Chapter 4

I said nothing.

She set her glass down on the coffee table.

"Say you're sorry."

I lowered my head.

"I'm sorry."

"Just words." She shook her head. "That's not sincere enough. This glass is cask-strength whisky — a hundred and twenty proof. Drink it."

I looked at the glass. Then at Nicholas.

He knew my stomach. He knew every scar on it — from the years of drinking on his behalf at client dinners, from the two times I had ended up in the ICU. He knew exactly what high-proof spirits did to me. He had banned me from alcohol completely.

He blew a smoke ring.

"One drink, Peyton. Your tolerance can handle it."

The glass burned all the way down. My stomach clenched hard enough to send me stumbling.

"If her tolerance is that good," Bianca said, gesturing to the row of glasses lined up on the table, "she can handle the rest."

My face went cold.

Bianca turned to Nicholas, eyes wide. "She insulted my parents, threatened to have them hurt, and all I'm asking for is this tiny show of sincerity. Is that too much?"

"Of course not." Nicholas stubbed out his cigarette and pulled her closer. "Peyton. She's been generous. Do what she says. Make it right."

I nodded.

I pressed my hand against the burning in my stomach, picked up the bottle instead of the glass, and put it to my lips.

When it hit the floor, I couldn't hold back any longer. Blood sprayed across the carpet. I slid to my knees.

Bianca stepped back, curling her lip. "Really? One bottle and you're doing the blood-bag routine?"

Nicholas scowled, impatient. "Get up. Bianca's been more than patient — stop embarrassing yourself."

I didn't speak.

I looked up at him.

Then a woman across the room screamed.

"Blood — there's blood all down her — she's — she's losing the baby—"

I met Nicholas's eyes as every trace of color left his face.

I smiled at him — the most genuine smile I'd managed all day.

"Your child is gone too," I said. "Is that enough?"

Nicholas and I both knew the truth about what those two knife wounds had cost him.

He had driven the blade into his own stomach twice — and both times, the angle had been wrong. A doctor had told him later, gently, that the damage was significant. The probability of him ever fathering a child was very low.

When I found out I was pregnant, I cried and laughed at the same time. I thanked whatever had decided to be kind to us.

I had folded the test result into my pocket and carried it for weeks.

I was going to tell him on the wedding day. Along with the other thing I'd been waiting to tell him — the truth about who I actually was. Both pieces of news, together, on the best day of my lives.

I had imagined it hundreds of times. The look on his face. How he would react.

I had thought about us choosing a name together, one letter at a time from a dictionary. About the nursery we'd paint. About the morning a small person would come stumbling into our room and throw their arms up to be carried.

I thought of everything.

I didn't think of this.

Now the room was chaos.

Nicholas's knees gave. He stumbled and nearly fell crossing the distance to where I was on the floor, and when he reached me he sank in front of me with his hands shaking too badly to touch anything.

The blood spreading underneath me had soaked through everything.

He was trembling all over, barely making sound. "I didn't know. I didn't know, Peyton. Our child — the baby—"

"Call an ambulance." His voice broke. "Someone call—"

He was already punching in the numbers when Bianca stepped in front of him and took the phone from his hand. She switched it off cleanly.

Nicholas looked up at her, eyes wild.

"I studied nursing," she said, already kneeling beside me. "Let me."

He hesitated for only a moment. Then he shifted back to give her room.

Her eyes moved over me with the calm efficiency of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Then she leaned in, and her hands — nails filed to points — pressed into my stomach. Systematically. Rhythmically. With force.

The pain took my vision. I couldn't make a sound.

The bleeding accelerated.

Her voice reached me through the roaring in my ears, barely above a breath. "One dead isn't enough. I'd prefer two."

Then she pulled back, stood up, and shook her head at Nicholas with an expression of baffled disappointment.

"She's not losing the baby. There was no baby." Her voice was reasonable, tired. "I know how to read a pulse. She's completely fine. The blood — it's a prop. She must have been carrying supplies on her. This is staged."

Nicholas looked between us. His face was still white. But doubt had moved in behind his eyes.

"Is it—"

"You've been manipulated." Bianca took his arm, steady and matter-of-fact. "I know this is hard to hear. But look at her. She'd rather do this than simply apologize to me. I'm not going to press charges — let's just go. When we leave, the show ends. She'll be fine."

I reached for his leg with everything I had left.

Nicholas crouched down.

He took my hand.

Then, one finger at a time, he removed it from his trousers.

"You've disappointed me, Peyton."

"If you enjoy performing so much, you can do it alone."

He stood. He put his arm around Bianca's shoulders. He walked to the door and opened it.

In the last moment before the light from the corridor was cut off, I was still reaching.

The door clicked shut.

The last ten years passed in front of me like frames on a reel.

Every one of them dissolved.

Tears rolled into my hair as I lay on the floor. I felt the edges of consciousness pulling away.

Then the door opened.

People rushed in.

A voice, urgent: "Help her — someone help her—"