The trap is set.Police ready.Noah’s security tracking Marcus’s every move.We wait.Days stretch endlessly.I paint to cope—new pieces for the exhibit.Dark colors.Pain pouring out of me.Noah watches me work, eyes soft.“You’re incredible.”Sometimes I cry mid-brushstroke.He comes to me, arms wrapping tight.When words fail, we make love.Slow.Desperate.His hands worship my body.His mouth lingers on my breasts, sucking gently—then harder when I arch.His hand squeezes me full, thumb circling my nipple.I moan softly as I pull him inside.Deep.Slow thrusts.Eyes locked.Tears falling.We come together, clinging, whispering love.It’s the only peace we have.Grandma’s chemo hits harder this round.She’s weak.Nauseous.One night, it turns bad.A fever.Too high.She collapses in the bathroom.I find her.Panic.I call an ambulance as Noah rushes over.We ride to the hospital, her hand cold in mine.“I’m okay, baby,” she whispers.But she isn’t.Doctors say infection—low white
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