Demi came down the stairs holding her arm. Blood ran between her fingers. Not a lot. Just enough.

She was crying. Soft, breathless sounds. The kind that made people want to help.

Rylan was in the foyer reading something on his phone. He looked up. His face changed.

"What happened."

"I'm sorry." Demi's voice shook. "I didn't want to bother you. I was just—" She swayed slightly. Rylan caught her elbow. "She cornered me in the bathroom. She had glass. She said—"

"Where is she."

"Upstairs. Rylan, I don't think she meant—"

"Where."

Demi pointed toward the east wing. Rylan pulled out his phone. Two calls. Short. Clipped.

I was in my room when the head of security arrived. Marcus. Forty-something. Former military. He'd opened car doors for me for six years. He'd carried my shopping bags. He'd wished me happy birthday.

He didn't look at me now.

"Mrs. Cole. Mr. Cole needs to see you downstairs."

I followed him. My burned hand throbbed. Three weeks since the mirror incident. The bandages were off but the skin was still angry. Red and tight and shiny.

Wait. No. That wasn't right. The burn hadn't happened yet.

I shook my head. Focused.

Marcus led me through the hall. Down the back stairs. Into the kitchen.

Rylan was standing by the stove. He'd taken off his jacket. Rolled up his sleeves. There was a pot on the burner. Steam rising.

"Show me your hands," he said.

I held them out. Steady. Clean. No glass. No blood.

He looked at them for a long time. Then he looked at Marcus.

"Hold her."

Marcus moved behind me. He was efficient. Professional. One hand on my shoulder. The other catching my right wrist. He pulled my arm forward. Pressed my palm flat against the granite countertop.

I tried to pull back. His grip tightened.

"Rylan—"

"You threatened her," he said quietly. "In my house. After everything I've done to help you."

"I didn't—"

He picked up the pot. Chicken broth. I could smell it. Rosemary. Thyme. The same recipe the cook had been making since before I moved in.

He poured it over my hand.

The pain was white. Immediate. Total. It erased thought. It erased everything except the feeling of my skin splitting open under boiling liquid.

I screamed once. High and sharp. Then I bit down on it. Swallowed it. Because screaming gave him something. And I was done giving him anything.

Marcus let go. I pulled my hand back. Cradled it against my chest. The skin was already blistering. Back of the hand. Three fingers. The webbing between thumb and index finger.

Rylan set the pot down. He wiped his hands on a towel.

"If you ever touch her again," he said, "it'll be worse."

He walked out.

Marcus stayed long enough to make sure I was standing. Then he left too.

I ran cold water over my hand. It didn't help. The pain went bone-deep. I wrapped it in a clean kitchen towel and went back upstairs.

No one stopped me. No one called a doctor.

I sat on my bed and stared at the towel turning pink.

Twelve across. Sixteen deep. One hundred ninety-two tiles.

I could wait.

The next morning, Demi brought Finley to breakfast. She did that now. Brought him into shared spaces. Let me see him. Never close enough to touch.

He sat beside her. He was wearing a green shirt. His hair was combed. He looked at his plate.

Demi cut his pancakes into small pieces. She talked to him softly. He nodded.

I sat at the far end of the table. My hand was bandaged now. I'd done it myself. Gauze and medical tape from the guest bathroom.

Finley glanced at me once. Just once. Then he looked away fast.

"Finley," Demi said gently. "Do you want to tell your father about your spelling test?"

Rylan looked up from his coffee. "You had a test?"

Finley nodded.

"He got a hundred," Demi said. She touched his shoulder. He leaned into her slightly. "We're very proud."

Rylan smiled. "That's my boy."

I watched Finley's face. He didn't smile back. He just looked at his plate and moved a piece of pancake around with his fork.

Demi caught my eye. She smiled. Warm. Gentle.

I looked away.

After breakfast, I followed them at a distance. Down the hall. Into the conservatory. Demi set up Finley's workbooks on the table by the window. He climbed into the chair. She sat beside him.

I stayed in the doorway.

"Finley," I said quietly.

He didn't turn around.

Demi looked up. Her expression was soft. Concerned. "Selene. I don't think—"

"I just want to say good morning."

Finley's shoulders went tight. He gripped his pencil harder.

Demi put her hand over his. "It's all right, sweetheart. You don't have to."

"Don't have to what," I said.

She looked at me. Her eyes were kind. Sympathetic. "He's still adjusting. The doctors said it's normal for him to be afraid after—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"Afraid of what."

Finley turned then. Just his head. Just enough for me to see his face.

"You're sick," he said. His voice was small. Careful. Like he was repeating something he'd been told to memorize. "Demi says you can't help it. But I'm not supposed to be alone with you."

The words landed clean. Right in the center of my chest.

I didn't move. Didn't speak.

Demi touched his hair. "That's enough, sweetheart. Let's focus on your reading."

Finley turned back to his workbook.

I stood in the doorway for another thirty seconds. Then I walked away.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed. I pressed my burned hand against the cool glass of the window. The pain was still there. Deeper now. A low throb that didn't stop.

I held it there until the trembling stopped.

Then I pulled out the burner phone. I checked the message from my lawyer.

Papers filed. Waiting on your signal.

I deleted it. I put the phone back in the coat lining.

I could wait.

I called the number from a coffee shop three blocks from the Cole estate. Used the burner phone. Kept my voice low.

"I need to reach Maisy O'Brien."

The woman on the other end—my lawyer's assistant—didn't ask questions. "She's expecting contact. I'll pass along a secure line."

Two hours later, the burner buzzed. Unknown number.

I answered.

"Selene." Maisy's voice. I hadn't heard it in six years. It sounded older. Steadier.

I said nothing.

"I know what I did," she said.

Four words. That was all she gave the past.

Then she kept talking. "There's a flat in Kensington. Already furnished. Lease is under a trust name he can't trace. I've booked a flight for the fourteenth. Direct to Heathrow. First class. Ticket's in your legal name—he'll see it eventually, but not until you're gone. I'm wiring funds to an account your lawyer set up. Enough for six months. Maybe more if you're careful."

I pressed my burned hand against the coffee shop table. The cool laminate helped.

"Why," I said.

"Because I owe you more than this. And this is all I can give."

I closed my eyes. "The fourteenth."

"I know," she said.

The line went dead.

I sat there for another twenty minutes. Finished my coffee. Deleted the call log. Walked back to the estate.

Nobody noticed I'd been gone.

The circus was Rylan's idea. Some traveling VIP event. Big top in the Hamptons. Private evening for families with the right last names.

Demi thought it would be good for Finley. "He's been working so hard," she told Rylan over breakfast. "He deserves something fun."

Rylan agreed. He always agreed with her.

I wasn't invited. Not directly. But Rylan mentioned it in passing the night before. "You're welcome to come. If you're feeling up to it."

I said I was.

We drove out in two cars. Rylan and Demi in the first. Finley between them. Me in the second with Marcus at the wheel.

The big top was red and gold. Lights strung across the entrance. Waiters in white jackets carrying trays of champagne. Inside, velvet chairs arranged in curved rows. A ring in the center. Sawdust and spotlights.

Finley's eyes went wide. Demi held his hand. Rylan put his arm around her shoulders.

I sat three rows back.

The show started with acrobats. Then horses. Then a man who juggled fire. Finley clapped. Demi leaned close and whispered something. He laughed.

I watched the exit.

The lions came out twenty minutes in. Three of them. Golden and huge. A trainer in a red coat cracked a whip. The lions circled. Jumped through hoops. The crowd applauded.

Then something went wrong.

I didn't see what. A latch. A gate. Something metal snapping. But suddenly one of the lions was out of the ring. Then another.

People screamed. Chairs scraped. The trainer shouted.

The crowd surged toward the exits. Bodies pressed together. Champagne glasses shattered on the ground.

I stood. Looked for Finley.

He was frozen. Middle of the aisle. Demi had let go of his hand in the rush. He was staring at the lion moving toward him. Not running. Not moving. Just staring.

I didn't think.

I ran.

I hit him low. Wrapped my arms around his body. We went down together. I rolled so my back took the impact. Curled over him. Made myself the largest thing between him and everything else.

The lion's weight hit my shoulders. Claws raked across my back. I felt the fabric of my dress tear. Felt heat. Felt pressure.

I didn't move.

Finley was shaking under me. I pressed my hand over his head. Held him against my chest.

"Don't look," I whispered. "Don't look. I've got you."

Somewhere in the chaos, I heard Rylan's voice. Shouting. But not close.

I turned my head slightly. Saw him across the tent. He was carrying Demi. Her arms around his neck. Her face buried in his shoulder. He was moving toward the exit. Fast. Focused.

He didn't look back.

The trainers got the lions under control. Nets. Tranquilizers. It took four minutes. Maybe five.

When it was over, I let go of Finley. Slowly. My back was on fire. I could feel blood soaking through my dress.

Finley sat up. His face was white. He looked at me. Really looked at me. For the first time in months.

"You're bleeding," he said.

I nodded. "I'm okay."

Rylan came back then. He was still holding Demi. He set her down carefully. Checked her face. Her arms. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. Tears on her cheeks. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

Then he looked at me. At Finley.

"What happened."

I stood. Slowly. My legs were shaking. "The lion. It came at him. I—"

"You should have called for help."

I stared at him.

"You could have made it worse," he said. "You're not trained for—"

"I'm his mother."

The words came out quiet. Flat.

Rylan's jaw tightened. "Selene—"

"I don't love you anymore," I said.

The tent had gone quiet. People were watching. Medics were arriving. Someone was talking to the trainers.

But in that moment, it was just Rylan and me.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

I looked at him. At his face. At the man I'd spent six years loving. Six years trying to be enough for.

"I don't love you," I said again. "I don't think I even like you."

I turned. Walked toward the exit. My back screamed. My legs shook.

Behind me, Finley said something. I didn't hear what.

I kept walking.

Marcus drove me back. He didn't ask questions. Didn't speak.

I sat in the back seat and pressed my forehead against the window.

The fourteenth was in nine days.