The townhouse was full of people. Hattie's winter dinner party—her annual December tradition, the one she'd been hosting for twenty-three years. White poinsettias on every surface. Candles in crystal holders. A bartender in a white jacket mixing cocktails by the fireplace. I stood near the window with a glass of champagne I hadn't touched and watched Gregory across the room.

He was laughing. Ophelia stood beside him in a cream cashmere dress, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She said something I couldn't hear, and he leaned down to catch it. His face was warm. Relaxed. He looked at her the way he used to look at me.

Used to.

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm.

"Sasha." Ophelia appeared at my elbow. I hadn't seen her cross the room. "You look freezing. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You're shivering." She tilted her head, concerned. "Come with me. I want to show you something that'll cheer you up."

I should have said no. But thirty people were watching, and Ophelia's voice was so soft, so kind. I followed her through the crowd, past the dining room, down the hallway to the back stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"The terrace." She glanced back with that sweet smile. "Hattie had the most beautiful lights installed this year. You can see the whole city. It's magical."

We climbed the narrow staircase to the third floor. She pushed open the terrace door, and cold air hit my face like a slap. I stepped outside. The city spread below us—towers of light against black sky. My breath came out in clouds.

"It's beautiful," I said.

I turned around.

Ophelia stood in the doorway. She was still smiling.

"I'm glad you think so," she said.

She stepped back inside and closed the door.

I heard the lock click.

For a moment I just stood there, staring at the glass. Then I walked over and tried the handle. It didn't move. I knocked. "Ophelia?"

No answer.

I knocked harder. "Ophelia, the door's stuck."

Through the glass I saw her silhouette descending the stairs.

"Ophelia!" I pounded on the door with both fists. "Come back!"

She didn't come back.

I pulled out my phone. No signal. The townhouse was old, the walls thick. I'd never gotten reception on the upper floors. I tried anyway, holding the phone up, moving to different corners of the terrace. Nothing.

The wind picked up. I wasn't wearing a coat. Just the silk blouse and wool skirt I'd chosen for the party. My arms were bare. I wrapped them around myself and looked at the door again.

Someone would notice. Gregory would notice I was gone. He'd come looking.

I sat down against the terrace wall, out of the wind, and waited.

The cold crept in slowly. First my fingers. Then my feet. My teeth started chattering. I stood up and paced, trying to keep my blood moving. I counted steps. I recited numbers—stock prices, revenue figures, anything to keep my mind working.

An hour passed. Maybe more. I'd stopped being able to feel my hands.

I went back to the door and pounded on it until my fists went numb. I screamed Gregory's name until my voice cracked. No one came.

The party sounds drifted up faintly—laughter, music, the clink of glasses. They were three floors below, warm and safe, and I was freezing to death on a rooftop terrace while my husband drank champagne.

I slid down against the wall again. My body was shaking so hard I couldn't control it. The shaking was good, I told myself. Shaking meant I was still warm enough to shiver. When the shivering stopped, that's when you were in trouble.

I thought about the wedding. The pig's blood. Gregory's face when he'd told me not to make it worse.

I thought about Ophelia's smile as she closed the door.

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm, but I couldn't feel it anymore.

The shivering slowed.

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere far away, I heard a door open. Footsteps. A woman's voice, sharp with panic. "Mrs. Carlson? Mrs. Carlson!"

Hands on my shoulders. Someone lifting me. The world tilted.

"Call an ambulance," the voice said. "Now."

I tried to open my eyes. Everything was white.

"Stay with me," the voice said. "Stay awake."

I didn't stay awake.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. An IV in my arm. Monitors beeping. A nurse checking my vitals. My chest hurt when I breathed.

"Pneumonia," the nurse said when she saw me looking. "You're lucky. Another hour and we'd be having a very different conversation."

Gregory came that evening. He stood at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.

"You should have been more careful," he said. "It's winter. You know better than to go outside without a coat."

I stared at him.

"Ophelia feels terrible," he continued. "She said she told you not to stay out there too long."

My voice came out hoarse. "She locked the door."

"Sasha." He sighed. "The door sticks sometimes. You know that. It's an old house."

"She locked it."

"Why would she do that?" His voice had an edge now. Impatient. "You're not making sense. The doctor said you might be confused for a few days."

He left after ten minutes.

I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. Gregory visited twice. Hattie called once to suggest I might want to "build up my constitution."

Ophelia sent flowers. White roses in a crystal vase. The card read: *Get well soon. I feel simply terrible about the misunderstanding.*

I kept the card.

I was building a file now, though I didn't know it yet. Evidence. Dates. Details. The things I would need when the time came.

Because I understood something now, lying in that hospital bed, my lungs burning with every breath:

This was not going to stop.

And no one was coming to save me.

The Hamptons house was bigger than the townhouse. More rooms. More places to hide. More places to be cornered.

I stood on the back lawn with a glass of iced tea I didn't want, watching Gregory play tennis with his college roommate. The sun was hot. My skin felt tight. I'd been wearing long sleeves all weekend to cover the bruises on my arms—the ones I'd gotten three days ago when I'd tripped on the stairs. That's what I'd told the doctor. That's what I'd tell anyone who asked.

No one asked.

"Sasha!" Ophelia waved from the terrace. "Come see the peacocks. They're out by the enclosure."

I looked at Gregory. He didn't look back.

I walked across the lawn toward the stone terrace. Ophelia met me at the steps, linking her arm through mine. Her sundress was pale yellow. She smelled like jasmine.

"Hattie's been showing off her collection," she said. "You haven't seen it yet, have you?"

"No."

"Oh, you have to. It's extraordinary."

We walked past the pool, past the rose garden, to the far edge of the property where the manicured lawn gave way to wilder landscaping. A low stone wall enclosed a sunken area about ten feet deep. I could see movement inside—long, scaled bodies sliding over rocks.

Snakes.

"Gregory's father had it built," Ophelia said. "He collected exotic species. There must be twenty different kinds in there."

I stopped walking. "I don't like snakes."

"Oh, they're harmless." She tugged my arm gently. "Most of them, anyway. Come look."

We stood at the edge of the wall. The pit was deeper than I'd thought. The snakes moved slowly in the afternoon heat—thick bodies coiling and uncoiling, tongues flicking. One lifted its head and stared at me with black eyes.

I stepped back.

"Careful," Ophelia said. "The edge is crumbling. Hattie keeps saying she'll have it repaired."

I felt hands on my back.

A hard shove.

I didn't have time to scream. The ground disappeared. I hit the bottom hard, my ankle twisting under me, my palms scraping against stone. Pain shot up my leg.

Then I saw them.

They were everywhere. Sliding toward me. Over my shoes. Across my legs. I screamed and scrambled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The walls were smooth stone, too high to climb. A snake brushed against my arm and I screamed again, swatting it away.

"Help!" My voice cracked. "Somebody help me!"

I heard laughter.

I looked up. Gregory stood at the edge of the pit, hands on his knees, laughing. Really laughing. His face was red.

"Oh my God," he said between breaths. "Your face."

Ophelia stood beside him, her hand pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. Concerned. "Gregory, help her up. She's terrified."

"It's just a joke." He wiped his eyes. "They're not venomous. Well, most of them aren't."

A snake slithered across my lap. I couldn't stop shaking.

"Gregory!" I screamed. "Get me out!"

He sighed and reached down. I grabbed his hand and he hauled me up, my ankle screaming with every movement. I collapsed on the grass, gasping. My hands were bleeding. My skirt was torn.

Hattie appeared on the terrace above, a martini glass in her hand. "What's all the noise?"

"Sasha fell into the snake pit," Ophelia said softly.

Hattie looked down at me. Her expression didn't change. "Really, Sasha. You have no sense of humor."

She turned and walked back inside.

Gregory pulled me to my feet. I winced. "Can you walk?"

"My ankle—"

"It's fine. You're fine." He let go of my arm. "Don't be so dramatic."

Ophelia touched his shoulder. "I'll get some ice."

She disappeared toward the house. Gregory looked at me, his jaw tight. "You're making a scene."

"I could have been bitten."

"But you weren't."

"Someone pushed me."

His eyes went cold. "No one pushed you. You lost your balance. Stop trying to blame other people for your own clumsiness."

He walked away.

I stood there alone, covered in dirt and blood, and I understood something with perfect clarity:

He would let me die before he'd question her.

That night, I locked myself in the guest bathroom and called an attorney. A woman in Manhattan I'd found through a private referral. I told her everything. The wedding. The terrace. The snakes.

"I want a divorce," I said.

"I'll have the papers drawn up," she said. "You can file Monday."

I filed Monday.

Tuesday morning, Gregory walked into the breakfast room where I sat with my coffee and a plate of untouched toast. He held the divorce papers in one hand. He didn't say anything. He just tore them in half. Then in half again. He dropped the pieces on the table in front of me.

"You're being dramatic," he said without looking up from his phone.

He walked out.

I stared at the torn paper. My hands were shaking.

I filed again two weeks later. Through a different firm. Bigger. More expensive.

Gregory's legal team blocked it within forty-eight hours.

I sat in my lawyer's office and listened to her explain that Mr. Carlson's attorneys had filed a counter-motion citing irreconcilable differences in the petitioner's mental state.

"They're saying you're unstable," she said gently. "They're asking for a psychiatric evaluation before the court will hear the divorce petition."

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm until I felt the bite of pain.

"How long will that take?"

"Months. Maybe longer."

I walked out of her office and stood on the sidewalk in the cold November air. People rushed past me. Taxis honked. The city moved around me like I wasn't even there.

I pulled out my phone.

I had one more option. One person I hadn't tried yet.

I scrolled through my contacts and stopped at a name I'd saved six months ago. A name Gregory never mentioned. A man who'd sent me a business card at a charity gala with a handwritten note on the back: *If you ever need anything.*

Enzo Carlson.

I stared at the name for a long time.

Then I pressed call.