Chapter 3

The studio smelled faintly of dust and old chemicals. I sat quietly beneath the lens, still and pale—the same calm I’d felt last night when I booked the appointment. This was the portrait I’d chosen to leave behind. Twenty days left. Maybe fewer. I wanted at least one picture that was mine.

The photographer smiled awkwardly. “Passport photo? ID?”

“Final portrait,” I said evenly.

His hand shook. The camera almost slipped.

While I waited for the prints, laughter drifted in from the doorway. My stomach clenched.

Susan, hand hooked possessively through Henry Colombo’s arm, stepped inside. She froze when she saw me.

“What photo are you taking, Olivia?” Her voice was sugar with an edge.

“ID,” I said, slipping the photo envelope into my bag. “What about you?”

Susan leaned into his shoulder. “Couple portraits, of course. We already did a session, just came to pick them up.”

“Just humoring her,” Henry explained, glancing at me. His voice softened. “When you’re better, I’ll take you anywhere you want to shoot.”

His tone was gentle but hollow, like a man reading from a script. For a heartbeat I almost believed it. Then I remembered: nineteen days.

Staff ushered them to the back. I was about to leave when Susan tugged my arm. “Come help us choose!”

Before I could refuse, she pulled me to the monitor.

The screen filled with image after image:

Henry holding her hand, eyes filled with tenderness.

Kissing at sunset, her skirt flying.

Wearing matching shirts, his arms locked around her waist.

Each frame was another knife in my chest.

“Pick your favorite, Olivia,” Susan urged, smiling like she already knew I was breaking.

Before I could speak, a thunderous crack split the air—

One of the heavy backdrop poles had been left unsecured. It toppled with a shriek of metal.

In the split second of impact, Henry lunged—not toward me, but to shield Susan, his body caging hers.

The pole slammed into my shoulder. A scream tore from my throat as metal sliced through fabric, hot blood soaking crimson into my clothes.

“Henry! It hurts!” Susan whimpered, pointing at a faint scratch on her arm.

Henry’s eyes narrowed, face taut with panic. “We’re going to the hospital.”

He swept her into his arms. At the doorway, he hesitated—only a moment. His gaze flicked back.

I was on my knees, dragging myself free, blood dripping steadily onto the floor.

One second. Two.

And then he turned away, carrying her out without another word.

I stitched myself back together alone.

The doctor scowled as he worked. “So badly injured, and no one brought you? Just before you, a girl came in with barely a scratch. Her boyfriend demanded a panel of specialists.”

The needle pierced my flesh, hot and cold all at once. I laughed bitterly. “That girl’s boyfriend… is mine.”

The doctor’s hands faltered, eyes widening. He said nothing, only sewed faster, more grimly.

By the time Henry returned, night had fallen.

He opened the door to find me awkwardly changing my own bandages. His pupils shrank at the sight of the raw wound.

“How did this happen?” His voice cracked.

“The pole fell,” I said flatly.

His hand trembled as it hovered near me. “Olivia, it was chaos. She was crying, I panicked—”

“You did the right thing,” I cut him off. My voice was quiet, even. “She’s your girlfriend now. Of course you should protect her.”

He flinched. “No. I’ve told you—treating her well is just to secure the donation. The only one I love is you.”

I lowered my eyes, hiding the storm in them. “I know.”

Relief softened his face. He helped me bandage my wound, careful, gentle, almost like before. “Rest. I’ll stay.”

For a moment, it almost felt like the past. Until her call came.

“Henry…” Susan’s cry spilled through the phone, trembling and needy. “I’m at the clinic. The press is outside. They’re threatening me. I need you.”

His expression darkened. “I’ll come.”

Guilt flickered across his face as he set down the phone. “She’s alone in the hospital. I can’t leave her.”

And then he did. Taking the last shred of warmth with him.

Two days passed. He never came back.

I took my medicine. Changed my dressings. Sat by the window as if waiting for nothing.

My phone rang. Susan’s voice, sweet and taunting, spilled through the speaker.

“Olivia, did you know? Henry risked his life for me. He entered that underground boxing match, took every blow to win me a rare necklace. They rushed him into surgery. And even then, he kept calling my name.”

I shut my book gently, sunlight burning my eyes.

“He needs someone to care for him. Want to visit?” Her sing-song lilt dared me to break.

“He was hurt for you,” I said quietly. “You’re his girlfriend. You take care of him.”

I ended the call.

Outside, the wind rattled through the plane trees. I picked up the phone again, dialing calmly.

“Hello, this is Olivia Smith. I need to speak with my lawyer about updating my will. And… I’d like to reserve a plot in Section B, number twelve. My parents are there. When the time comes, I want to be with them.”

The words had barely left my lips when the door slammed open.

Henry Colombo staggered inside, still in a striped hospital gown, chest swathed in bandages seeping red. His lips were bloodless, but his eyes burned dark as hellfire.

“Olivia,” his voice was hoarse, deadly, “why are you talking about a grave?”