Chapter 2

Jamie POV:

I left the precinct in a daze, the cacophony of the reporters fading into a dull roar in my ears. The world felt distant, separated from me by a thick pane of glass.

A sleek, black Maybach, Elijah's favorite, pulled up silently beside me. The window rolled down, revealing Kiley's bright, triumphant face.

"Get in, Jamie," she chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Elijah said we should give you a ride. It's the least we can do."

I shook my head, turning to walk away. "I'll take a cab."

"Get in the car."

The voice came from the driver's seat. It was Elijah. The words were flat, cold, and laced with an authority that allowed no argument. It was an order, not an invitation.

Defeated, I pulled open the back door and slid onto the plush leather seat. The car smelled of Kiley's expensive perfume and Elijah's familiar, masculine scent-a combination that made my stomach churn.

"I'll drive!" Kiley announced brightly, unclipping her seatbelt.

Elijah didn't object. "Alright," he said, his voice softening into that indulgent tone he now reserved only for her. He got out and walked around the car, opening the driver's side door for her. He even leaned in to buckle her seatbelt, his movements patient and intimate.

The car lurched forward. Kiley was clearly not used to a vehicle of this size and power.

"Easy on the gas," Elijah said, his voice calm and gentle, not a hint of impatience in it. His hand rested on the back of her seat, his eyes watching her with a focused tenderness that made my own heart ache with a phantom pain.

"This car is so big," Kiley complained, her voice a childish whine. "And I think the seat is too far back."

"Here, let me see." He leaned over, his body pressing close to hers, his arm brushing her chest as he reached for the adjustment lever. The gesture was so casual, so proprietary.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my face against the cool glass of the window. In the reflection, I saw them-the handsome billionaire and his beautiful young lover, framed together in a perfect picture of domestic bliss. And I was the unwanted spectator, trapped in the back seat of my own life.

I remembered when he taught me to drive this very car. His patience, his low laughter when I stalled it, the way his hand would cover mine on the gearshift, sending sparks up my arm. That tenderness, once exclusively mine, was now a spectacle for my torment.

Suddenly, a flash of brown fur shot across the road. A deer.

Kiley screamed, her hands flying off the wheel. In her panic, her foot slammed down not on the brake, but on the accelerator.

The powerful engine roared. The world outside became a sickening green and brown blur as the car veered sharply, smashing through the guardrail. For a split second, we were airborne, suspended over the dark, churning water of the river below.

In that last, terrifying moment, I saw Elijah move. He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back. With a speed that defied thought, he lunged across the console, twisting his body to shield Kiley, wrapping her in his arms as the car plunged into the abyss.

He didn't even glance at me.

Not once.

The impact was a jarring shock of violence and cold. Icy water rushed into the car, a crushing weight that stole my breath. Panic seized me, raw and primal.

But beneath the panic, a deeper, colder feeling spread through my chest, more chilling than the river water. It was the absolute certainty of being abandoned. Utterly and completely.

When we were first married, we' d been caught in a small earthquake in California. A heavy bookshelf had started to topple, and without a thought, Elijah had thrown himself over me, taking the full impact on his back. He' d held me, whispering, "I've got you, Jamie. I'll always have you," until the shaking stopped.

Now, as the water filled my lungs and my vision began to fade to black, the last thing I saw was Elijah, a powerful silhouette against the murky light filtering from above, kicking his way to the surface.

He was holding Kiley in his arms.

I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a machine. My throat was raw, my body ached with a profound, bone-deep weariness.

I was in a hospital. Again.

Faintly, I could hear Elijah's voice from the hallway, tight with anger and fear. "What do you mean you don't know why she's not waking up? You're doctors! Do your damn job!"

A small, treacherous flicker of hope ignited in my chest. Was he worried? About me?

"Mr. Peters, please," a nurse's voice pleaded. "Her condition is... complicated. We found some old records. From five years ago. We need to talk to you about her heart-"

"Elijah?" A weak, tearful voice interrupted them. "Elijah, where are you?"

It was Kiley.

I watched through the slit of my barely open eyelids as Elijah's entire posture changed. The anger and tension drained out of him, replaced by that familiar, soul-crushing tenderness.

He didn't even glance into my room. He just turned and walked toward the sound of her voice.

I lay on the starched white sheets, staring at the ceiling, and watched the flicker of hope die.

He never wanted to know the truth. Not about that night five years ago, and not now. It was easier to hate me.

And maybe... maybe it was better this way. If he knew I was dying, what would he do? Pity me? That would be a fate worse than his hatred. Or worse, would he mock me? Tell me it was karma, a fitting end for the coward who let his sister die?

The thought was a shard of glass in my gut. Yes. It was better that he never knew.

I was discharged two days later. Elijah never came. He was, I learned from a gossip magazine left in the waiting room, accompanying a "recovering and traumatized" Kiley on a private wellness retreat in the Caribbean.

The mansion was colder and emptier than ever. It wasn't a home; it was a mausoleum for a dead marriage.

I didn't waste any time. My own death was no longer an abstract concept, but an imminent reality. There were things to be done.

My first stop was a small, quiet photo studio in an old part of town. The photographer, a kind-eyed man in his sixties, looked at me with confusion when I told him what I wanted.

"A... a portrait?" he asked, adjusting his glasses. "For what occasion, miss?"

"A memorial," I said, my voice steady.

He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. "But... you're so young."

"Please," I said, my voice not wavering. "Just make me look peaceful."

The final photograph was haunting. It captured the delicate structure of my face, the pallor of my skin, but my eyes... my eyes were empty. All the love, the pain, the hope, and the despair had been burned away, leaving behind only a still, quiet nothingness. It was perfect.

Next, I went to a funeral home. I chose the simplest urn, a plain white porcelain jar. It was smooth and cold to the touch, much like my heart had become.

My last stop was the cemetery. I wanted to be buried next to Corine. It was the only place I felt I belonged.

We had made a silly pact once, on a summer afternoon, lying on the grass and staring at the clouds. "If I die first," Corine had said dramatically, "you have to promise to visit me every week and tell me all the gossip."

"And you have to save me a spot," I'd laughed. "Best friends forever, even in the afterlife."

"Deal," she'd said, linking her pinky with mine.

I found her grave, the polished marble gleaming in the weak afternoon sun. I knelt and traced the letters of her name, my fingers lingering on her smiling face etched into the stone. I wiped away a bit of dust from her picture.

"Hi, Corine," I whispered, my throat tight. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come see you. I'm coming to stay soon. For good this time."

Tears I didn't know I had left began to fall, silent and hot, splashing onto the cold stone.

"He hates me so much," I confessed to her, the words tearing from my soul. "He thinks I left you. But I didn't, Corine, I swear I didn't. My heart... it just gave out. And it's giving out again. For good this time."

A single, fat tear rolled down my cheek and landed right on her stone-carved smile.

"But it's okay," I whispered. "I'm coming now. We can be together again."

A twig snapped behind me.

The sound was soft, but it echoed in the silence of the cemetery like a gunshot.

My body went rigid. Slowly, painfully, I turned my head.

Standing not twenty feet away, silhouetted against the setting sun, was Elijah. He was holding a bouquet of Corine's favorite white lilies.

And clinging to his arm, looking bored and impatient, was Kiley.