"Would you like me to box the lamb, Mrs. Lawson?" the waiter asked.

"No," I said, staring at the untouched food on the opposite side of the table. "Give him ten more minutes."

"The kitchen is closing, ma'am."

"I understand. Just leave the check."

I picked up my phone and dialed Bray's number for the eighth time.

Straight to voicemail.

I dropped the phone onto the table. The screen lit up with a photo of us from last summer. He looked so happy then. Tonight, he was just absent.

I signed the receipt, grabbed my coat, and walked out into the cold night air.

The drive to our suburban house took exactly twelve minutes. I pulled into the driveway. His car wasn't there.

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

"Bray?"

Nothing but the low hum of the refrigerator answered me.

I flipped the light switch. The living room sat perfectly still. I walked down the hall and opened the bedroom door. The bed was made. The closet was closed.

He hadn't been home at all.

I pulled my phone back out and dialed his office. It rang four times before the automated system picked up.

Fine. If he wouldn't answer the phone, I would ask him in person.

The security guard at the front desk of Lawson Consulting looked up from his monitor when I walked through the revolving glass doors.

"Evening, Mrs. Lawson," he said.

"Is Bray still upstairs, Marcus?"

"Yes, ma'am. Hasn't come down since lunch."

I walked to the elevators and hit the button for the fourteenth floor. The ride up felt agonizingly slow. The metal doors slid open with a soft chime.

The corridor was mostly dark, save for the light spilling out of Bray's suite at the far end of the hall.

I walked toward it.

Before I reached the threshold, the heavy oak door swung open.

A woman stepped out.

She wore a sleek beige coat, her blonde hair pulled into a tight knot. She clutched a leather tote bag against her chest.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Dr. Mila Thorne. My doctor.

She turned, her shoes making no sound on the plush carpet, and froze when she saw me.

"Dr. Thorne?" I asked.

Her eyes darted left, then right. Her grip on the bag tightened so much her knuckles turned pale.

"Lina," she said. Her voice dropped, losing its usual warm bedside manner.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "It's past eleven at night."

Mila glanced back over her shoulder toward Bray's open door. She quickly shifted her gaze back to me.

"I had a late meeting in the building," she said. "I just stopped by to drop some paperwork off for your husband."

"Paperwork? At midnight?"

"I really have to go," Mila said. She sidestepped me, keeping a wide distance between us. "Take care of yourself, Lina."

"Wait," I said, reaching out.

She didn't stop. She hurried down the hall, jabbing the elevator call button repeatedly until the doors opened. She stepped inside and disappeared.

I turned back to Bray's office and walked in.

The sight stopped me cold.

Files covered the mahogany desk in messy, overlapping piles. Stacks of paper spilled over the edges onto the rug. Folders lay open on the floor, their contents scattered everywhere.

Bray stood behind the desk. His tie hung loose around his neck. His collar was unbuttoned.

"Bray," I said.

He snapped his head up. His eyes widened in pure shock.

"Lina. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," I said, stepping over a manila folder. "I waited at the restaurant for three and a half hours."

He dragged a hand down his face. "The restaurant. God, Lina, I forgot. I'm so sorry."

"You forgot our fifth anniversary?"

"Things got out of control here."

"I can see that," I said, sweeping my arm toward the chaotic floor. "Did a tornado hit this room?"

"I was looking for a specific document."

"And Dr. Thorne was helping you find it?"

Bray stiffened. His jaw locked tight.

"You saw Mila?"

"She practically ran past me in the hallway," I said, my tone sharpening. "Why is my physician leaving your office at midnight?"

"Keep your voice down," he said, stepping around the desk.

"Don't tell me to keep my voice down. Answer the question. What is going on?"

"I sat at that corner table for three hours, Bray. The waiter asked me five times if I wanted to box up your food."

"I had my phone on silent," he said.

"I called you eight times. I texted you twelve. You didn't check your screen once?"

"I was buried in paperwork!"

"Paperwork?" I laughed, a harsh, empty sound. "Is that what you call this?"

I kicked a stack of papers at my feet. They slid across the carpet.

"Stop it, Lina."

"No, you stop it. You leave me sitting alone on our anniversary, I come here, and my doctor is sneaking out of your office."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We were discussing your test results."

"My test results? From last week?"

"Yes."

"Why wouldn't she discuss them with me? I'm the patient."

Bray picked up a stray piece of paper from the rug and tossed it onto the desk. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"She wanted to run something by me first."

"That makes no sense. Doctors don't make midnight house calls to a husband's workplace to discuss routine bloodwork."

"It wasn't routine," Bray snapped.

The room went dead silent.

I stared at him. The anger drained out of me, replaced by a sudden, icy fear.

"What do you mean, it wasn't routine?" I asked.

He sighed heavily. "She found something, Lina. In the scans."

"And she told you before she told me?"

"She knows how anxious you get. She wanted my advice on how to break the news."

I shook my head. "No. That violates every medical protocol in the book. Mila wouldn't do that."

"She did it because she cares about you," Bray insisted.

"She cares about me so much she avoids looking me in the eye in the hallway?"

"She was startled."

"She looked guilty, Bray."

"You're overreacting."

"Am I?" I challenged.

I looked away from him, my eyes scanning the mess on the floor. Right by the edge of the desk, half-hidden under the leather guest chair, lay a thick, glossy folder.

The bold red letters across the top caught my attention.

I bent down and picked it up.

"Lina, put that down," Bray said, lunging forward.

I stepped back, flipping the folder open.

It wasn't a medical report.

It was a life insurance policy.

My name was listed as the insured.

Bray was the sole beneficiary.

And the payout amount had just been increased to five million dollars.

"If you two were just talking about my health," I said, holding the document up, "why are you adjusting my life insurance?"

"Put the folder down," Bray demanded, stepping around the desk.

"You increase my life insurance to five million dollars, skip our anniversary dinner, and tell me not to overthink it?" I tossed the file onto the leather chair.

"I was working," he insisted. He reached out, his fingers grazing my arm. "I stayed late to finalize our financial planning. Everything I do, I do for you, Lina. You know that."

I pulled my arm away. The harsh overhead light caught the side of his collar as he shifted his weight. A dark, purplish-red smudge marred the skin right below his jawline.

"Is that part of the plan, too?" I pointed at his neck.

Bray’s hand flew up, covering the spot. "What?"

"That mark on your neck."

"It's a mosquito bite, Lina."

I let out a flat, humorless laugh. "A mosquito bite? In the middle of November? On the fourteenth floor of a sealed office building?"

"I was in the park earlier," he muttered, adjusting his tie to hide the blemish. "I took a walk to clear my head. Look, I'm sorry about dinner. Let's just go home. I'll make it up to you tonight."

The drive back was silent. Once inside our bedroom, the quiet stretched thinner, pulling taut.

Bray unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it into the hamper. He turned toward the bed, his chest bare.

"You said you'd make it up to me," I murmured.

I closed the distance between us, resting my palms flat against his chest. I leaned in, pressing my lips to his jaw, intentionally avoiding the red mark.

He didn't pull me closer. Instead, his hands clamped around my wrists.

"Lina, stop." He gently but firmly pushed my arms down.

"We haven't touched each other in weeks," I whispered.

"You're not well," he replied. He picked up his pajama shirt and pulled it over his head. "Mila said your white blood cell count is erratic. You need rest, not exertion."

"I don't feel sick right now. I feel ignored."

"Don't do that," he sighed, climbing under the covers and turning his back to me. "Don't make me the bad guy for caring about your health. When you're completely better, things will go back to normal. I promise."

But I didn't get better.

The next morning, Bray set a small plastic cup on the kitchen counter. Two white capsules rattled inside.

"Take them," he instructed, sliding a glass of water toward me.

I picked up the cup. "I hate how these make me feel."

"They're the new supplements Mila prescribed. They'll fix your immune system."

I swallowed the pills.

Within three days, the dizziness started. It hit me in violent waves. I dropped a ceramic plate while loading the dishwasher on Wednesday. My knees buckled, forcing me to grip the granite counter until the kitchen stopped spinning.

At night, my pajamas clung to my skin, soaked in sweat. I would wake up gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"I can't take those pills anymore," I told him on Thursday morning, gripping the edge of the dining table to steady myself.

"You have to," Bray argued, pushing the plastic cup into my hand. "You're just weak right now. It's your body fighting off the infection. Trust the process, Lina."

"I feel worse!"

"Because you're fighting the treatment. Drink the water."

I stared at the white capsules. My stomach churned.

"Take them," he repeated, his tone hardening.

I placed them on my tongue and drank the water, forcing them down. He smiled, a tight, practiced expression, and kissed my forehead before leaving for work.

Mila began stopping by the house. At first, it was once a week. Then, every other day.

She sat on my living room sofa on Tuesday afternoon, her medical bag resting on the glass coffee table. She scribbled something on her notepad, never meeting my gaze.

"Your blood pressure is still low," she announced to the room, rather than to me.

Bray paced behind the sofa. "Is that normal for this stage?"

"It can be," Mila replied. She snapped her notepad shut and stood up. "Bray, can we speak in the hallway for a moment? About the dosage adjustment?"

I sat up straight, my head swimming. "No."

Both of them froze.

"Excuse me?" Mila asked, her voice tight.

"I said no," I repeated, forcing myself to stand. My legs trembled, but I locked my knees. "Say it here. I'm the patient. Stop having private meetings about my body."

"Lina, calm down," Bray scolded, stepping between Mila and me.

"Why does she need to take you into the hall?" I challenged him. "What is she going to tell you that she can't say to my face?"

"It's medical jargon," Mila intervened. "I just need to explain the chemical interactions to your husband so he can monitor you properly."

"Then explain it to me!"

Bray grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin. "Stop acting crazy, Lina. She is taking time out of her busy clinic schedule to do house calls for you."

"I didn't ask for house calls!"

"You're being paranoid," he snapped, his voice rising. He shoved me back slightly, forcing me to sit down on the sofa. "Mila is trying to save your life, and you're treating her like an enemy."

"She acts like an enemy," I fired back.

"Enough." Bray turned his back to me, gesturing toward the front door. "Come on, Mila. We'll talk on the porch."

Mila grabbed her bag, offering me a fleeting, pitying glance before following my husband out the door.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the silent living room.

I dragged myself to the window and parted the blinds just a fraction.

They weren't talking about dosages.

Bray stood close to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. Mila leaned in, whispering something in his ear.

Then, she slipped a small, unlabeled prescription bottle into his coat pocket.

"She barely recognizes the living room on her bad days," Bray said.

He poured a splash of sparkling water into his glass. He didn't look at me. He looked directly at Aunt Martha.

"I recognize our house perfectly fine," I said, setting my fork down.

The Lawson family dining room went quiet. Twenty relatives sat around the long oak table, their silverware pausing mid-air.

"Denial is part of the process," Bray whispered to Martha, loud enough for half the table to hear. "The doctors warned me."

"I don't have a process," I snapped. "I have a husband who lies."

"Lina, please," Uncle Robert murmured from my left. "Bray is just worried about you. You look terribly pale."

"I'm pale because he's feeding me pills that make me sick."

Bray sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound. He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His palm felt clammy.

"Your paranoia is peaking again," he said gently. "We talked about this."

I yanked my hand away. "Don't touch me."

Aunt Martha gasped.

"There's no need for hostility, Lina."

The voice came from the far end of the room.

Dr. Mila Thorne stepped out of the hallway shadows and into the dining room light. She wore a tailored navy dress. A leather medical portfolio rested under her arm.

"What is she doing here?" I demanded, pushing my chair back.

"I invited her," Bray said. "To keep an eye on you."

"Since when do physicians attend family banquets?"

"Since my patient started exhibiting severe neurological decline," Mila replied.

She walked over to Uncle Robert and placed a single sheet of paper next to his dinner plate.

"What is that?" I asked.

Robert adjusted his reading glasses. He squinted at the text. "Good heavens. Are her white blood cell counts really this erratic?"

"They are," Mila confirmed. "Her immune system is attacking her nervous system. It creates confusion. Mood swings. Hallucinations."

"You have no right to show my medical records to my uncle!" I shouted.

I laughed. A dry, scraping sound that shocked even me. I expected to cry, but the sheer absurdity of the moment forced a harsh giggle from my throat.

"You're passing my chart around like a party favor," I said.

"Bray gave me proxy consent," Mila stated smoothly. "Given your compromised mental state."

"I am not compromised!"

I stood up to snatch the paper from Robert.

The moment my shoes left the floor, gravity vanished. The crystal chandelier above the table swayed violently to the left. The room spun in a rapid, sickening circle.

My knees folded.

I grabbed the edge of the mahogany table. My fingernails dug into the wood.

"Lina!" Aunt Martha shrieked.

Bray was out of his chair in a second. He caught my waist, hauling me upright against his chest.

"See?" Bray called out to the room. "This is exactly what I mean. She pushes herself too hard."

"Let me go," I muttered. My tongue felt thick. The words slurred together.

"She's having an episode," Mila announced calmly from across the room. "Her blood pressure just bottomed out."

"I just stood up too fast," I argued, but my head lolled against Bray’s shoulder.

"Take her home, Bray," Robert urged. "She needs her bed."

"I can't leave yet," Bray said, adjusting his grip on my waist. "I have to settle the caterers and lock up the estate. Marcus can drive her back."

"I don't need Marcus," I whispered, fighting to keep my eyes open. "I'll call a cab."

"You're in no condition to ride with a stranger," Bray insisted.

He practically carried me to the front foyer. The heavy wooden doors stood open, letting in the freezing night air. Marcus, his personal driver, waited by the idling black sedan in the driveway.

Bray shoved my coat into my arms.

"Go home," he ordered. "Take the blue pills on the nightstand. I'll be back in an hour."

"You're a liar," I managed to say.

He ignored me. He turned around and walked back into the dining room.

I stumbled down the front steps. The biting wind slapped my face, clearing the fog in my brain just a fraction. I reached the car and yanked the passenger door open.

I patted my coat pockets. Empty.

My purse. My phone. My keys. They were all sitting on the floor beside my dining chair.

"Marcus, wait," I said.

"Ma'am?"

"I forgot my bag. I'll be right back."

"Mr. Lawson said to bring you straight home," Marcus warned, stepping out of the driver's side.

"I can't get into the house without my keys," I fired back.

I slammed the car door shut.

I didn't want to walk back through the front entrance and face twenty pitying stares. The estate had a side path that led to the patio doors. I could slip into the dining room unnoticed, grab my things, and leave.

I wrapped my coat tighter around my shivering frame and hurried down the stone walkway.

Tall rose bushes lined the perimeter, casting long, jagged shadows across the grass. The music from inside the house muffled the sound of my footsteps.

I rounded the corner. The patio came into view.

Two figures stood by the stone fountain.

I stopped behind a thick oak tree. My lungs seized.

Bray stood with his back to the house. Mila stood in front of him.

"You pushed too hard in there," Bray said. His tone held none of the gentle concern he used at the dinner table. It was sharp. Impatient.

"They needed to see the paperwork," Mila replied. "Robert is the family executor. If he believes she's losing her mind, he won't contest the will."

"She almost figured it out tonight."

"She didn't figure out anything. The dosage I gave her this morning guarantees she won't remember half of this tomorrow."

My stomach dropped.

The blue pills. The white capsules. The dizziness.

Mila reached up and ran her fingers through Bray’s hair.

"How much longer?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper.

"Two weeks," Bray promised. "Her liver will fail completely by the end of the month. The insurance payout takes thirty days to clear."

"Five million," Mila murmured.

"All ours."

Bray grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. He tilted her chin up.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a quick peck. It was a deep, hungry, consuming kiss. Mila wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

A ringing sound started in my ears. It grew louder, drowning out the music, the wind, the splashing fountain.

My husband was killing me.

My doctor was helping him.

The poison in my veins surged, reacting to the massive spike of adrenaline. The patio stones tilted upward. The sky spun out of control.

I tried to step back. My heel caught the edge of a paving stone.

I stumbled out from behind the oak tree.

Bray broke the kiss. His head snapped in my direction.

"Lina?" he gasped.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

The black dots swarmed my vision, swallowing the light. My legs gave out completely. I hit the frozen ground hard, the impact jarring my teeth.

The darkness dragged me under.

Right before my mind shut off completely, I heard Mila’s footsteps approach my face.

"Well," she said, her voice dripping with cold amusement. "That speeds up the timeline."