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In the hospital, Serena sat in the chair beside his bed with her arms folded, her father and mother hovering in the doorway. The expression on her face was not the one a bride wore for a fallen groom.

"Darling," her mother said, softly urgent, "he called another woman's name at the altar in front of two hundred guests. You need to handle this."

"He's just delirious with fever," Serena said. Her voice was flat.

Her father lowered his voice. "Have you registered the marriage? Is there a certificate?"

Serena's jaw moved.

"Not yet."

Silence.

Her mother inhaled. "Serena —"

"I know." She stared at the wall. "The ceremony was supposed to come first. He kept putting it off. He kept saying there was no hurry, we had time."

Her mother leaned in. "Then the moment he wakes up, you sit him down and you get that done. Everything else can wait. The ring on your finger means nothing without the paperwork."

Serena said nothing.

She stared at the man in the bed — handsome, unconscious, still technically belonging to no one.

"I've spent years making him believe I loved him," she said, very quietly, to herself. "He's this close. I can't let her shadow get in the way now."