The city looked small from the sixty-fourth floor.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Manhattan glittered in cold squares of yellow and white. Rain streaked down the windowpane, blurring the lights into smears.

Behind me, the penthouse was dark, except for the glow under the master bedroom door.

The sounds carried easily through the quiet rooms. A rhythmic thud against the headboard. Brooke’s sharp, breathy moans. Then Rowan’s voice—deep, rich, and raw. The voice that won three Grammys. The voice sold out stadiums across the world.

I didn't flinch. I didn't cover my ears.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared calendar. The paper was worn soft at the edges. I clicked my red ballpoint pen and found today’s date. October seventeenth.

I drew a clean, heavy *X* through the box.

Fourteen days remain.

The bedroom door clicked open ten minutes later.

Rowan walked out tying the belt of his navy silk robe. His dark hair was damp. His chest was flushed. He looked at me sitting on the sofa, his mouth curling into that lazy, familiar smirk.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a black American Express card, and flicked it across the glass coffee table.

It slid to a stop inches from my knee.

"Make yourself useful, Daphne," he said. His voice was smooth as velvet, dripping with disdain. "Order dinner for three. Italian. From Il Posto. The truffle pasta Brooke likes."

Brooke stepped out behind him. She wore a black lace slip that belonged to me two seasons ago. Her long blonde hair was a tangled mess over her bare shoulders. She draped an arm over Rowan’s neck and gave me a slow, sweet smile.

"It must be so nice to have a little helper around the house," Brooke cooed, resting her chin on his chest. "Like a live-in maid. Only quieter."

Rowan laughed. A rich, easy sound. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "She knows her place."

I picked up the black card. My face didn't move. I dialed the restaurant, typed the order into their app, and set the table.

Thirty minutes later, the food arrived.

I set three porcelain plates around the dark mahogany table. I brought out the cloth napkins, the silver cutlery, and a freshly opened bottle of Cabernet.

Rowan sat at the head of the table, his eyes locked on his phone, scrolling through social media mentions. Brooke sat to his right. I stood by the sideboard, ready to clear the containers.

Brooke picked up her wine glass. As I reached past her to set down the bread basket, her elbow jerked sideways.

The glass tipped.

A heavy wave of dark red wine sloshed over the rim, straight onto my lap. The cold liquid soaked instantly through my cotton skirt, clinging to my thighs.

"Oh!" Brooke gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her mouth. Her eyes danced with malice. "Clumsy me. I am so sorry, Daphne."

Rowan didn't even look up from his screen. He swiped his thumb.

"Get a towel, Daphne," he muttered. "Don't let it ruin the hardwood."

I backed away in silence.

I walked down the long hallway into the guest bathroom and locked the door behind me. I didn't cry. My tear ducts had run dry years ago.

I stripped off the stained skirt, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed the red wine from my pale skin with a damp washcloth. The water ran pink down the white porcelain drain.

When I finished, I looked up.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. In the mirror, my reflection stared back at me. Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles beneath empty, dark eyes.

I reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. I pulled the collar wide.

Across the base of my throat, running thin and pale against my skin, was a horizontal surgical scar.

I raised a trembling hand and traced it with my index finger. The skin there was raised and numb. Five years ago, an experimental blade had cut into my flesh. Five years ago, I had given away the music in my chest so the man in the other room could sing.

I looked at my own eyes in the glass.

They weren't broken.

They were waiting.

My phone vibrated on the marble counter.

The screen lit up with an incoming video call. *Dad.*

My chest tightened. I quickly buttoned my collar to the top, wiped my face, and pressed accept.

The screen flickered. My father, Henry Carlson, appeared on the display. He was propped up against a thin hospital pillow in his long-term care facility. An oxygen tube rested beneath his nose, and his cheeks were paper-thin. But when he saw me, his tired eyes crinkled with genuine warmth.

"Hey, sweetheart," his voice crackled through the small speaker, weak and scratchy. "You look tired. Are you eating enough?"

I smiled. I forced my lips to stretch wide and bright, nodding quickly. I raised my right hand, signing smoothly: *I’m fine, Dad. Just busy.*

"Good," Henry whispered. He coughed softly into his fist, then leaned his head back. "Is Rowan home? Is he treating you well? Is he treating my little girl like a queen?"

My heart squeezed until it ached. I kept my hands steady in front of the lens. I nodded again, touching my heart, mouthing the words silently: *Like a queen.*

"Good," my father murmured, his eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion. "He’s a good man, Daphne. Never forget that. You two have a blessed life..."

His voice trailed off as he drifted into sleep. A nurse stepped into the frame, offered a kind nod, and ended the call.

The screen went black.

"Touching."

The voice came from the open doorway.

I whipped around. Rowan stood leaning against the frame, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. He swirled the amber liquid, ice clinking against crystal.

His eyes were cold.

"How is the old man doing?" Rowan asked casually. He took a sip. "The private room looks comfortable. The private nurses look attentive."

He took two slow steps toward me, backing me up against the marble sink.

"His dialysis costs thirty grand a month, Daphne. The experimental kidney treatments add another twenty. All billed straight to my accounts."

He reached out and tapped my cheek with two fingers. Hard.

"Your father is alive because of my generosity," he whispered, his honeyed voice turning razor-sharp. "Don't ever forget who keeps that old man breathing. One phone call, and he's out on the street."

He turned on his heel and walked away, his silk robe trailing behind him.

I stood completely still in the cold bathroom.

Behind my back, my hands curled into fists. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until I felt the sharp prick of broken skin. A tiny bead of blood welled up, bright and hot.

I checked the digital clock on the wall.

It blinked.

*12:00 AM.*

Thirteen days.

The ballroom lights were blinding.

Rowan stood at the podium in a tailored black tuxedo. A single tear glinted on his cheek, catching the glare of the cameras. His voice swelled through the speakers, rich and warm, thick with manufactured emotion.

"Music isn't about fame," Rowan said softly. He pressed a hand over his heart. "It’s about love. It’s about the people who believed in me when I had nothing. Every note I sing is a thank-you to them."

The crowd erupted in applause. Philanthropists dabbed their eyes. Producers clapped.

Rowan stepped back from the podium, his smile radiant. He reached out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight enough to bruise. He pulled me toward the media backdrop.

Under the roar of the crowd, his lips barely moved.

"Stop standing there like a damn mannequin," he hissed through his teeth. "Smile, Daphne. Flash your teeth. Look like you have a pulse."

I forced the corners of my mouth to lift.

A reporter thrust a microphone toward us. "Rowan! You were incredible up there! Tell us, how does your lovely wife inspire your music?"

Rowan’s eyes softened instantly. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close against his chest.

"Daphne is my quiet anchor," he said smoothly. His voice carried that honeyed, humble tone the world adored. "She suffers from a rare, tragic vocal condition. She cannot speak. But our bond doesn't need words. I love her beyond words."

"What a saint," the reporter whispered, visibly moved.

The cameraman lowered his lens to adjust his battery pack.

The moment the red light blinked off, Rowan dropped my hand. He let go so fast it felt like I had burned him. He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his palm, his face twisting in disgust.

He didn't look at me again.

***

In the back of the town car, the silence was heavy.

Rain drummed against the roof. Outside, the streetlights smeared into yellow streaks across the glass. Rowan tore off his bow tie and tossed it onto the leather seat between us.

"You looked pathetic tonight," he said. He stared straight ahead. "You stood there like a ghost. People were looking at you with pity, Daphne. And pity doesn't sell records. You drag down my brand."

I kept my hands folded in my lap. I didn't move.

"I'm done bringing you to these things," he muttered. "From now on, you stay home. Locked away. It’s better for everyone if they just imagine you."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

He didn't wait for the third ring. When the call connected, his entire demeanor shifted. His harsh scowl melted into a lazy, seductive grin.

"Hey, baby," Rowan said. His voice was warm and playful. "Yeah, I just left. It was boring without you."

A high, giggling voice filtered through the speaker. Brooke.

"I'll be home in twenty minutes," Rowan laughed, leaning back against the leather headrest. "Wear the red one. The one with the lace."

He chuckled at whatever she said next. He sounded bright. Happy. Carefree.

I turned my head toward the window. My pale reflection stared back at me against the dark night. I reached up beneath my silk scarf and lightly touched the scar on my neck. The raised skin was cold beneath my fingertips.

*Eleven days.*

***

By morning, Brooke was already marking her territory.

I walked into the sunroom. On the windowsill, my small jade plant and the framed photo of my father were gone.

I found them in the hallway closet, dumped haphazardly into a cardboard box. The glass on the frame was cracked. The dirt from the potted plant had spilled across my father’s smiling face.

In their place on the marble sill, Brooke had arranged her collection of French perfumes, scented candles, and gold jewelry trays.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Brooke called out from the doorway.

She leaned against the jamb, wearing Rowan’s oversized white dress shirt, unbuttoned almost to her waist. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in messy waves. In her hands, she held a wrinkled emerald-green silk dress.

"Rowan is taking me to a private dinner with his label tonight," Brooke said. She tossed the dress at my chest.

I caught it before it hit the floor.

"Iron it," she ordered. She pointed to the utility room. "Steam setting. No creases. And be quick about it."

I took the dress to the ironing board. I filled the reservoir with water, waited for the red light to turn green, and pressed the hot plate against the green fabric. The steam hissed.

Ten minutes later, I carried the dress out on a velvet hanger.

Brooke didn't even look up from her phone. She reached out, pinched the sleeve between two manicured nails, and sneered.

"There's a fold right along the seam," she said. She ripped the dress off the hanger and threw it onto the floor at my feet. "Are you blind as well as mute? Do it again."

I picked up the dress. I walked back into the utility room. I pressed it again.

When I brought it back, she clicked her tongue.

"Still crooked," she mocked, knocking the hanger from my hand. "Useless. Absolutely useless. Try again, Daphne. Or maybe I should tell Rowan you're ruining my clothes on purpose?"

My hands were trembling. My wrists burned from the heat of the iron, and my fingers throbbed with a dull ache.

I looked down at the green silk pooling on the hardwood floor.

I didn't scream. I didn't sign a protest. I kept my face blank, like stone.

I bent my knees, picked up the dress for the third time, and turned back toward the steam.

*Ten days.*

Maeve arrived at noon for Sunday brunch.

She walked into the penthouse carrying a bright orange designer shopping bag. She didn’t look at me. She went straight to Brooke, who sat on the plush sofa in a white silk robe.

"For my favorite future sister-in-law," Maeve squealed, tossing the bag into Brooke’s lap.

Brooke pulled out a quilted Chanel handbag and gasped. "Maeve, you shouldn't have! Rowan, look what your sister bought me!"

Rowan looked up from his tablet and smiled. It was that warm, charming smile he gave to magazine covers. "She has good taste."

Then Maeve turned toward the dining table where I was setting out the pastries. Her smile vanished instantly. She let out a loud, theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes.

"Oh," Maeve said, crossing her arms. "You're still here."

I kept my eyes down. I set a porcelain plate beside her fork.

Throughout brunch, the three of them laughed and drank mimosas. Maeve leaned across the table, propping her chin on her manicured hands. She talked loudly, making sure every word hit my ears.

"Lake Como in June," Maeve declared. "That villa with the private dock. Brooke, you'd look stunning walking down the stone steps in lace. Don't you think, Rowan? A summer wedding in Italy?"

"Sounds expensive," Rowan said with a lazy grin. "Which means it's perfect."

"And then Bali for the honeymoon," Brooke chimed in, resting her hand on Rowan’s thigh. "Two weeks on a private island."

They talked as if I were a potted plant. A piece of old furniture waiting to be thrown out.

I reached across the table to take a piece of bread from the basket.

Before my fingers could touch it, Maeve snatched the basket away. She slammed it down on the far side of the table.

"Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?" Maeve snapped.

My hand hung empty in the air. I pulled it back into my lap.

Maeve looked at Rowan and shook her head in disgust. "Honestly, brother, when are you going to put this leech out of her misery? She's dragging down your house. It creeps me out just looking at her."

Rowan cut into his eggs. He chewed slowly. Then he gave a careless shrug.

"She's useful enough," he said.

Maeve snorted. Brooke burst into soft, sweet giggles.

Under the table, my hand slid into my skirt pocket. My thumb traced the corner of my small calendar.

*Seven days.*

***

The next afternoon, Rowan sent me out to pick up Brooke’s organic green juices from a boutique grocer four blocks away.

It was a rare moment outside alone.

The October air was sharp and cold. Wind whipped down the avenue, tossing yellow leaves along the curb. I wrapped my wool coat tight around my chest, keeping my chin tucked down.

Halfway down the block, my feet stopped.

I stood in front of a high-end baby boutique. In the center of the display window sat a tiny, cream-colored knitted bonnet. Beside it was a pair of matching woolen booties, no bigger than the palm of my hand.

A sharp, familiar pain stabbed through my lower belly.

The memory hit me before I could look away.

Eighteen months ago.

I was in our bathroom, staring at the plastic test on the marble counter. Two distinct pink lines.

For the first time in years, something warm sparked inside my chest. A fragile flame of hope. I thought maybe, somehow, this child was a lifeline. I thought maybe a baby would give me a reason to wake up in the morning.

I walked out to the living room and showed Rowan the stick.

His reaction wasn't shock. It wasn't confusion. It was pure, instant revulsion.

"Are you out of your mind?" he spat. His voice was harsh and loud. "A child? With you?"

I blinked, taking a step back.

"A mute mother would be an absolute embarrassment to my career," he said, stepping closer, his eyes cold and vicious. "What would the press say? What if the kid inherits your defect? I'm not raising a broken freak."

He jabbed a finger toward the front door. "Get an abortion. Tomorrow."

My hands shook. I raised them between us, signing fiercely: *No. Please, no. I'm keeping it.*

He didn't yell anymore. He just stared at me with dead eyes. "We'll see," he muttered.

That night, he made me a cup of chamomile tea. He even handed it to me with a calm, gentle expression. I thought the fight was over for the night. I drank it.

An hour later, the cramps hit.

It felt like someone had driven a burning blade into my gut and twisted it. The agony doubled me over on the rug. The mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the floor.

I looked at Rowan sitting on the armchair. He was watching me. Calm. Unblinking.

*The tea.*

Panic seized my throat. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my stomach, and lunged toward the penthouse front door. I needed help. I needed an ambulance.

I reached the handle, but Rowan was faster.

He grabbed my hair from behind, ripping my head back. I gasped silently. He twisted my arm behind my back and dragged me down the hallway, down the back stairs, straight to the basement storage room.

He shoved me inside.

I hit the cold concrete floor hard on my knees.

"Stay here until it's done," Rowan said.

*Click.*

The deadbolt turned.

I spent that night alone in the dark. The concrete was freezing. The cramps ripped through my body like claws. Blood soaked through my leggings, pooling hot and sticky under my thighs. My mouth opened wide, straining for a scream, but no sound ever came. Just silence and tears.

I held my flat belly with both hands, sobbing in the dark until my chest went numb.

Hours later, the lock clicked.

The heavy door opened. Light spilled into the room, silhouetting Rowan’s frame. He looked down at the dark pool of blood on the concrete floor.

His face didn't move. There was no pity. No regret.

"Clean yourself up," Rowan said flatly. "We have a charity gala at eight."

Then he pulled the door shut again so I could change.

***

A gust of wind blew my hair across my face.

The memory faded. I was standing on the Manhattan sidewalk.

I looked at the tiny knitted hat in the window. My hand rose slowly. I pressed my palm flat against the cold glass, right over the bonnet.

The glass chilled my skin.

My heart didn't race. The tears didn't fall. The grief was gone, replaced by a cold, quiet iron.

I pulled my hand back. The faint mist left by my skin vanished into the air, leaving no trace behind.

I turned and walked away into the crowd.

*Six days.*