Chapter 3

Elodie POV:

I woke to the rhythmic beeping of a machine and the soft, hushed sounds of a hospital. A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. For a moment, I was disoriented, the sterile white ceiling above me a blank canvas. Then the memories of the night before came rushing back, a tidal wave of pain and fury.

"Elodie? You're awake."

I turned my head. Barrett was sitting in the chair beside my bed, his face a mask of weary concern. He looked like he hadn't slept. His expensive suit was rumpled, his hair slightly disheveled. The perfect picture of a worried lover. The performance was flawless.

"Thank God," he breathed, reaching for my hand. "When they called me... when they said they found you collapsed on the street... I thought..." He let the sentence hang, his voice thick with feigned emotion.

I stared at his hand covering mine. The same hand that had held me last night. The same hand that would have signed the papers to carve me up for spare parts. I felt nothing but a cold, heavy disgust.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"You have a fever. Exhaustion, dehydration... the doctor said you've been running yourself into the ground," he said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. The gesture, once a comfort, now felt like a violation. "It's my fault. I should have made you rest."

I looked at him, really looked at him. At the carefully constructed worry in his brow, the practiced grief in his eyes. How had I never seen the actor underneath?

"I need some water," I said, my voice flat. It was the first thing I could think of to make him let go of me.

"Of course," he said, jumping to his feet, eager to play the caregiver. "I'll go get you some. Don't move."

He hurried out of the room. As he did, his phone, which had been resting on his lap, slipped and fell onto the seat of the chair. He didn't notice.

A beat of silence. Then another. He was gone.

My heart hammered in my chest. I remembered a time when I would have called him back, worried he' d forgotten his lifeline to the world. Now, it was an opportunity.

With a surge of adrenaline, I sat up, ignoring the dizziness, and snatched the phone. My hands were shaking, but my mind was clear. His passcode. Every year, on my birthday, he changed it to the new date. A little tribute to my favorite genius, he used to say. My world revolves around you.

I typed in the four digits: 0-8-1-4. August 14th. My birthday.

The phone unlocked.

The screen lit up, and the first thing I saw was his contact list. Pinned to the very top, marked with a heart emoji, was a name. Dallas. Not "Dallas Fernandez." Just... Dallas. Simple. Intimate. Permanent.

My own name was nowhere in the top contacts. I scrolled down, past business associates and family members. There I was, filed under 'E'. Just "Elodie Pierce." No emoji. No pet name. Clinical. Just like my research project.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I swiped over to his social media. His public profile was a carefully curated shrine to his relationship with Dallas. Pictures of them at charity balls, on yachts, at family dinners. A life I was never a part of. A life I was actively funding with my work, and apparently, my own body.

In every photo, he was the devoted fiancé, the powerful man besotted with his beautiful, fragile partner. There was no trace of me. It was as if the last seven years of my life, our life, had been meticulously erased from his public record. I was a ghost.

The door creaked open.

My blood turned to ice. Barrett was back.

I fumbled with the phone, shoving it under my pillow just as he stepped fully into the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breathing shallow, feigning sleep.

"Elodie?" he whispered, his voice close. I could smell his expensive cologne. "I brought you some water."

I didn't move. I focused on keeping my breathing even, slow. A skill I' d perfected during long nights waiting for experiments to run.

I heard him place the cup on the bedside table. A heavy sigh. "You really scared me, you know."

A moment of silence. Then, the soft rustle of him picking something up from the chair. His phone. My heart was a frantic bird beating against my ribs. Did I leave it unlocked? Did he see?

He let out another, softer sigh, one of relief. He thought I was still asleep. Then, the soft click-click-click of him typing.

A message notification pinged softly. Even with my eyes closed, I could picture the screen. A message from Dallas.

I heard him tap out a quick reply. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead. "Sleep well, my love," he whispered.

The words, once the sweetest sound in the world, were now a venomous lie. I felt a wave of nausea.

He stood there for another moment, then I heard his footsteps recede. The door clicked shut.

He was gone. Again.

I waited, counting the seconds, until I was sure. Then I opened my eyes. The room was empty. The glass of water sat on the nightstand, untouched.

Where had he gone in such a hurry? To answer her message? To rush to her side?

A bitter smile twisted my lips. Last night he was preparing to serve me his fiancée's favorite dessert. Tonight, he left his sick girlfriend in the hospital to go cater to his fiancée's every whim.

I wasn't going to drink his water. I wasn't going to wait for him to come back.

I pressed the call button for the nurse. I told her I was feeling better, that I wanted to get my final checks done and be discharged. I was a model patient, calm and cooperative.

An hour later, I was dressed and signing the discharge papers. Barrett's name was listed as my emergency contact. I stared at it, then deliberately crossed it out and wrote in my brother's name: Finnegan Pierce.

Just as I was about to leave, Barrett rushed back in, breathless, holding a small, elegant box from a famous bakery. "Elodie! You're up! I... I got you that cheesecake you love. The line was insane."

He'd been gone for over an hour.

"I'm already discharged," I said, my voice empty of emotion. "You're too late."

He looked from the cheesecake box to my face, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "But... I promised you..."

I walked past him without another word.

The apartment felt different when I returned. It was our apartment, a place we' d secretly shared for three years. He paid the rent, I decorated. Every piece of furniture, every book on the shelf, was a memory. The plush sofa where we' d spent countless nights watching old movies. The worn armchair where he' d sit and watch me work on my equations, a look of what I thought was admiration on his face.

Now, the whole place felt contaminated. I looked at the life we had built, and all I saw was a stage, a prop in his grand deception.

I had to erase it. All of it.

I started to pull books from the shelves, ready to box them up, but a wave of dizziness and sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion washed over me. My body was still weak from the fever, from the emotional shock.

Not yet. I couldn't do it yet.

I retreated to my bedroom, the only room that was truly mine, and locked the door.

I heard Barrett come in a little while later. He knocked softly on my door. "Elodie? Are you still angry? I'm sorry about the cheesecake."

I didn't answer.

I heard him sigh on the other side of the door. "Okay. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

He still thought this was about a missed dessert. He had no idea he was a dead man walking. He had no idea that I was already packing my bags for a new life, a new country, a new identity. And he would never see me again.

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