His fingers are hot on my wrist. Shaking. The IV line pulls tight and a drop of something clear hits the white sheets.
"I did it because I love you," Dorian says. His voice breaks on the last word. "Everything. All of it. Because I couldn't lose you."
I look at his hand. Then at his face. Tears on his cheeks. Eyes red. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man who's lost everything.
Good.
My gaze shifts to the bedside table. Piper's backup piece is still there. She'd been here yesterday. Interviewed him. Left the gun when the nurse called her out for an emergency page. A detail. I'd filed it away without thinking.
I reach across with my free hand. Pick up the weapon. It's heavier than I expected. Cold.
Dorian goes still. His grip on my wrist loosens but doesn't let go. His eyes are locked on the barrel.
I press the muzzle to his forehead. Right between his eyes. The metal makes a small sound against his skin.
"Touch me again," I say quietly, "and love won't save you."
I don't blink. Don't breathe hard. I just wait.
Five seconds. His hand is still on my wrist.
Ten seconds. His fingers start to open.
Fifteen. My wrist is free.
I lower the gun. Set it back on the table exactly where it was. Pick up my father's watch. Slide it onto my own wrist. The band is too big. It hangs loose. I don't care.
"Goodbye, Dorian."
I walk out. The door closes with a soft click.
In the hallway, my hands start shaking. I lean against the wall. Press my forehead to the cool paint. My chest is tight. My throat burns.
I didn't pull the trigger.
I wanted to.
Piper's waiting by the elevator. She glances at me. At the watch on my wrist. She doesn't ask how it went. She just pulls a cigarette from her jacket pocket and holds it out.
We ride down in silence. Outside, the California sun is brutal. Too bright. Too warm. I light the cigarette. Inhale. My first in five years. It tastes like ash and gasoline and freedom.
Piper leans against her car. "You get what you came for?"
I hold up my wrist. The watch catches the light. A.R. engraved on the back. Arthur Reed.
"Yeah," I say. "I did."
She nods. Doesn't push. "Where to now?"
I look at the watch. At my father's initials.
"New York," I say. "I'm going home."
---
The flowers start arriving the next morning.
Jasmine. White and heavy-scented. They fill the living room. The bedroom. The kitchen. Everywhere I turn, jasmine.
I know what he's doing. Jasmine was Claire's favorite. Not mine. Never mine.
I carry them outside in armfuls. Dump them on the driveway. Go back for more.
The boxes come next. Cashmere throws. A set of fine china. A first edition of something I've never read. A crate of Earl Grey tea. My favorite, according to five years of carefully constructed preferences.
I don't open them. I stack them by the door.
The letters are worse. Long. Handwritten. Left on the kitchen counter. The bathroom sink. My pillow. He's been in the house. He has a key. Of course he has a key.
I don't read them. I take them to the fireplace. Light a match. Watch the paper curl and blacken.
My phone buzzes. A bank alert. Ten million dollars deposited into an account under my real name. Alayna Reed.
I stare at the number. All those zeros.
Blood money.
I forward the alert to Marcus Holt. My father's attorney. The only person from my old life I've managed to contact. His reply comes fast: *I'll handle it. What do you need?*
I type: *A lawyer who specializes in identity restoration. And a forensic psychiatrist who can document what was done to me.*
His response is immediate: *Consider it done.*
I use the ten million to pay their retainers.
---
Night is the hardest.
I lie in bed. The left side. My side. And my hand reaches across the sheets before I can stop it. Searching for warmth that isn't there.
I catch myself. Pull my hand back. Curl into a ball.
In the morning, I brew two cups of coffee. Stand there staring at them. One black. One with cream and sugar. His.
I pour the second cup down the sink.
In the hallway, I hear his voice. Low. Familiar. My chest tightens. My breath catches. I spin around.
No one's there.
It's the memory. Claire's memory. Her body's memory. Five years of mornings and nights and small routines. They live in my nervous system. In my hands. In the way I move through this house.
I hate it.
I hate that my body remembers him. That some part of me—some manufactured, programmed part—still reaches for him in the dark.
This is the war no one sees. Not Piper. Not Marcus. Not even Dorian.
I'm fighting a version of myself that was built to love him. And she's still here. Still whispering. Still reaching.
I stand in the bathroom. Stare at my face in the mirror. Alayna Reed. That's who I am. That's who I've always been.
But at night, when I close my eyes, I'm still Claire Snow.
And Claire loved him.
I grip the edge of the sink. Knuckles white.
"You're not real," I whisper to my reflection. To Claire. To the ghost living in my skin.
My reflection doesn't answer.
I turn off the light. Walk back to bed. Lie on my side. The right side this time.
I don't reach across the sheets.
Progress.
