I kept it at our bedside like something holier than my own pulse—handled it with bare fingertips, never let it touch anything rough.
Joan clapped a hand over her mouth, feigning wide-eyed innocence.
"Oh no, Greg, I'm so sorry… I didn't see that ratty little pouch there. I think I might've gotten it dirty."
Gregory didn't even glance at the blessed protection charm on the floor.
His eyes were entirely occupied checking Joan for glass cuts.
"It's nothing—just some junk Joanna waves around for sympathy. It's broken, so what. You okay? Did you cut your feet?"
Once he'd confirmed Joan was unhurt, he called for the attendant.
"Sweep this garbage up and throw it overboard. Get rid of all these roses too. I don't want to look at them."
I sank to the floor, watching the broom drag away the last thing my mother ever left me—merciless, like it was nothing.
Tears hit the ground without a sound.
Mom, I'm sorry. I couldn't protect what you gave me.
I'll be with you soon.
A piercing electronic alarm ripped through the cabin.
*Beep!*
The sound was coming from Gregory's phone, tossed carelessly on the sofa. The screen pulsed a harsh, strobing red.
**[WARNING: Priority contact "Joanna" — heart rate has dropped to 0. All vital signs absent. Initiate emergency response immediately!]**
Gregory went rigid, his gaze locked on the red light flooding the screen.
The medical smartwatch—he'd forced me to wear it two years ago. His company had barely gotten off the ground back then, and he'd worried my condition might flare up at home with nobody there. He'd spent a fortune having it custom-made. The instant my heart stopped or the watch left my wrist, his phone would scream.
Joan had obviously seen the words on the screen too.
Her expression flickered, and in one smooth motion she pressed herself against him, hooking both hands around his arm.
Her lower lip pushed out in a wounded pout, eyes reddening on cue.
"Greg… she's doing it again, isn't she? Trying to make you run back?"
She swayed against his arm, her voice carrying just the right tremor of hurt.
"She took it off, Greg. She threw it in the ocean to ruin my birthday."
"She *knows* what today means to me—and she'd still rather fake her own death than let you be here with me."
The flicker of alarm and doubt that had surfaced in Gregory's eyes—
the instant Joan's words landed, it curdled into irritation and disgust.
He scoffed, grabbed the phone, and held down the power button until the screen went black.
The shrieking alarm cut to silence.
"Cry wolf enough times—does she actually think I'll keep falling for it?"
Gregory tossed the dead phone aside, face hard.
"Ignore her. She wants to soak in the ocean and play the tragic heroine? Let her soak."
I hovered in midair and let out a broken, bitter laugh.
So my real, dying plea for help had only ever been, in his eyes, a petty jealous trick.
Last month I'd collapsed with an acute gastric perforation, writhing on the floor, cold sweat soaking through my clothes.
I used every ounce of strength I had to dial his number, begging him to come home and take me to the hospital.
His voice on the other end was flat:
"Joan cut her hand slicing fruit in the kitchen today. She's alone in a strange city and she's scared. I can't leave."
"Call yourself a car to the hospital, Joanna. Can you stop clinging to me like a helpless child for once?"
I passed out on the cold floor. I nearly died in that apartment.
