The pot hit the tile before I could stop it.

Boiling water spread across the kitchen floor in a wide, steaming arc, and I went down with it — one knee, then both, my palm slapping the wet tile as the pain in my abdomen folded me in half. I stayed there. I didn't have a choice. My body had made the decision without consulting me, the way it had been making decisions for weeks now.

The floor was cold through my jeans. I pressed my forehead against the cabinet door and breathed. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The steam from the spilled water curled up around me like something trying to be kind.

I counted the grout lines between the tiles. One. Two. Three.

I'd been doing that a lot lately — counting things. Grout lines. Stair steps. The number of times I had to grip the hallway wall before I reached the kitchen in the morning. It gave the mind something to do while the body figured out how to keep going.

I don't know how long I lay there. Long enough for the water to go cold. Long enough for the steam to disappear.

Then I heard the elevator.

I pulled myself up using the cabinet handle, both hands, slow. By the time Nolan walked in, I was standing at the counter. Barely. My knuckles were white on the edge of the sink, but I was standing.

He crossed the kitchen without looking at me. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and left. His shoulder passed within two feet of mine. His eyes were on his phone.

The door swung shut behind him.

I stood there another moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps moving away down the hall, and then I turned back to the stove and started again.

---

My father called that evening.

"Lainey." His voice sounded older than I remembered. Worn thin at the edges. "I've got the last of it together. The full million. I'm wiring it Monday."

I sat on my cot in the dark, the phone pressed to my ear. Outside my door, the penthouse hummed with the sound of Nolan on a business call, his voice low and authoritative, the voice of a man who had never once doubted his own worth.

"That's good, Dad," I said. "That's really good."

"It took longer than I wanted." He paused. "I'm sorry it took so long, sweetheart."

"Don't be sorry." My voice came out steady. I had practiced steady for years now. "You did it. That's what matters."

"How are you?" he asked. "You sound tired."

"I'm fine." The lie came easy as breathing. Easier than breathing, actually — breathing had gotten complicated lately. "I'm happy, Dad. Everything's good here. Nolan's good."

Another pause. I could hear him exhale, slow and relieved, the sound of a man setting down something heavy he'd carried too long.

"I love you, Lainey-girl."

"I love you too." I closed my eyes. "Take care of Mom."

I hung up and sat in the dark for a while, my hand still on the phone. Through the wall, I could hear Nolan laughing at something. A real laugh — the kind he used to give freely, back when we were nineteen and the world hadn't gotten its hands on either of us yet.

I pressed my palm flat against the wall. Just for a second. Then I took it away.

---

Kyle called him that night. I heard Nolan's end of it from my room, his voice carrying through the thin door.

"Like a ghost?" A pause. Then a short, cold sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "She's always been dramatic."

Another pause.

"Let her." His voice dropped, but I could still hear it. "If she's looking for sympathy, she picked the wrong audience."

I pulled the shoebox from under my cot and sat cross-legged on the floor with it in my lap. I lifted the lid. The prayer bracelets were coiled inside, five of them now, the woven cord soft from handling. Beneath them, the folded letters. Beneath those, the clinic paperwork, the words Stage IV printed in the same flat black type as before, patient and indifferent.

I picked up the newest bracelet and turned it in my fingers. The silver medal caught the light from the bare bulb above me.

Keep him safe. Give him peace.

I thought about the way Nolan had looked that morning — just for a moment, before his face went flat again. He'd been standing in the hallway when I came out of the kitchen, and something had crossed his expression. Something quick and unguarded, like a door opening and closing in the same breath.

I knew that look. I had spent three years pretending I didn't.

By afternoon, he'd called Braelyn. I heard him authorize the fireworks from his study, his voice easy and generous, the way it used to be with me. Three million dollars for an evening over the Hudson. For her birthday. For a woman he had chosen specifically because she was everything I wasn't.

I put the bracelet back in the box. I closed the lid.

I was running out of time, and we both knew it — him in the way that satisfied him, me in the way that didn't frighten me anymore. Fear takes energy. I didn't have much of that left to spare.

I had enough for one more thing, though.

Just one.