

Richard dropped a stack of photos on the foot of the bed.

Me, opening the medicine room door. Me, alone inside. Timestamped 11:42 p.m.

"The lab tested his last three doses," Richard said. "Someone swapped his heart medication for a sedative. A strong one. Enough, over time, to stop his breathing completely."

The room erupted.

"Oh my God."

"I *told* you she was after the trust—"

"Mother, are you hearing this?"

My face went hot, then ice cold. "I went in there because the pills were wrong. I noticed it first."

"How convenient." Chloe folded her arms. "You noticed your own poison."

"Rosa brought the tray. Ask her."

Richard nodded at the doorway. Rosa stepped forward, twisting her apron in both hands.

"Rosa," I said. "Tell them."

Her chin trembled. "Mrs. Olivia told me to bring the tray to her first. Every night. She said she wanted to check it herself."

My stomach dropped.

"That's not—" I stared at her. "Rosa. Why are you saying this?"

She stared at the floor.

Neon's Aunt Margaret, who had squeezed my hand at dinner just yesterday, edged away from me. "Olivia, dear… you have to admit how this looks."

"Mother." Richard turned to Eleanor. "You brought her into this house. You gave her a studio. You let her sleep beside your grandson. And she's been killing him one pill at a time."

Eleanor's lips parted. Nothing came out.

"Grandmother," I said quietly. "You know me."

"I've known you three weeks," she whispered.

That one landed somewhere deep, under my ribs.

Richard came around the bed until he stood over me. He smelled like expensive cologne and old coffee.

"Did you really think marrying into the Sterlings would turn you into a swan?" His voice dropped, almost gentle. "You're nothing. A girl whose boyfriend crawled into bed with her own sister. A pathetic little castoff your father sold to the highest bidder."

My nails bit into my palms. I didn't flinch.

"Are you finished?"

He blinked.

"Because I have something to show everyone, too." I pulled my phone from my pocket. "Photos of the tray. Dated. Every night since Thursday. And a voice memo from the pharmacy confirming they never—"

"Take her."

Two guards moved from the wall.

"Richard!" Eleanor half-rose from her chair. "Wait—"

"I'm protecting this family, Mother. The police can sort out her little photos." He didn't even glance back. "Get her out of my nephew's room."

A hand clamped around my upper arm. Another grabbed my wrist and twisted. The phone flew out of my fingers and skidded under the bed.

"Let me *go*—" I dug my heels into the carpet. "He's lying! Check the phone, it's right there—"

They dragged me anyway. My shoulder slammed into the nightstand. The drawing of the ring fluttered off the water glass and landed face-up on the floor.

Chloe stepped on it on her way to watch.

"Bye-bye, widow," she sang.

The door was three feet away. Two.

Then a voice came from behind us. Low. Rough, like it hadn't been used in a very long time.

"Who gave you permission to touch my wife?"

Every person in the room turned to stone.

The guard's grip loosened on my arm.

Slowly, I twisted around.

On the bed, against the white pillow I had fluffed that morning, Neon Sterling's eyes were open.

Dark. Clear. Fixed on his uncle.

And absolutely, terrifyingly awake.