Declan was asleep in a chair by my bed, his head slumped forward. He was holding my hand, his grip tight even in sleep. He looked exhausted, his face pale and stubbled. A caricature of a worried fiancé.

He stirred as I moved, his eyes fluttering open. When he saw I was awake, relief washed over his face, followed quickly by a practiced look of guilt.

"Emily. You' re awake." He squeezed my hand. "I' m so sorry. I' m so, so sorry."

Sorry. How many times had I heard that word from him? After every screaming match, every broken dish, every bruise. It was a meaningless sound he made to absolve himself.

I was so tired of it. My heart, which should have been racing with fear or anger, felt numb. There was nothing left in it for him.

"It' s okay," I whispered. It wasn' t, but it was the easiest thing to say.

His face softened, relief making him look younger. "I' ll make it up to you. I promise."

And I knew he would, in his own way. He canceled all his meetings. For the next few days in the hospital, he was the model of devotion. He fed me, read to me, and held my hand, whispering promises of how things would be different. He was gentle, he was attentive, he was the man I had first fallen in love with.

It was all a lie. A beautiful, temporary performance.

On the day I was discharged, he carried me out of the hospital as if I were made of glass. He settled me into the passenger seat of his car with painstaking care.

He was quiet on the drive home, glancing at me periodically, his brow furrowed. He saw the melancholy I couldn't hide.

I thought we were going back to the mansion. Instead, he pulled up in front of a lavish nightclub he owned.

"What are we doing here?" I asked, my voice flat.

Before he could answer, a group of his friends swarmed the car, their faces bright with forced cheer.

"Surprise!" they yelled.

They told me Declan had planned a party to celebrate my recovery. They gushed about how worried he' d been, how he hadn' t slept, how he' d been a mess without me.

I felt a flicker of something, a ghost of the old warmth, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

I let him lead me inside. The place was decorated lavishly. Thousands of flowers filled the room, their scent cloying and heavy.

"They' re lilies," he said, smiling proudly, gesturing at the sea of white blossoms. "I know they' re your favorite."

The irony was a physical blow. I hated lilies. They were funeral flowers. My favorite flower was the simple, bright freesia. He had known that once. He must have forgotten. Or maybe, he never really knew at all.

This entire party, this grand gesture, was based on a lie. Just like our whole relationship.

He mistook my silence for awe. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, beaming. "See? I told you I' d make it up to you."

The party was a blur of champagne, loud music, and fake smiles. Declan stayed glued to my side, his hand possessively on my waist, playing the part of the adoring fiancé to perfection.

After an hour, I couldn't take it anymore. I excused myself to the restroom, needing a moment of quiet.

When I was walking back, I paused in the hallway outside our private room. I could hear his friends' voices through the door.

"So, Declan, what' s the deal with that therapist, Christie?" one of them asked, his voice slurred with alcohol.

I froze, pressing myself against the wall, out of sight.

"Yeah, man, we see you two together all the time. You' re not serious about her, are you?"

There was a pause, then Declan' s voice, smooth and confident. "Of course not. Emily is the one I' m going to marry. Christie... she' s just for fun. Something fresh."

The words twisted in my gut. Fresh. Was that all I was now? Stale?

"You better be careful," another friend warned. "If Emily finds out, she' ll kill you."

Declan laughed. A deep, arrogant sound. "Emily? She' d never leave me. She loves me too much."

I felt a cold, final clarity. He was right about one thing. The old Emily, the one who loved him, would never have left. But she was dead. She' d died in a car crash in another lifetime.

I pushed all emotion from my face and walked back into the room as if I hadn' t heard a thing.

I had just sat down when the door to the room burst open.

It was Christie. Her eyes, burning with a cold fire, landed directly on me.

Chapter 4

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