Grief's kiss.

What have I done?, what have I done?, what have I done?!

No, no, no!

I fled the oncology alcove and ran down the quiet hallway, not stopping until I was outside the clinic, leaning against the G-Wagon. The shame was blinding.

I had just kissed a man whose wife died an hour ago. How could I??

The chaos was overwhelming.

I couldn't stay here. I just couldn't. I had to leave right now.

I drove straight back to Charles's apartment.

I parked the G-Wagon down the street. The planned surprise—the huge blue bow—now looked insane.

My black Audi was nowhere in sight. I drove slowly past the spot where I'd left it, the police must have finally towed it away, I decided. It was certainly possible that while Charles was chasing after me last night, perhaps trying to explain away the infidelity I wasn't ready to hear, the police met with him and arranged the tow.

I approached the apartment building and unlocked the door. The place was silent, Charles’s Porsche gone.

I walked toward the kitchen table, and my steps faltered.

All my belongings from the Audi—my phone, my credit cards, the car's registration, even my small pouch of makeup—were neatly laid out on the table. Someone had gotten into the damaged car and brought my things inside.

I picked up my phone, seeing the flurry of missed calls from Charles and Jules, my best friend, he nist have called her to call me.

I ignored them, my mind latching onto a different thought. I suddenly remembered the man from the hospital. The stranger who had scared off the robbers on the highway. I felt a surge of gratitude for his intervention.

He made sure the robbers dropped our things . He made sure I was safe.

But then the memory of the hospital closet, the shared grief, and the reckless kiss flooded my senses. My gratitude evaporated, replaced by fresh shame.

I dismissed the thought of him entirely.

I quickly snatched my work laptop, two of my Saint Lauren coats, and a small box of jewelry . I walked to the counter and picked up the shared credit card. I wouldn't need to move any money, but I would need the card to pay the clinic.

I took one last look around, then turned my back on the apartment and the life I no longer had.

I returned to the clinic parking lot in my G-Wagon. I needed to pay the hospital bills before Charles realized the credit card was missing and cut it off.

But when I pulled up, the clinic entrance was swarming with reporters and news vans. Microphones and camera lenses jutted out like frantic metal insects.

My heart seized.

I quickly put on the nurse scrubs the nurse had given early this morning—which I had intended to dispose of. Now, they were a necessity. They were the only thing that might allow me to slip through the crowd.

I pulled the hood of the scrub top up and ducked my head, making my way through the press throng toward the entrance.

A female reporter, spotting the scrubs, immediately shoved a microphone in my face.

“Excuse me, Nurse! Can you confirm the status of the patient in room 312? Is it true she passed this morning?”

“I’m not a nurse,” I mumbled, trying to push past her.

The reporter followed, pressing. “Then can you clarify if it’s true that Olivia Blackwoodhas actually died? She suffered from cancer, correct?”

My head snapped up. I was stunned. Olivia Blackwoodwas a legend, a celebrated, award-winning actress I admired fiercely. She had been out of the public eye for months due to an illness, but her death?

“What do you mean?” I managed, my voice suddenly weak. “Olivia Blackwood is dead?”

A wave of devastation washed over me, eclipsing even my own miserable night. The world felt unbalanced.

Before another reporter could jump in, a large hand clamped firmly around my arm, pulling me backward with quiet force.

“You shouldn’t be talking to them,” a deep voice commanded.

I was pulled inside the clinic and shoved against a wall in a quiet, recessed corner. I looked up into the intense, weary eyes of the man I had kissed thirty minutes ago.

“What is your problem?” I hissed, utterly enraged by his intrusion and the devastating news.

Just then, one of the press photographers, jostling for a better shot near the door, yelled out:

“Mr. Blackwood! Is there a statement?”

My breath left my body and my mind went blank.

Mr. Blackwood?

I stared at the man whose wife had died an hour ago, the man I’d comforted and kissed. He was the husband of the legendary actress, and he was the man who had just saved my life on the highway.

I suddenly understood the situation, the ease with which he handled himself, and the gravity of his grief. The man who was mourning the loss of his wife was the same man I had just betrayed my own dead relationship with.