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.