I sat on the floor of our bedroom with the scrapbook open across my lap. Three years of us spread out in ticket stubs and polaroids. The night we went to see that terrible indie film in the Village and laughed so hard we got shushed. The weekend we drove upstate and got lost on purpose. His handwriting on a napkin from our first anniversary: *You make everything better.*

I smoothed my hand over the page. Tomorrow I would give this to him. Tomorrow I would make my ninety-ninth confession—the last one. The one that would finally be enough.

I had already picked out my dress. A soft blue one he once said made my eyes look brighter. I had written the words in my journal this morning, practiced them in the mirror while he was at the gym. *Harlan, I have loved you for three years. I will love you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?*

Not the way it was supposed to go, maybe. But I didn't care anymore. I was tired of waiting. Tired of counting.

I heard his voice from the living room. He was on the phone, I thought. Then I heard another voice. A woman's laugh. Light and easy.

Naya.

I stood slowly, scrapbook still in my hands. The door to the living room was half-open. I could see a slice of the couch, the edge of the coffee table. I took a step closer.

"Oh my God, read it again," Naya said. She was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

Harlan's voice came next, high and mocking. "'Harlan, you are the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I see before I sleep. My heart is yours completely.'" He dropped back into his normal register. "She actually wrote that. Like we're in a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel."

I stopped breathing.

Naya shrieked with laughter. "Oh my God. She's *so* pathetic. How many of these letters do you have?"

"I don't know. A lot. She writes one every time she does the whole confession thing. Ninety-eight so far."

"And you keep them?"

"Why not?" Harlan's tone was casual. Easy. "It's kind of nice, actually. Having someone that devoted. Makes me look good. Like I'm this great guy for putting up with it."

There was a pause. I pressed my back against the wall, scrapbook clutched so tight against my chest I thought the binding might crack.

"You're terrible," Naya said. But she was still laughing. "Does she really think you're going to marry her after ninety-nine?"

"I don't know what she thinks. Probably. She's desperate enough."

"Your parents would *die.*"

"Yeah, well. That's why I came up with the whole ninety-nine thing in the first place. Buys me time. They'll get bored of her eventually. Or she will. Either way."

I should have moved. Should have walked in there. Thrown the scrapbook at his head. Screamed. Something.

But I just stood there. Frozen.

"She really loves you, though," Naya said. Her voice had shifted. Something sharper underneath. "Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Why would it?" Harlan said. "She chose this. I didn't force her to chase me for three years."

Naya laughed again. Softer this time. "You're such an asshole."

"Yeah, but you love me anyway."

There was a sound I couldn't quite place. Movement. Fabric shifting. Then silence.

I turned and walked back to the bedroom. My legs felt strange. Numb. Like I was walking on someone else's feet.

I closed the door carefully. Quietly. I set the scrapbook on the bed and stared at it.

Three years.

Ninety-eight confessions.

I opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out my phone. My hands were steady. That surprised me. I thought they would shake.

I opened my messages and found Kingsley's name at the top. My brother. The person I had been hiding from for three years because I wanted to prove I could do this on my own. That I could be loved without the Palmer name. Without the money. Without any of it.

I typed four words.

*Come get me in ten days.*

Then I added one more line.

*I'm done.*

I hit send.

For a long moment I just sat there, phone in my hand, staring at the screen. Then I saw the little dots that meant Kingsley was typing. They appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Finally, a message came through.

*I'll be there. Are you safe?*

I almost laughed. Safe. What a strange word.

*Yes,* I typed back. *I just need ten days.*

*Why ten days?*

I looked at the scrapbook on the bed. At the letter I had written this morning, still folded in the back pages.

Because I needed to see it. All of it. I needed to watch Harlan's face when he thought I wasn't looking. I needed to hear what he said when he thought I couldn't hear. I needed to kill the last piece of hope inside me so thoroughly that it could never grow back.

*Because I need to be sure,* I typed.

Kingsley's response came fast.

*Okay. Ten days. I'm tracking your phone. If anything happens, I'm coming early.*

I put the phone down. I stood up. I walked to the closet and hung the blue dress back up.

Then I picked up the scrapbook, carried it to the bookshelf, and slid it into place between two novels. Right where Harlan would see it if he ever bothered to look.

I climbed into bed. Pulled the covers up. Closed my eyes.

From the living room, I could still hear them laughing.

Two days after I sent that text to Kingsley, Naya called me.

"I need your help," she said, all breathless and sweet. "Harlan's birthday is coming up. I want to get him something from Fifth Avenue, but I have no idea what he'd like. You know him best."

I almost laughed. I know him best. I wanted to ask her if she knew that too, from where she was standing in his living room two nights ago. But I didn't say that. I said, "Sure. What time?"

Eight days left. I had told myself I would watch. Just watch. Let it all play out in front of me, one last time, until there was nothing left to wonder about.

The boutique was the kind of place with a doorman and a buzzer, where the lighting made everything look like it belonged in a museum. Naya was already inside when I got there, gliding along a glass case of rings like she owned the block. She wore cream. She always wore cream, or ivory, or something the color of innocence.

"Winnie!" She waved me over, beaming. "Come look at this one. Don't you think Harlan would love a watch like this?"

I walked over. A saleswoman hovered nearby, patient and polished. I leaned down to look at the tray Naya was pointing to.

And then Naya pitched sideways.

It happened so fast I almost didn't register it as deliberate. One second she was standing at the case, the next she was stumbling into it, arm flailing, and the tray of rings went skittering off the glass and onto the marble floor with a sound like breaking teeth.

"Oh my God!" she cried, clutching her wrist to her chest like it had shattered. "Winnie, why would you—"

"What?" I said.

"You pushed me!"

I stared at her. "I didn't touch you."

But she was already crying, tears sliding down perfectly, not a single smudge of mascara out of place. Staff came running from every corner of the store. Someone knelt to gather the rings. Someone else put a hand on Naya's back, murmuring, are you hurt, can you stand, do you need water.

"I'm fine," Naya said bravely, through her tears. "I'm fine. It's just—she came at me so fast—"

"I didn't push you," I said again, and I heard how thin my voice sounded in that room full of chandeliers. "I was two feet away."

Nobody looked at me. They looked at her.

She pulled out her phone with shaking hands, dialed, and pressed it to her ear. "Harlan," she sobbed, before he'd even said hello. "Harlan, can you come? I fell. Winnie— I don't— can you just come?"

I stood there in the middle of the store, watching a dozen strangers fuss over a woman who hadn't been touched, and I thought about the security camera mounted in the corner above the door. I thought, someone will check that. Someone will see the truth.

Harlan arrived in eleven minutes. I know because I watched the clock on the wall behind the register the entire time, because it was easier than watching Naya dab at dry eyes with a tissue someone had handed her.

He didn't look at the camera. He didn't ask the staff what happened. He didn't ask me anything at all. He walked straight past me to Naya, crouched in front of her chair, and took her hands in his like she was made of glass.

"Hey. Hey, look at me. Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay," she whispered. "I'm just shaken up."

Then he stood. And he turned to me.

His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried anyway, low and clean across the marble floor, the kind of voice built to be overheard.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Harlan, I didn't—"

"She's my friend, Winnie. She's been my friend since I was six years old. And you shove her into a display case over a *watch*?"

"I didn't shove her. Ask the staff. Ask anyone. I was standing right there, I never—"

"I don't need to ask anyone." His jaw was tight. He glanced around, at the saleswoman, at the manager hovering by the register, at the two customers pretending not to watch. He was performing. I understood that even as it was happening to me — that this wasn't really about Naya's wrist or the rings on the floor. This was a man making sure everyone in the room saw him choose the right side. "I can see what happened."

"You didn't see anything. You weren't here."

He didn't answer that. He put his arm around Naya's shoulders instead, careful, like she was something precious, and walked her toward the door. She looked back at me once, over his shoulder. Just for a second. Her eyes were dry now.

The door chimed shut behind them.

I stood there a moment longer, in a room full of people who wouldn't meet my eyes, my thumb pressing hard against the inside of my wrist, the way I always did when I needed to feel something solid under my own skin. Nobody offered me a tissue. Nobody asked if I was all right.

I picked up my bag and walked out onto Fifth Avenue, into the cold, and I didn't look back either.

Seven days left. I started counting them down like a countdown to my own execution — except I was the one holding the switch.

Naya came to see Harlan the next day. I heard them in the living room while I was in the kitchen, pretending to make tea I had no intention of drinking. Her voice carried through the apartment, soft and wounded.

"I didn't want to say anything," she was saying. "I know you care about her. But Harlan, it's been going on for months."

"What has?"

"The things she says to me. When you're not around. Little comments. About my clothes. About how much time we spend together. She called me a leech once. Said I was pathetic for always hanging around you."

I set the kettle down. My hand was steady.

"At the boutique," Naya continued, "I think she just snapped. I don't know. Maybe she's jealous. Maybe she thinks I'm trying to take you away from her. But Harlan, I'm scared of her now. The way she looked at me before she pushed me—"

"She said she didn't push you."

"I know. And maybe she doesn't even remember doing it. Maybe she's convinced herself it didn't happen. But my wrist still hurts."

There was a pause. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my other wrist. Breathed.

"I believe you," Harlan said.

I walked into the living room. They both looked up. Naya's face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. Harlan stood beside the couch, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

"You're lying," I said to Naya.

She flinched like I'd raised a hand to her. "Harlan—"

"Winnie." His voice was cold. Flat. "You need to apologize."

I looked at him. "For what? For something I didn't do? For things I never said?"

"You're going to apologize to her. On your knees. Or we're done."

I almost laughed. Almost. "You want me to kneel."

"I want you to take responsibility."

"For a lie."

"For what you did."

I stared at him. At the man who used to walk me home in the rain. Who used to bring me coffee during finals. Who punched someone once for calling me a name I don't even remember anymore.

"No," I said.

He pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen. Held it up so I could see. A text thread with someone whose name I didn't recognize.

"Your friend Chloe," he said. "Works at Steinberg & Associates, right? Junior associate. Up for partner track next year."

My stomach dropped.

"One phone call," Harlan continued, his tone almost conversational. "My father knows three people on their board. She'll be blacklisted from every firm in the city by Monday. She'll never work in corporate law again."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

I looked at Naya. She was watching me now, no tears, just waiting. Her mouth curved at the corner. Barely. Just enough.

Five days left. That's what I thought, standing there. Five more days and Kingsley would come. Five more days and I would never have to see this apartment or these people again. I could hold on. I could survive five more days of anything.

But Chloe couldn't. Chloe, who had worked seventy-hour weeks for three years to claw her way up from nothing. Who had student loans that would bury her if she lost this job. Who had no idea she was being used as leverage in someone else's nightmare.

"Fine," I said.

Harlan lowered the phone. "What?"

"I'll apologize."

Naya sat up straighter on the couch, smoothing her skirt. She crossed her legs. Folded her hands in her lap. Waited.

I walked across the living room. My legs felt far away. Like I was watching myself from the ceiling. I stopped in front of the couch. In front of her.

Harlan moved to stand behind her. Arms folded. Supervising.

"Kneel," he said.

I looked at him one more time. At his face. I wanted to memorize it. This version of him. The one I would need to remember every time some small, stupid part of me tried to soften toward the memory of who he used to be.

Then I knelt.

The hardwood was cold through my jeans. Naya's shoes were inches from my knees. Expensive. Cream-colored. Not a scuff on them.

"I'm sorry," I said. My voice came out flat. Empty. Like someone reading words off a card. "I'm sorry for pushing you. I'm sorry for the things I said. It won't happen again."

Naya tilted her head, studying me. "Do you mean it?"

I looked up at her. "Yes."

She smiled. Just a little. Just enough. "Okay. I forgive you."

I stood. My knees ached. I didn't look at Harlan. I walked past him, past both of them, into the bedroom. I closed the door. Locked it. Sat on the edge of the bed.

My phone was in my pocket. I pulled it out. Opened my messages. Stared at Kingsley's name.

Five days. I could last five days.

From the living room, I heard Harlan's voice, low and pleased. "See? That wasn't so hard."

And Naya laughed.