The Lie He Cannot Break

"Who?" I whispered into the phone.

It came out thin and frightened. Adrian's hand tightened on my arm, a silent good.

"You know who," Julian said.

"I don't know anyone, Julian. You told me that. Remember?" I let my breath hitch. "A man helped me out of the hospital. He said it wasn't safe there. I was scared, so I went with him."

"Scared of what?"

"Of waking up with nothing."

Silence. I could almost hear him thinking.

"That man is not your friend," he said at last. "Adrian Cole is my business rival. He'd do anything to hurt me. Tell me where you are."

"Why would a rival hurt me?"

A beat. "Because you live in my house."

There it was.

"I live with you?"

"With Sasha and me. Since the accident, yes."

He had to say it that way. He could not say wife. He could not say mine. The lie he had built would not let him.

"Then why am I scared in your house?" I asked softly. "Why does it feel like I don't belong there?"

He did not answer.

I ended the call before he could.

Adrian looked at me for a long moment. "You're good at this."

"I learned from the best."

He came in forty minutes.

I heard the front door open downstairs and heavy steps in the hall. I stood behind the bedroom door in one of Adrian's white shirts, my hair loose, my heart pounding.

Adrian opened the apartment door himself. He was calm. His sleeves were rolled and his collar was open.

"Julian. It's late."

"Where is she?"

"Resting. She was exhausted."

"You kidnapped a patient."

"She signed herself out. The papers are in the hospital file." Adrian's voice never rose. "She's an adult, Julian. Ask her yourself."

Julian pushed past him.

I stepped into the hall at that moment, barefoot, with my hand on my temple and a deliberately confused look on my face.

"Julian?" I said. "Why are you shouting?"

He stopped.

His eyes traveled from my face to the shirt, white and far too big for me. To my bare legs. To the faint red mark on my collarbone that I had forgotten to hide.

I watched the color drain from his face.

Then something else came into it. Something hot and ugly. I had seen that look once before, when a stranger flirted with me at a company party. Julian had gripped my wrist in the car all the way home.

It was jealousy. And it was beautiful.

"Lena," he said, very carefully. "Get your things. You're coming home."

"Home?" I tilted my head. "Julian, you told me I'm just your friend. That I'm staying in your guest room while I heal."

"Yes, but..."

"So I'm free to go where I like." I let my voice shake with innocence. "I wasn't sleeping at your place, Julian. I was lying awake and listening to everyone whisper. This man is the first person who didn't whisper."

"He's using you."

"For what? I don't have anything."

His mouth opened. Closed.

He could not say it. He could not say, Because you're my wife, and you own fifteen percent of my company. If he did, he would have to explain why he had told me otherwise.

He was caught in the net he had woven himself.

"I'd like to stay," I said. "Just until my head clears. Is that all right?"

"It's perfectly all right," Adrian said behind me, and I felt Julian's glare burn into him.

"This isn't over," Julian said in a low voice. "Cole, if one hair on her head..."

"I've had enough of your threats," Adrian said mildly. "Do you want tea?"

I almost laughed.

Julian turned and stormed out. A minute later, his driver arrived with a small suitcase.

"Mrs.... Miss Hart," the driver mumbled. "Mrs. Sasha packed this."

I thanked him politely and closed the door.

Then I went to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and my knees began to shake.

"You were brilliant," Adrian said from the doorway.

"I felt sick the whole time."

"That's what makes it work."

I opened the suitcase. Sasha had packed neatly. Underwear. Sweaters. A sleeveless dress I had never worn.

Then I saw something small folded between two sweaters.

A piece of paper. Soft from being folded many times.

I opened it.

It was a crayon drawing. Four figures held hands under a yellow sun. A tall man. A small boy. A woman with long brown hair and a big smile.

And a fourth figure, scribbled out so hard the paper had torn.

Under the woman, in uneven letters, were three words: MAMA DON'T FORGET.

My breath left me.

Milo had hidden it. He had slipped it into my suitcase while no one watched. A six-year-old boy, risking everything, to tell his mother she was not alone.

"Lena?" Adrian's voice was gentle.

I held the drawing against my chest and could not speak.

And then my phone vibrated on the bed.

An unknown number.

I opened the message with my thumb, still shaking.

Stop pretending, Lena. I know you remember.