I died exactly twenty-four hours ago.

Now, my shattered soul floated against the ceiling of our Seattle penthouse, completely invisible.

The heavy oak front door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

"It’s massive, Julian," Celeste said, stepping into the foyer.

"Make yourself at home," Julian replied.

He didn't look around. He didn't glance at the empty space by the console table where I always left my keys. He just reached out, grabbed Celeste by the waist, and pulled her against his chest.

"Are you sure we should be here?" Celeste asked, tilting her head up.

"Why wouldn't we be?"

"It just feels a little strange. Being in her house."

"It’s my house," Julian corrected, his tone flat. "She just lives here."

He dragged her out of the entryway and straight into the living room. They crashed onto the center cushions of the pale gray sofa.

My chest would have ached if I still had a physical heart. I spent six months tracking down that exact Camillini leather sofa in Milan. I negotiated the shipping. I arranged the delivery.

Julian didn't care about any of that. He pinned Celeste against the expensive Italian leather and kissed her.

They kissed recklessly, without hesitation. Celeste tangled her fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Julian’s hands roamed over her waist, gripping her tight.

I watched from above, a silent spectator to my own replacement.

Celeste finally pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. "Wait. I'm starving. My flight was six hours long."

Julian leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. "Check the kitchen. There should be something in the fridge."

"You don't have a chef?"

"He comes on Tuesdays. Today is Friday. Just look inside."

Celeste pushed herself off the sofa and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor. She opened the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. The bright LED light illuminated her face as she rummaged around.

"Oh, look at this," she called out.

She pulled out a glass container.

"What is it?" Julian asked, not moving from the sofa.

"Looks like pasta. It smells incredible." Celeste popped the lid off. "Black truffle?"

"Heat it up in the microwave."

"You want some?" she asked.

"No. Eat it."

I drifted lower, hovering just above the kitchen island.

It was my black truffle pasta. I made it yesterday afternoon. It was supposed to be our anniversary dinner. I spent three hours reducing the sauce, grating the truffles, preparing everything perfectly before I left the apartment to buy the wine.

I never made it back with the wine. The drunk driver at the intersection made sure of that.

The microwave beeped loudly.

Celeste grabbed a fork from the drawer and walked back to the living room, eating straight out of the glass container.

"This is amazing," she mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Did she make this?"

"Probably," Julian said, staring at the television screen. It wasn't even turned on.

"It’s really good. A little heavy on the garlic, though."

"Throw it out if you don't like it."

"No, I'm starving." Celeste curled her legs up underneath her on the sofa.

She set the empty container on the glass coffee table a few minutes later. Her eyes wandered over the surface, stopping on a sleek, metallic object resting near the edge.

"Whoa," Celeste said. She leaned forward. "Is this the new Alienware?"

"Yeah," Julian muttered.

"The limited-edition one? They only made five hundred of these." Celeste ran her manicured nails over the glowing logo on the lid. "I didn't know you were a gamer, Julian."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you have a ten-thousand-dollar gaming laptop sitting on your coffee table?"

"It was a gift."

"From her?"

"Yes."

I had waited in a digital queue for eight hours to secure that computer. Julian complained once, months ago, that his work laptop was too slow for his rendering software. I spent my own savings to buy him the fastest machine on the market.

"Can I open it?" Celeste asked.

"Go ahead."

She flipped the screen up. The mechanical keyboard lit up in a wave of neon colors. She pressed a few keys, listening to the sharp, satisfying clicks.

"The switches feel incredible," she said, typing a random string of letters. "Are you sure she won't mind me touching her stuff?"

"She isn't here to mind."

Celeste stopped typing. She rested her hands on her lap and looked at him.

"Julian?"

"What."

"Where did Scarlett go?"

Julian stood up from the sofa. He walked over to the custom bar cart in the corner of the room. He picked up a heavy crystal tumbler and grabbed a bottle of bourbon.

"She's not here," he said smoothly.

"I know she's not here. But where is she?"

He poured two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass. He swirled it slowly, the ice clinking against the crystal.

He turned around to face her. His deep blue eyes were completely empty. Not a single trace of emotion crossed his face.

"We had a massive blowout a few days ago," Julian lied.

"About what?"

"The usual garbage. She complained about my hours. I told her to drop it. She lost her temper."

"So she just left?"

"She packed a bag," Julian said, taking a sip of the bourbon. "She booked a flight to London. Some fashion week nonsense. She's hiding out there."

I stared at him from the ceiling.

A fight? London?

We didn't fight. I kissed him goodbye yesterday morning. I told him I was making his favorite dinner. He smiled at me.

"How long is she going to stay in London?" Celeste asked, her voice dropping lower.

"I don't know. I don't care."

"Will she be mad if she comes back and finds me here?"

Julian set the glass down on the edge of the bar cart. He walked back over to the sofa and stood right in front of Celeste.

"She's not coming back anytime soon," he said.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He reached out. His fingers brushed against her shoulder, gently pushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

His touch was so light. So incredibly tender.

He never touched me like that. Whenever I cried, he would sigh and walk out of the room. Whenever I asked for comfort, he told me I was being needy.

But with Celeste, his hands were gentle.

"Let's not talk about Scarlett anymore," Julian whispered, his thumb tracing her jawline.

"Okay," Celeste breathed, leaning into his palm.

I watched them from the cold, empty air of the penthouse. The truth hit me with a sudden, violent clarity.

He didn't care where I was. He didn't care that I hadn't answered my phone in twenty-four hours. He just used my absence as an excuse.

My death wasn't a tragedy to him. It was the perfect curtain call. A convenient exit so he could finally welcome back his true love, his perfect white moonlight, without any guilt.

He thought I was pouting in London.

He thought he had all the time in the world to replace me.

Downstairs, the heavy wail of police sirens began to echo through the Seattle streets, growing louder as they approached our building.

The rain in Seattle blurred my windshield into a smear of gray, pounding against the glass in a relentless rhythm. I gripped the steering wheel, checking the digital clock on the dashboard. Five p.m.

Julian’s surprise birthday party started at six. I had his custom cake sitting on the passenger seat, carefully buckled in so the delicate frosting wouldn't smudge. I had spent three weeks coordinating with his friends, his colleagues, and his difficult family. I wanted everything to be perfect.

Then, tires screeched.

A massive freight truck hydroplaned across the center divide. The sound of metal crushing metal was deafening. Glass shattered into a million flying diamonds, tearing through the air.

I didn't feel any pain. One second I was bracing for impact, clutching the steering wheel, and the next, I was staring down at my own crushed body inside the ruined sedan. My soul detached from my flesh, light and untethered.

I floated back to our apartment. I wanted to see him one last time. I wanted to feel his presence before I faded into whatever came next.

The penthouse was completely dark. No party guests. No balloons. I hovered near the entryway, confused by the silence.

The lock clicked.

The heavy oak door swung inward.

Julian stepped inside. He wasn't alone.

He had his arm wrapped tightly around Celeste’s waist. She stumbled over the threshold, her head lolling against his black button-down shirt. Her pale, delicate face flushed bright red.

"Julian," she mumbled, her words slurring together.

"Keep your feet under you," he said, his voice low.

"Everything is spinning."

"I know. Just a few more steps."

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, anchoring herself like a parasite. "You left your own birthday dinner for me."

"You called," he answered simply.

"I drank too much."

"I can see that."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

I hovered near the ceiling, my ghostly chest tight. A toxic, bitter realization settled over me. Three years. I spent three years begging for scraps of his attention. If I had a bad day at work, he told me to grow up. If I cried during an argument, he walked out the front door and didn't come back until morning.

I thought he was just cold. I thought he was incapable of showing affection.

But looking at him now, I realized the truth. He wasn't incapable of love. He just didn't love me.

"My head hurts," Celeste complained, rubbing her temples.

"I told you not to mix tequila and wine," Julian said.

"You weren't there to stop me."

"I'm here now."

"You always come when I call."

"Always."

"Even when Scarlett tells you no?"

"Scarlett doesn't tell me what to do."

"I'm going to be sick," Celeste whimpered.

"No, you aren't," Julian said. He hooked his other arm under her knees and lifted her entirely off the floor. "Breathe through your nose."

"I ruin everything."

"You don't ruin anything. Stop talking."

"You were supposed to be eating cake."

"I hate cake."

"Scarlett loves cake."

"Scarlett isn't here."

He carried her toward the hallway. The dim glow of the sconce illuminated his face. His jaw was set, tight with a fierce, protective restraint. It was a tenderness so profound it made me sick.

"Put me down," Celeste whined, kicking her legs weakly. "I want to sit right here."

"You need water."

"No. Here." She wriggled in his grip.

Julian sighed, a soft, yielding sound I had never heard before. "Fine."

He lowered her toward the plush rug in the corner of the foyer. But my prized photography stand was in the way. It held a framed, original print I bought at an auction in Paris. It was the first piece of art I ever purchased with my own money. I loved that photograph. Julian knew exactly how much it meant to me.

He didn't even hesitate.

Julian kicked the metal stand with the toe of his leather shoe. It tipped over, crashing into the corner. The glass frame shattered against the baseboard, sending shards flying across the hardwood floor.

"Oops," Celeste giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Ignore it," Julian said. He guided her down onto the rug, making sure her back rested perfectly against the smooth wall.

"Did I break Scarlett's stuff?" she asked, her eyelids drooping as she looked at the wreckage.

"I broke it. Don't worry about it."

"She's going to yell at you."

"Let her try."

A dry, hollow laugh bubbled up in my non-existent throat.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just laughed at my own stupidity.

I died rushing home to celebrate a man who threw away three years of my devotion without a second thought.

I died carrying his birthday cake, and in return, he didn't hesitate to shatter the only piece of art I treasured just to make room for another woman's drunken tears.

"Julian," Celeste whispered, her voice trembling. "My stomach."

"Are you cramping again?" he asked.

He dropped to his knees beside her on the foyer rug.

"A little. The stress... I keep thinking about those men."

"They aren't here. You're in my home."

"They found my apartment, Julian. They'll find this place."

"I won't let them near you."

A sharp knock echoed from the heavy oak door.

Julian stood up, leaving Celeste sitting next to the shattered glass of my favorite art piece. He yanked the front door open.

Marcus walked in, shaking the Seattle rain off his dark wool coat.

"You actually did it," Marcus said, staring past Julian. "You moved her in."

"Keep your voice down," Julian warned.

"The entire Seattle elite circle is gossiping about her divorce, Julian. It’s front-page news. And now you're playing house."

"Her ex-husband fled the state," Julian snapped.

"Richard Mercer is a coward," Marcus agreed. "But he left her with three million in underground debt. This isn't your problem."

"She has nowhere else to go."

Marcus reached into his leather briefcase. He pulled out a thick manila folder and slapped it against the console table.

"I found this on your desk at the office," Marcus said. "Your assistant thought it was a legal brief. It’s a private investigation report."

Julian stared at the folder. "Who ordered it?"

"Scarlett."

The name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

I drifted closer to the ceiling, my invisible spirit trembling. I had paid five thousand dollars for that report. I never got the chance to confront him with it.

"She knows everything," Marcus continued.

"So?" Julian challenged.

"So, she knows Richard ran to Europe. She knows about the Wall Street money laundering."

"Good. Then she understands why Celeste needs a safe place."

"She knows about the loan sharks, Julian. She knows those thugs cornered Celeste outside her apartment last month."

Celeste whimpered, pulling her knees to her chest. "They had knives, Marcus. They threatened my baby."

"I know." Marcus turned his glare back to Julian. "But Scarlett also knows you spent the last two weeks sitting in a private VIP ward at Seattle General."

"Celeste almost miscarried," Julian fired back. "She was bleeding."

"And you told Scarlett you were in Chicago for a corporate merger!"

"I did what I had to do."

"You lied to the woman you live with so you could play bodyguard to your pregnant ex."

Marcus opened the folder. He pulled out a stack of glossy photographs and threw them onto the floor. They scattered across the rug.

"Look at them," Marcus demanded.

Julian didn't look down.

"Look at what she saw," Marcus barked.

Celeste peered down at the photos. She gasped, covering her mouth.

The pictures showed Julian carrying Celeste into the hospital. Julian sleeping in a chair next to her bed. Julian kissing her forehead in the hospital cafeteria.

"Scarlett sat alone in this apartment for two weeks," Marcus said. "She thought you were finalizing the tech merger. Instead, she gets handed a stack of photos showing you playing husband to another woman."

"I was protecting her," Julian repeated, his tone dangerously low.

"You were lying."

"If I told Scarlett the truth, she would have overreacted. She hates Celeste."

"She hates Celeste because you never let her go!"

"That's enough," Julian warned.

"No, it isn't," Marcus pushed. "You brought her here. To Scarlett's home. You know Scarlett grew up in foster care. You know how much this apartment means to her. It’s her sanctuary."

"It’s real estate," Julian countered. "Nothing more."

I shut my non-existent eyes.

Real estate.

I spent a year turning this cold, empty glass box into a home. I picked out every rug, every painting, every throw pillow. I wanted him to have a place where he felt warm.

"You're a cold bastard," Marcus said.

"I owe her family!" Julian shouted.

The sound bounced off the high ceilings, sharp and violent.

"When I was nineteen, sleeping in a freezing car, her parents paid my Ivy League tuition," Julian said, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. "They gave me a future. I made a promise to protect their daughter."

"That doesn't give you the right to humiliate Scarlett."

"It’s a moral contract, Marcus. A sacred obligation."

"And Scarlett's dignity?"

"Her bruised ego can wait until the loan sharks are behind bars."

My bruised ego.

I floated above them, entirely numb.

He didn't just trample my dignity. He erased it. He wrapped his betrayal in a cape of righteousness, playing the noble savior while leaving me to rot in the dark.

Marcus shook his head. "You're a fool. Scarlett won't tolerate this."

"She will," Julian said coldly.

"Love has limits."

Julian offered a thin, arrogant smile. "Not hers."

"You're crossing a line you can't uncross."

"Show yourself out, Marcus."

Marcus turned toward the door. "Don't call me to clean up the mess when she packs her bags for good."

The door slammed shut.

Silence settled over the foyer, broken only by Celeste’s quiet sniffling.

"He's right," Celeste cried. "I should go."

"You aren't going anywhere," Julian commanded.

"I'm ruining your life."

"You are carrying a child. Richard abandoned you. I won't."

"But Scarlett—"

"Stop talking about Scarlett," Julian interrupted. "She's throwing a tantrum in London. When she gets back, I'll explain the situation. She'll accept it."

"What if she kicks me out?"

"This is my penthouse. I bought it. I make the rules."

Julian reached down, grabbing Celeste's hands. He pulled her up from the floor.

"Did you really kiss my forehead?" she asked, her voice turning soft, almost shy.

Julian looked down at her. "You were crying. You were terrified of losing the baby."

"I felt so safe with you," she murmured. "When Richard left, I thought my life was over. The debt collectors called every hour. They banged on my door in the middle of the night."

"They won't bother you anymore."

"They said they would cut the baby out of me if I didn't pay."

Julian's eyes darkened. A violent muscle ticked in his jaw.

"If they step foot in this building, I will kill them myself," he vowed.

"You shouldn't have to do this. You have a girlfriend."

"My relationship with Scarlett is my business."

"Are you going to break up with her?"

The question hung in the air.

Julian stared at the shattered glass on the floor.

"No," he finally said. "She just needs time to cool off."

"What if she makes you choose?"

"I don't play ultimatums," Julian stated flatly. "She knows better than to test me."

He led her down the hallway, guiding her toward the guest bedroom.

The exact room I had spent months decorating for the family we planned to start.

He opened the door and turned on the soft bedside lamp.

"Get some sleep," he instructed. "I'll handle the security downstairs."

"Will you stay with me?" she asked, gripping his sleeve. "Just until I fall asleep?"

"Of course."

Julian sat on the edge of the mattress. He held her hand while she closed her eyes.

I watched him smooth the blankets over her shoulders. The tender, protective gesture twisted an invisible knife in my chest.

He never once sat by my bed when I was sick. He always hired a nurse and went to the office.

An hour passed. Celeste’s breathing leveled out into a deep sleep.

Julian finally released her hand. He stood up and walked silently out into the darkened hallway, pulling the door shut behind him with the gentle care he had never once offered me.