The nurse handed me discharge papers and a bottle of painkillers. 'Take it easy for the next few days,' she said. 'Those ribs need time to heal.'

I nodded. My throat still felt raw from the oxygen tube they'd shoved down it in the ER. The bruises along my ribcage bloomed purple and yellow beneath my hospital gown.

Darius appeared in the doorway. He held a bouquet of grocery store flowers. Carnations. The cheap kind that came wrapped in cellophane.

'Ready to go home?' he asked.

I looked at him. Really looked at him. His hair was perfectly styled. His shirt was pressed. He'd had time to shower and change while I'd spent the night hooked up to monitors, listening to the beep of my own heartbeat.

'Yes,' I said.

The drive back to the penthouse was silent. He kept his eyes on the road. I kept mine on the window. When we pulled into the garage, he didn't help me out of the car. Just walked ahead to the elevator and held the door.

Inside the apartment, I went straight to my editing desk. The one tucked in the corner of the guest room, where I'd spent seven years building his empire while he slept. I sat down carefully, my ribs screaming, and opened my laptop.

One by one, I completed the final transfers. Backend access to Instagram. YouTube channel ownership. TikTok creator account. The email where brand deals arrived. The Dropbox with seven years of raw footage. Every password changed. Every recovery email rerouted to an address he didn't know existed.

Then I opened the car's cloud storage account. The dashcam footage was already there, uploaded automatically after the crash. I downloaded it. Watched it once, my face blank.

The video showed everything. Lennon's hand shooting out to grab the wheel. The impact. My body slamming against the door. Then the part that made my chest go cold: Darius unbuckling his seatbelt, stepping out of the car, walking past my window without looking in. His voice calling for help — for her. The camera angle caught me perfectly, convulsing alone in the back seat, lips turning blue, while he carried Lennon to the ambulance.

I saved copies to three different encrypted cloud accounts. Then I closed the laptop and sat in the silence.

Darius appeared in the doorway. 'You coming to bed?'

'Soon,' I said.

He left without another word.

Two days later, the bruises had darkened. I covered them with makeup, layer after layer, until my face looked almost normal. The neck brace sat on the bathroom counter. I replaced it with a silk scarf, knotted carefully to hide the purple fingerprints of the seatbelt.

Darius found me in the kitchen. 'Lennon's promotion dinner is tonight,' he said.

I poured coffee into my mug. 'Okay.'

'We're going.'

I turned to look at him. 'I don't think I'm up for it.'

His jaw tightened. 'She's my colleague. You not showing up makes me look bad.'

'I was just in a car accident.'

'So was she,' he said. 'And she's going. Stop being dramatic.'

I stared at him. Waited for the apology. The concern. The acknowledgment that I'd almost died while he posed for photos with her.

Nothing came.

'Fine,' I said quietly.

The restaurant was one of those rooftop places with string lights and a view of the Sound. Glass walls. Exposed brick. The kind of spot that looked better on Instagram than in person.

We arrived late. The table was already full — Lennon's airline colleagues, their partners, a few people I didn't recognize. Lennon sat at the center in a red dress, her wrist still wrapped in that ridiculous bandage. When she saw us, she waved.

'Darius! June! You made it!'

Darius kissed her cheek. Pulled out the chair beside her. Sat down.

I stood there, holding my purse, until someone at the far end of the table scooted over to make space. I walked the length of the table and sat down in the empty seat. No one looked at me.

Darius and Lennon angled their chairs toward each other. Their knees almost touched. She laughed at something he said, her hand resting on his forearm.

I ordered water. The server brought bread. I didn't touch it.

Across the table, someone raised a glass. 'To Lennon! Our newest senior flight attendant!'

Everyone cheered. Lennon stood, beaming, and gave a little speech about teamwork and gratitude. Darius watched her like she was the only person in the room.

I excused myself. No one noticed.

The restroom was down a narrow hallway lined with framed photos of old Seattle. I pushed through the door and leaned against the sink, breathing slowly through the pain in my ribs.

The door opened behind me.

Lennon stepped inside. She checked the stalls, confirmed we were alone, then turned to me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

'June,' she said sweetly. 'We need to talk.'

Lennon stood between me and the door. Her smile was still in place, but something had shifted in her eyes. Something cold.

'I wanted to thank you,' she said.

I turned on the faucet. Splashed water on my face. 'For what?'

'For everything you built.' She leaned against the counter, examining her nails. 'The brand. The followers. The sponsorships. Darius would be nothing without all that.'

I dried my hands slowly. 'I did it for him.'

'I know.' She laughed, soft and cruel. 'That's the best part.'

I moved toward the door. She stepped sideways, blocking my path.

'We're not done,' she said.

My ribs ached. My head throbbed. I just wanted to leave. 'Excuse me.'

'Do you remember two years ago?' Her voice was casual now, conversational. 'When you had that miscarriage?'

The air left my lungs.

'You called Darius over and over that night,' she continued. 'I was there. We were in my apartment. His phone kept buzzing on the nightstand. He got so annoyed he turned it off.' Her fingers trailed to the base of her throat. Two fingers. That gesture. 'He told me later what happened. How you bled all over the sheets. How the neighbor found you.'

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

'He was relieved,' Lennon said, studying my face. 'That's what he told me. Relieved. Because a baby would have tied him to you forever, and he was already planning his exit strategy.' She tilted her head. 'They threw it out, you know. The remains. Medical waste. That's what the hospital calls it.'

Something inside me snapped.

I lunged at her. My hands found her shoulders. She stumbled backward, her eyes wide with surprise. We crashed into the wall. A heavy decorative fixture — wrought iron shaped like a vine — tore loose from its mounting.

It swung downward and struck me across the temple.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. I felt warmth spreading down the side of my face. Blood. My vision blurred.

Lennon screamed. High and theatrical. 'Help! She's attacking me!'

I pressed my hand to my head. It came away red.

The restroom door slammed open. Darius stood there, his face dark with fury. Behind him, I could see other diners crowding the hallway, phones out, cameras pointed at us.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' he hissed.

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

He crossed the space between us in two strides. His hand closed around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. A warning. He pushed me backward until my spine hit the wall.

'Stop making a scene,' he said, his voice low and venomous.

I couldn't breathe. Not from his hand — it wasn't tight enough for that — but from the weight of everything. The miscarriage. The lies. The seven years. The baby I'd lost while he silenced my calls from another woman's bed.

'Darius, please,' Lennon whimpered behind him. 'She just came at me. I don't know what I did.'

His fingers pressed a little harder against my throat. His face was inches from mine. I could see myself reflected in his eyes — bleeding, broken, pathetic.

'You're embarrassing me,' he said.

Someone in the hallway shouted, 'Hey! Get your hands off her!'

Darius released me. Stepped back. Smoothed his shirt.

Restaurant security pushed through the crowd. Two men in black polo shirts with radios clipped to their belts. 'We need everyone to calm down,' one of them said.

Lennon was crying now, real tears streaming down her face. 'I don't know what happened. We were just talking, and she attacked me.'

The security guard looked at me. At the blood running down my face. At the fixture hanging loose from the wall. 'Ma'am, do you need medical attention?'

I touched my temple. My hand came away slick and red. 'No.'

'She needs to leave,' Darius said. 'She's clearly unstable.'

The crowd in the hallway was growing. I could see the phones. The recording lights. Every second of this captured and uploaded and spreading.

The security guard touched my elbow gently. 'Let's get you cleaned up.'

I let him guide me down the hallway, away from Darius, away from Lennon's theatrical sobs, away from the cameras. Behind me, I heard Darius's voice, smooth and concerned. 'I'm so sorry, everyone. She's been under a lot of stress lately.'

In the restaurant's back office, the security guard handed me a first aid kit. I pressed gauze to my temple and watched my blood soak through the white fabric.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Outside in the black car. When you're ready.*

Caspian.

I stood up. The room tilted slightly, then steadied.

'Ma'am, you should really see a doctor,' the security guard said.

'I will,' I lied.

I walked out through the kitchen exit. The alley smelled like garbage and rain. At the curb, a black sedan idled, its engine purring softly.

The back door opened.

I got in.

Caspian sat beside me in the darkness. He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer empty comfort. Just handed me a clean towel and waited.

I pressed it to my bleeding temple and finally let myself feel it. All of it. The baby I'd lost. The man I'd loved. The seven years I'd never get back.

'I'm ready,' I whispered.

Caspian pulled out his phone. Opened an app. Handed it to me.

The screen showed a live stream interface. Multiple platforms queued. Camera active.

Two million potential viewers.

I looked at my reflection in the black screen. Blood matting my hair. Bruises shadowing my throat. Eyes that had finally stopped lying to themselves.

I pressed the button.

The red light blinked on.

And I began to speak.