My phone buzzed on the vanity.

I stared at the screen, the notification glaring against the soft lighting of the Plaza Hotel bridal suite.

*Celeste Hartwell, I won't bother your life anymore. Are you satisfied?*

The sender was Seraphina Vale. My cousin, adopted by my parents after hers died in a car crash. The Juilliard violinist. Adrian’s true love.

Before my heart could even process the dread, the door banged open.

Adrian Blackwood stood in the frame. The CEO of Blackwood Corp. My husband of five years. Today was supposed to be our vow renewal, the grand wedding he promised me because we never had one.

He stared at his own phone, his face drained of color.

"I have to leave," he announced.

"Now?" I asked. "The string quartet is playing our processional."

"Stop the music."

"Adrian, look at me." I caught his silk sleeve with both hands. "The quartet is playing our song. Everyone is waiting for us."

He tore his arm free without looking into my eyes.

"It's a party, Celeste. Not a real wedding. We've been legally married for five years."

The words struck harder than a slap.

"Then why did you spend six months planning it? Why the Vera Wang gown? Why the three-carat ring?"

"Because you wanted them," he snapped, his voice cold enough to slice through me. "And right now, someone actually needs me."

He turned on his heel.

I grabbed the heavy tulle of my Vera Wang strapless mermaid gown and chased after him. My foot caught on the hem. I stumbled forward, my bare knee smashing into the mahogany doorframe.

Pain flared hot and sharp up my thigh.

Adrian paused, glancing back at me crumpled on the carpet. He didn't offer a hand.

"Celeste, there's something important at the company. I have to go."

"Look me in the eye and tell me it's the company."

He wouldn't look at me. "I'll call you later."

"On our wedding day?" I asked, gripping the doorframe to pull myself up.

"It's an emergency."

"More of an emergency than this?" I pointed to the ballroom down the hall.

"Don't be unreasonable," he snapped, already walking toward the elevator.

I didn't expose his lie. I didn't scream that I knew Seraphina texted him. I just watched the elevator doors close, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. Swallowing was getting harder these days. Stage four esophageal cancer does that to you.

Through the hallway window, I watched his black Maybach speed away into the crisp October afternoon. He left me here. Just like that.

I stripped off the Vera Wang dress. I shoved the three-carat diamond ring—the one he placed on my finger just last week—deep into my purse. I pulled on a simple white Chanel suit and walked into the ballroom.

Six tables. That was it. Only our closest friends from London, San Francisco, and Chicago.

Ethan, Blackwood Corp's CFO, raised his champagne glass as I approached.

"Where's the billionaire?" Ethan asked, looking behind me.

"Making more billions," I replied, grabbing a flute from a passing tray.

"On a Saturday? Tell him to leave the stock prices alone for one afternoon."

"You know Adrian. The market never sleeps."

"Well, you guys really know how to play it," Ethan laughed, clinking his glass against mine. "Throwing a wedding five years late. Make sure you invite us to the golden and silver anniversaries, too!"

"Of course, Ethan. You'll be the first on the list."

I smiled. A golden anniversary. I wouldn't even make it to Christmas.

Jules intercepted me before I could reach the next table. She dragged me into the alcove by the ice sculpture.

"Give me your hands," Jules demanded.

"They're fine."

"Give them to me." She grabbed my fingers. "Why are your hands freezing? And where the hell is Adrian?"

"He's busy. The company called him in."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"I've known you since college, Celeste. You don't get this pale over a board meeting. Where is he?"

"He had to go, Jules."

"He left you? Today? After he spent six months booking this hotel?"

"An emergency came up."

"What kind of emergency trumps his own wife?"

"A Blackwood Corp emergency."

"I'm going to kill him," she whispered.

"Don't. Just... enjoy the food. Please."

"How can I enjoy the food when you look like you're attending a funeral?"

"Because it's my party, and I want you to eat."

I squeezed her shoulder and walked away. My chest tightened. I wanted to cry, to collapse right there on the polished dance floor, but I couldn't. I had to finish this. For myself. I just wanted one beautiful day.

Two hours later, the last guest departed.

I retreated to the bridal lounge and collapsed onto the velvet sofa. Every muscle ached. The silence in the room pressed against my ears.

My phone rang. The caller ID flashed: *Margaret*.

I answered.

"Do you have a heart?" my mother screamed through the speaker.

I pulled the phone an inch away from my ear. "Hello to you too, Mom."

"Your sister is dying, and you're hosting a wedding?"

"My vow renewal," I corrected softly.

"She slit her wrists!" Margaret shrieked. "On the roof of her school! She's in surgery right now, and you're drinking champagne?"

So that was the emergency. Seraphina's depression acting up again.

"Adrian is with her," I said.

"He barely made it in time! She was bleeding out, Celeste."

"She'll survive. She always does."

"How can you be so cruel? She did this because she couldn't handle watching you flaunt your stolen happiness!"

"Stolen?" I asked.

"You know he always loved her. You just had to force this marriage. You just had to rub this stupid party in her face."

"I didn't force him to propose five years ago. I didn't force him to book the Plaza."

"You manipulated him! You knew she was fragile!"

My throat burned. A sharp, searing pain radiated down my neck.

"Didn't the groom already go save her?" I rasped.

"You cold-blooded—"

"What else do you want me to do, Mom?" I interrupted, my voice cracking. "Kill me to vent her anger? Will that cure her illness?"

"If you had an ounce of decency, you would come to the hospital right now and beg her forgiveness."

"Forgiveness for what? Being his wife?"

"For ruining her life!"

"I'm not coming to the hospital."

"You won't be happy until she's dead!"

"I have to go," I said.

"Celeste, don't you dare hang up on—"

I ended the call. A violent cough ripped through my chest. I doubled over, clutching my stomach as the spasm shook me. It felt like swallowing ground glass.

I dragged myself to the vanity and looked in the mirror.

Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Dead eyes.

I looked like a ghost.

Whenever Seraphina wanted something, she got it. She wanted my parents' affection, she got it. She wanted Adrian's heart, she kept it. Now she wanted my wedding day, and she ruined it with a single text message.

I wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of my mouth.

My phone buzzed again. A picture message from an unknown number.

I opened it.

It was a photo of Adrian's hand holding Seraphina's on a hospital bed. His platinum wedding band caught the harsh fluorescent light.

Beneath the photo was a single line of text.

*He told me he never wanted to marry you.*

The penthouse door clicked shut. Heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, pressing a cotton pad to my bloody knee.

My immune system was entirely shot. Stage four esophageal cancer meant a simple scrape could trigger a massive, lethal infection.

I hated the sting of the antiseptic. I hated the pain. I was terrified of it, actually.

"Celeste, I'm sorry." Adrian appeared in the doorway, loosening his silk tie.

Shadowed circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"Today was an accident," he pleaded. "Please don't be mad at me, okay?"

I didn't answer. I dabbed the wound again, watching the cotton turn crimson.

He took a step toward the bathroom, then stopped. His gaze dropped to my leg.

"What happened?" he demanded, rushing to my side. "How did you get hurt? Why weren't you careful?"

I kept my eyes on my knee. I reached for the roll of gauze.

He grabbed the white mesh before my fingers could touch it.

I lifted my head and stared at him.

The great CEO of Blackwood Corp, the man who routinely dismantled investors in boardrooms, crouched before me like a guilty child.

His dark eyes brimmed with absolute sincerity. If the text message from Seraphina wasn't burned into my memory, I would have been fooled again.

"Adrian, let's get a divorce," I said. "I'm very tired."

I snatched the gauze from his hand and wrapped it around my leg.

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around my waist. He squeezed me against his chest.

The sudden pressure ground directly into my raw knee.

A sharp gasp hissed through my teeth as I flinched, my nails digging into his shoulder.

He jerked back, releasing me instantly. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering in the air.

"Celeste, we are going to have so many more anniversaries," he pleaded, his voice thick. "Don't say the word divorce. Don't just throw it around. It hurts."

"Adrian, this afternoon was the last time I will ever let you keep your dignity." I looked straight into his eyes.

He froze. The color drained from his cheeks.

"Celeste, it isn't what you think," he stammered. "Really. The situation was just... it was too urgent. I had to rush over there. But I didn't dare tell you the truth. I was afraid you would misunderstand, I..."

He stumbled over the syllables. The man who orchestrated IPO roadshows in front of hundreds of people without blinking was stuttering.

I let out a dry, hollow laugh.

"What are you afraid of, Adrian?" I asked. "Am I that terrifying? Or are all of you just terrified that I'll bully Seraphina? And now you're afraid I'm going to bully you?"

He stood up, backing away toward the bathroom.

"You're too emotional right now," he muttered, refusing to meet my gaze. "I don't want to fight with you."

The bathroom door shut. The lock clicked.

I ignored him and walked straight into the study. The moment I closed the heavy oak door, my hands began to shake violently.

I collapsed onto the daybed. I stared up at the intricate plaster molding on the ceiling.

I had picked out that design myself, foolishly believing this Manhattan penthouse was my home.

My stomach churned. I bolted to the attached bathroom and leaned over the sink.

I gagged, spitting a mouthful of sour fluid into the porcelain basin.

My chest burned. The anxiety I'd had in college first triggered these vomiting spells.

Years of throwing up stomach acid had eroded my esophagus, directly causing the stage four cancer currently killing me. Adrian didn't know.

I rinsed my mouth, walked back to the daybed, and grabbed my phone.

Sleep was impossible anyway. I only ever managed three or four hours a night.

I dialed Jules.

"Did you kill him yet?" Jules asked on the first ring.

"I asked for a divorce." I traced a pattern on the bedsheet.

"Good. Did he sign the papers?"

"No. He hid in the bathroom." I rubbed my chest. "He said I was too emotional."

"Coward," Jules spat. "I knew something was wrong when he rushed out of the Plaza. What's the real emergency?"

"Seraphina."

Silence hung on the line. Then, Jules cursed. "Your cousin? The violinist?"

"She slit her wrists today," I said. "Margaret called me during the reception."

"And Adrian went to her?"

"He's always going to her, Jules. She's the ghost that haunts him. The one he never stopped choosing."

"I thought they broke up before you two even met."

"They did. But he never got over it." I squeezed my eyes shut. "We had this silent agreement to never bring up his painful past. I didn't know the past had a name. I didn't know the past was my cousin."

"When did you find out?"

"Our first New Year as a married couple. We went back to my parents' house."

"And she was there?"

"Yes. Adrian walked into the living room. He saw her sitting on the sofa. The stoic Blackwood CEO completely lost his composure. His hand shook so badly he nearly dropped his wine glass."

"Did you confront him?"

"I tried. I asked him about it later. He just cut me off. He told me the past was unpleasant, and talking about it would only ruin the mood."

"Celeste, that's a massive red flag."

"I know. But then Margaret sold her Manhattan apartment," I continued, my voice hollow. "She moved into a shack in the New Jersey countryside just to fund Seraphina's advanced violin studies at Juilliard."

"While you couldn't even afford high school tutoring," Jules scoffed.

"Margaret was so proud. She looked at Seraphina and said, 'I never thought our family would produce a real musician.'"

"That's sick, Celeste. You're her daughter too."

"Adrian was holding my hand right then." I looked down at my empty ring finger. "He squeezed my fingers and told me, 'In my eyes, my wife is the best.'"

"He played the good guy."

"He was the good guy. He gave me full access to his phone. He put my name on the Blackwood Corp equity stake. When my stomach acted up, he spent weeks learning how to cook."

"The beef ragù," Jules remembered.

"His beef ragù was the best thing I ever ate. We walked through Central Park holding hands every night. It was so simple. I thought we were safe."

"Until she failed at Juilliard."

"She didn't become a famous musician. She just came back with severe depression." I swallowed against the sharp pain in my throat. "Margaret brought her over to our apartment. Seraphina's arms were covered in razor scars. My mother was crying uncontrollably."

"What did Seraphina do?"

"She walked right up to me." I gripped the phone tighter. "She looked haggard. Completely broken. And she said, 'Celeste, please... let him go. He was mine first.'"

Jules gasped. "She actually said that to your face?"

"Yes."

"And what did Adrian do?"

Before I could answer Jules, a sharp knock rattled the study door.

"Celeste?" Adrian called from the hallway. "Open the door. Seraphina is awake, and she wants to talk to you."

"Celeste? Open the door," Adrian called through the heavy oak. "Seraphina is awake, and she wants to talk to you."

I stared at the brass handle. My phone rested against my ear, Jules's silence echoing on the line.

"I'll call you back," I whispered, ending the call.

Seraphina wanted to talk. She always wanted to talk when she held the winning hand.

The crisp, cinnamon-scented air of our first Christmas as a married couple flooded my mind. The church bells ringing over the snow. The distant melody of "Jingle Bells" leaking from a neighbor's speaker.

She had dragged me away from the fireplace, away from our laughing relatives, pulling me to a freezing park bench.

"You hate me, don't you?" Seraphina had asked.

I stared at the icy pavement. "I don't know what to say."

"You hate me so much you married Adrian just because he was my boyfriend."

Fireworks exploded above the trees.

Her face illuminated in the flashes of red and gold, stained with tears.

My hands turned to ice. "I didn't know you two were together."

"Right," she scoffed.

"I didn't! We met at the library. He brought me sandwiches when I couldn't afford a meal."

She didn't answer. She just walked away into the snow.

Two days later, she left for Juilliard. My phone buzzed with her parting text.

*You let me win so many times, I'll let you have this one.*

I shoved the screen into Adrian's chest that night.

"What does this mean?" I screamed. "If you can't let her go, go be with her! Pretend you got the wrong cousin!"

"Celeste, you can't do this to me," Adrian pleaded, grabbing my wrists. "I don't even have her number. I didn't know you were related."

"What would you do if you knew?"

"I would have found you sooner." He pulled me against his chest. "I'd shut my eyes whenever she walked into a room."

I laughed. He held me tighter. I believed him.

Years passed. She returned from Juilliard broken, shivering in the summer heat, her wrists lined with silver scars.

Margaret hovered over her. I found her therapists.

Then came the family dinner.

Seraphina coughed into her napkin.

Adrian's head snapped up. His fork clattered against his plate. The pure, naked heartache in his eyes pierced straight through my chest.

I cornered him in the kitchen afterward.

"Why did you look at her like that?" I demanded.

"Enough!" Adrian slammed his hand on the marble counter. "Celeste, she's already like this. What are you making a fuss about?"

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

His anger vanished. He reached for my face.

"Sorry," he murmured, wiping my jaw. "I didn't mean to yell. We've been together so long, don't you trust me?"

I nodded. I swallowed the pain. I let the lie fester.

Then came New Year's Day. He returned from the Blackwood Corp data center project in Reykjavik.

We visited my parents. He pulled a velvet pouch from his coat.

"Your mom asked me to pick this up—said it's good for the immune system," Adrian said, handing Seraphina a bag of saffron.

He placed a small silver rune pendant on the table next to it. "And this—local craft. For protection."

I sat on the sofa, mute. I watched them. I felt like a stray dog watching the indoor pets get fed.

In the Maybach on the way home, he reached for my hand.

I yanked my fingers away.

He caught my wrist. He shoved a massive three-carat pigeon-blood ruby ring onto my left hand.

"Someone's jealous, Celeste?" he teased, rubbing my knuckle.

"You bought her gifts."

"Your mother asked me to buy the saffron," he explained. "The pendant was just sitting on a vendor's table. They said it was for protection. I grabbed it."

I stared at the pigeon-blood ruby.

"But this ring," he whispered, kissing my forehead. "I chose this for a long time. With me here, you'll always be safe."

He stroked my hair.

"Let's have a wedding," he offered softly. "I've always been sorry I didn't give you one."

Tears blurred my vision. I looked at the man I loved.

I opened my mouth to tell him the truth.

I wanted to tell him about the vomiting. The endless nights clutching the toilet.

I wanted to list the hospitals. Memorial Sloan Kettering. Mayo Clinic. Johns Hopkins.

I wanted to say the words the doctors gave me. Stage four esophageal cancer. Lymph node metastasis. Poor prognosis.

But his smile was so bright, so full of promises, I choked the words back down.

"Celeste!" Adrian pounded on the study door. "Are you listening to me?"

The memories evaporated. The silence of the penthouse rushed back in.

I stood up from the daybed. My knee throbbed against the fresh gauze.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Adrian stood in the hallway, his phone extended toward me.

"She's on speaker," he said.

"Celeste?" Seraphina's weak voice drifted from the device. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," I replied, my tone flat.

"I'm so sorry about your party," she rasped. "I didn't mean to ruin your special day. I just... it hurts so much."

"You didn't ruin a party, Seraphina. You ruined my marriage."

Adrian's jaw tightened. He pulled the phone back an inch.

"Don't speak to her like that," he warned. "She just got out of surgery."

"Then why is she calling me?" I snapped.

"Because she feels guilty!"

"No, she doesn't," I stated, locking eyes with my husband. "She called to make sure you were still standing right next to her."

"Celeste, please," Seraphina sobbed through the speaker. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I just wanted to know you don't hate me."

"I don't hate you," I said. "I don't feel anything for you at all."

I reached out and pressed the red button on Adrian's screen.

The call dropped.

Adrian stared at his darkened phone, his knuckles turning white.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded. "She is in a hospital bed!"

"And I am your wife."

"You're acting like a monster."

"Then leave the monster," I challenged, stepping closer to him. "Sign the divorce papers, Adrian. Go back to the hospital. Go hold her hand."

He shoved the phone into his pocket. "I am not signing anything."

"Why? You already told her you never wanted to marry me."

Adrian froze. The anger melted off his face, replaced by pure panic.

"What did you just say?" he whispered.

I pulled my own phone from my pocket. I opened the text message.

I turned the screen toward him.

The photo of their intertwined hands glared in the hallway light.

"Care to explain this emergency?" I asked.