Until My Final Memory

Natasha's Stance.

The neurologist's words were still echoing in my head when I stepped out onto Fifth Avenue, and I couldn't decide if I should scream or laugh.

I had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's, the same disease that stole my grandmother from me, piece by piece until she didn't even recognize my voice.

Dr. Harrison showed me the brain scans, pointed to the spots that glowed wrongly, and explained the timeline in that careful time they all use when they're delivering a death sentence. I had two years, maybe three, before I started forgetting, five years before I wouldn't even know my name.

But tonight was Carnegie Hall, fifteen years of clawing my way up from nothing.

I decided to tell David after the performance. He had always been there for me, helping me through every phase of my life since he found me playing piano in that hotel bar when I was nineteen and desperate.

My phone rang, and I shifted my gaze to it; it was a call from the hall.

“Ms. Volkov, I'm sorry.” The venue manager sounded genuinely distressed. “We've had a catastrophic pipe burst, and the orchestra is flooded. I'm afraid we have to cancel tonight's performance.”

“What? No, you can't just…”

“We're devastated, truly. We'll reschedule as soon as possible. Again, our sincerest apologies.” He ended the call before I could form the words.

I stood there on the sidewalk while tourists flowed around me like I'm a rock in a stream. Hard work of fifteen years was gone, just like that.

At least, I had David. He was the best gift I ever had.

I hailed a cab and gave our address. The penthouse would be empty this time of the day. David would usually be at the studio until six.

We could talk without the pressure of the performance hanging over us. Perhaps this was fate telling me to stop waiting.

Our apartment on the forty-third floor was silent; the afternoon light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making everything look soft and golden.

I set my purse down and slipped off my heels.

That was when I heard it—a sound from the bedroom.

My stomach clenched because I knew that sound; I had made that sound, but it was three in the afternoon, and David was supposed to be at the studio.

I tiptoed through the silent hallway to the bedroom. The door was cracked open maybe two inches, and I peeped.

David was on our bed, naked with his head thrown back, and Michelle was on top of him. Michelle, my personal assistant, who brought me coffee every morning and called me “Tasha” with that sweet smile.

I should have looked away, announced myself, screamed, or thrown something. Instead, I stood frozen, watching as my life detonated in slow motion.

She leaned down to kiss David's neck, moaning on his skin. “When are you finally going to leave her? I'm tired of sneaking around.”

David ran his hands up her sides. “Soon, sweetie. The show tonight is her career peak. Once the Alzheimer's diagnosis goes public and her brand value crashes, it will be just you and me. We'll transition you as the new face of Richmond Records. Everything is already in place.”

The words didn't make sense to me at first; my brain couldn't process them.

Michelle laughed; it was a sound I had heard a thousand times, always warm and friendly. Now it sounded like a ticking bomb.

“I still can't believe how easy this was. She trusted me with literally everything.” She mocked, her finger tracing lazy lines in David's chest.

“That's why I chose you.” His voice was casual, like they were discussing business. “She'd never suspect her devoted assistant. You played your role perfectly.”

Tiny tears stung my eyes, but I held it in. I needed to know everything if I was going to get back at them.

His phone rang; he reached for it on the nightstand, checked the screen, and put it on speaker.

“Mr. Richard.” It was Dr. Harrison's voice, my personal doctor. “I did what you asked. I didn't tell her about the accelerated progression in her brain scan. But I can't keep this up. If anyone finds out I'm hiding information from my patient…”

“You'll do exactly what I pay you to do.” His voice turned hard. “Natasha doesn't need to know her condition is worsening faster than normal. That means that the drugs Michelle's been giving her are working perfectly. A few more months and she'll be incompetent enough for me to take legal guardianship.”

The floor disappeared beneath my feet. How could this be the same man who had loved me all these years, who still kissed me in the same bed last night, promising me forever?

“You're drugging her?” Dr. Harrison sounded shocked. “That's criminal. I never agreed to…”

“You agreed the moment you took my money. Keep your mouth shut, or I'll destroy your career and your family. Do you understand?”

There was a long pause. Then quietly: “Yes.”

David not only knew about the disease before I did, but Michelle had also been feeding me “morning vitamins” that made my thoughts fuzzy and made me forget little things I had blamed on stress before my diagnosis.

Michelle stretched like a cat, utterly satisfied. “You're so ruthless. I love it. When can we announce my pregnancy?”

My world ended at this point.

“After the divorce,” he said. “We'll wait until she's too far gone to fight back. Then everything will be ours. The narrative will be perfect. The devoted husband finds love again after a tragic loss.” His hands flew in the air, displaying the invisible headline.

“And all her compositions will be mine.” Michelle's voice dropped with satisfaction. “God, I should thank her for being so talented. I could never write music like that.”

They both laughed.

I stepped back from the door. My hands were shaking, but I forced them still. On the hallway table sat the anniversary gift I bought this morning, before the diagnosis. It was a vintage watch engraved with our wedding date.

I picked it up, stared at it, and set it back down with perfect silence. Then I walked out of the house.

In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirrored walls. My face was paper white, my eyes looked hollow, yet there were no tears.

They think I'm weak, broken, and that I'll fade away quietly while they steal everything I built. But I've survived worse, and I'll survive this.

I'll make them pay for every single lie.

My phone buzzed with a text from Michelle: “Tasha! Where are you? We're worried. David and I were hoping to take you out for dinner to celebrate Carnegie Hall (so sorry it was cancelled!). Let's treat you; you deserve it after all your hard work.”

I scoffed at her guts.I got in my car and drove without thinking, my hands knowing the way before my brain caught up. When I parked, I was at my old teacher, Margaret's, brownstone in Brooklyn.

She opened the door, took one look at my face, and stepped aside without a word.

I sat down, and finally the dam broke. I sobbed into my hands while she held my shoulders, this tiny elderly woman who had been more family to me than anyone except my dead grandmother.

My phone buzzed with a text from the venue manager: “The show can be rescheduled for next week.”

They plan to destroy me at the concert, but that's where my plan will begin.

When I lifted my head, my tears were gone and my eyes were cold.

“I need your help, Margaret. I need to take back everything they stole from me, and I need to do it before I forget who I am.”

She nodded slowly.

My phone buzzed with another text from Michelle, dripping with a fake concern that made my lips curl with disgust.

“That's so sweet! I'll be home later; don't wait.” I typed back.

She watched me send it. “What are you going to do now?”

“I'm going to play the role of the trusting, oblivious wife. I will make them think they've won. And while they celebrate their victory, I'm going to tear apart everything they've built and stolen from me. They want to steal my music, my legacy, my life?” I smiled, but it felt like ice cracking. “Fine! But when I'm done with them, they will have nothing: not my compositions, not my money, not their reputations, not their freedom. Absolutely nothing!”