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CHAPTER ELEVEN

#Dorothy’s POV#“Where the hell are you?”Joel’s clipped voice slams through the phone. I blink at the screen. His number. No text. No warning. No human decency.“Excuse me?”“I said… where the fuck are you, Dorothy?” he snaps again. “You’re not in your room. Come downstairs. And get dressed.”My chest tightens. “Get dressed for what?”He doesn’t answer. Just hangs up.I stare at the screen like it might explain itself. Then I glance at Rico who's still beside me on the floor. He's quiet. He doesn’t ask. I don’t tell. I just push up from the carpet, wipe my palms on my sweater, and mutter, “I’ll be back.”I don’t explain anything.I don’t have the words even if I wanted to.The rain sounds louder downstairs. I didn’t even know he was back. Didn’t hear the car. Didn’t smell his cologne. But now, I see him leaning against the banister with that stone face of his like he’s been home all day.He eyes me up and down.“This is you dressed?”I fold my arms. “You didn’t say where we were goin

CHAPTER TWELVE

#Rico’s POV#I should’ve broken his fucking jaw.Right there. Right in front of that restaurant. In front of Hillary, the press, the waiters. All of them. Should’ve just wound back and cracked it clean. Watched him bleed for once instead of everyone else bleeding around him.But I didn’t. I picked her up. I walked out.Because someone had to.And now here we are.The villa’s quiet. Storm’s still going, but the thunder’s died down. Rain’s just tapping now, softly, like it knows not to be loud after what just happened.She hasn’t said a word since we got in.I help her to the guest room—hers, not mine—and ease her down onto the edge of the bed. Her fingers are shaking. Her scarf’s wet. The band from the hospital’s still on her wrist.I crouch in front of her. “I’ll run you a bath.”She doesn’t nod or speak. Just blinks at me like she’s in someone else’s body.I go to the bathroom. Turn the water on. Adjust the temperature until it’s just warm enough. Find the soak the housekeepers keep

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

#Paulina’s POV#He really thinks he can ignore me.After everything.After all the times I defended him, paid his damn rent, posted him like he was a walking trophy and not a man who barely picked up after himself. After I stood in front of my parents and lied—bold-faced lied—about his background. About how he wasn’t some washed-up mechanic from a bad zip code with a God complex.He thinks he can ghost me?He thinks because he moved to Jersey and started playing nurse to some random sick bitch, I’d just… forget?Nah.He must’ve forgotten who my family is.#•#I look good. Even for a red-eye flight.Black cropped jacket, sharp jeans that hug my hips right, and a pair of brown boots that stomp when I walk. Not squeak. Stomp. Like power.My hair’s in its signature blowout—jet black, layered, and cut to slice—and my makeup is minimal, except the lashes. I don’t do Jersey dust-face. I do Paulina.When I walk through arrivals, I know people are watching me. I smell expensive and I walk like

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

#Dorothy’s POV#Joel didn’t come home last night.No surprise there.I didn’t even wait up. There was no point. He’s not the type you wait for. Not when you know where he is. Not when you know who he’s with. Probably Hillary. Or someone else who doesn’t wear hospital bands and silk scarves to hide the bruising under her jaw.I rub my temples and lean into the kitchen counter. My head feels full. My body’s sore in that weird, invisible way where you’re not even sure if it’s tiredness or grief or chemo or the fallout of someone else’s cruelty. I stir the tea. I don’t drink it.I glance at the back door.Still locked.So he’s back. His car was in the driveway when I opened the blinds.He just didn’t bother coming to me.Not that I expected him to.I’m not a wife anymore. Not even a roommate. I’m an obligation with ovaries. I’m the project he couldn’t fix so now he’s outsourcing it to his cousin.I exhale. Shake my head.What a fucking joke.I grab bread from the pantry and shove it into

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#Joel’s POV#I light my second cigarette of the morning even though the first one already made my throat sting. The ashtray on the garden table is overflowing. There’s a light drizzle over the glass railings, soft pattering, and the smell of wet leaves mixing with burnt tobacco.The storm passed, but the air still tastes like old static.She hasn’t come downstairs. Not even once.I know she knows I’m here. She heard my phone ringing from the driveway. She probably looked. Saw the car. Heard the door slam.And still… nothing.Not even a fucking “hey.”I draw another pull, too hard. My chest burns. I’m wearing the same black shirt from last night, still unbuttoned halfway down. Hillary’s lipstick stained the collar when she tried to kiss me in the parking lot. I didn’t kiss her back.I couldn’t.Because all I kept thinking about was Dorothy’s face when she almost collapsed at the restaurant. Her skin had gone so pale. Like paper. She didn’t say a word about her health; well, except the

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

#Dorothy’s POV#I don't even bother leaving a note.Joel’s car isn't in the driveway again, and that alone gives me enough peace of mind to take my keys, wrap my scarf, and go. He’s probably gone back to Hillary’s to soak in whatever attention she still gives him between her desperate thirst traps and crocodile tears. Whatever. Let him rot there.The villa's getting too loud in its silence anyway. I need to breathe something that isn't quartz-polished and soaked in leftover tension. I need to walk. Feel noise. See people who aren't paid to clean around me or lie to my face.I don't even know when I decided it, but on the drive there, I catch myself staring at my own thighs under the fabric of my skirt and thinking… Yeah. I should probably wax. And maybe trim my nails, paint them—hell, I don't even remember the last time I saw my feet in anything but fuzzy house socks and desperation.So I turn the car toward the plaza and enter the only nail spa that doesn't smell like someone’s dying

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

#Dorothy’s POV#I don’t move.Not even when I hear Joel’s footsteps vanish up the stairwell and the door to our—no, his—room slam shut.I just sit there, my hand still near the edge of the ribbon-tied box like it might bite me. My eyes are locked on the ribbon, but my thoughts are still stuck on his voice. That dry, prideful tone he always uses when he’s hiding something behind his back, like a guilty boy too proud to admit he stole the last cookie.Joel didn’t even ask if I’d eaten.Not a word about where I was. If I needed anything. How I was feeling. How the treatment was affecting me. How the last 24 hours nearly broke my spine.But I don’t know why I expected anything different.“Sit,” Rico says beside me, nudging my arm like a tired big brother—but softer. “I’ll make you some tea. You look like you’re still shaking.”I don’t argue. I sit.I nod slowly and watch him disappear into the kitchen, hearing drawers open and the clink of mugs. I glance at the box again. Anonymous gift?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

#Rico’s POV#I don’t trust it.That damn box from last night won’t leave my head, even though it’s already in a trash bag at the bottom of the kitchen bin, underneath yesterday’s leftovers and some of Joel’s half-eaten steak. Dorothy told me to let it go, but something about the clean handwriting and the sharp way that -P curved at the end… it itches something deep in my skull.It couldn’t be Paulina.Could it?I glance sideways at Dorothy as she sits quietly in the parlor, hoodie loose over her head and her feet curled under her on the couch. Her arm is outstretched, sleeve rolled up. One of the at-home nurses Malik sent over yesterday is prepping the second injection. It’s just hormones—routine, they said—but I’ve never seen her flinch like that before.And she hasn’t said a word all morning.I’m just standing there, leaning on the doorway with my arms folded. Watching. Listening. Feeling like I’m intruding on something sacred. But also like I should be here. Like I have to be.Beca

CHAPTER NINETEEN

#Rico’s POV#“What the fuck did you just say?”Joel doesn’t even flinch.His dead-eyed stare just drags up from the floor like I’m the one out of line. Then he exhales, rolls his jaw a little and gives me this look. That dry, smug, older-brother-who-thinks-he-knows-better look. That one that always makes me wanna swing. Always has.“You’re overreacting.”I step closer. My voice drops.“You know, every time I try to believe you’re still human somewhere in there, you say something to remind me that maybe you're not.”“Rico—”“No. Shut up and listen. You think showing up late, acting like you care, and wearing that thousand-dollar fucking face means something? You want a trophy for coming to the hospital after your wife nearly dies? You want points?”He laughs. It’s not loud. It’s not soft. Just… empty.I keep going. My hands are clenched so tight my knuckles crack. “You’re the reason she’s like this. You don’t show up, you don’t check in, you don’t even fucking care. You can’t even ask

CHAPTER TWENTY

#Joel's POV#They came in holding each other like they’ve been doing it for months. Like they own the fucking world now. Rico’s arm was tucked right around her waist, guiding her like some knight in damn shining armor, and she… she didn’t even flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t act like it was weird.I’m still in my car.I’ve been in the fucking garage this whole time. Thirty minutes. An hour. Maybe two. I don’t even know anymore. I’ve smoked half a pack, finished the whiskey from my flask, and still I haven’t moved. Not one inch. Just here. Staring at the steering wheel like it’s supposed to explain what the hell’s happening to me.I’m angry. But why?Why the fuck am I angry?I mean, seriously, Joel—what’s the problem here? Isn’t this why you dragged that asshole cousin of yours all the way from his dusty mechanic shed in Atlanta? Isn’t this the whole plan? Let him seduce her. Knock her up. Leave. Boom. Inheritance unlocked. The world continues.So why are my hands shaking?Why does my

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