Chapter 3

The villa was on the North Shore of Long Island, tucked near the bay. The drive took forty minutes, which should’ve been enough time to figure out what I wanted to ask.

But I figured out nothing.

At exactly three o’clock, I pulled up in front of the villa and rang the doorbell. No answer. I rang it again. Still nothing.

It wasn’t until the third time that the door finally opened.

Scarlett stood there in a beige lounge set, her hair loosely pinned up, her complexion looking far better than I had expected.

She smiled. “Elena, you’re here. Come in. The code is my birthday. Next time, just let yourself in. No need to ring.”

She stepped aside to let me pass. I walked into the foyer.

The air smelled like seared steak. Vincent’s voice drifted in from the kitchen.

“Scarlett, grab me a Coke.”

Scarlett answered and jogged over to the fridge. She moved fast. Light on her feet.

I stared at her back. Her knees bent easily. Her breathing was steady.

She looked nothing like the woman in the hospital-bed photo from yesterday, with the IV in the back of her hand. And definitely nothing like someone dying of late-stage cancer.

“You were discharged already?” I asked.

Scarlett turned and smiled. “The doctor said resting at home is just as good. I wanted to spend more time with Nico and Vincent.”

Then she paused and added, “They said chemo can come in waves. When I’m having a good day, I can seem almost normal. But the illness really is getting worse.”

Then she carried the Coke into the kitchen.

From where I stood, I could see through the open counter. Vincent took the Coke from her, then casually brushed a finger along the bridge of her nose.

It was a small gesture, quick, light, but practiced like he’d done it hundreds of times before.

“Go lie down,” Vincent said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble,” Scarlett said with a laugh. “I’m dying anyway. Food all tastes the same at this point.”

Vincent flicked her forehead. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

He picked up the plated steak and turned around. When he saw me standing in the foyer, he paused.

“You’re here?” He set the plate on the table. “Come help clear the dishes.”

He said it so naturally like I was supposed to be the help in this house.

I turned around and headed straight for the door.

“Elena!”

Vincent caught up to me and grabbed my wrist in the foyer. His fingers clamped down hard enough to hurt.

“What now?” he hissed, lowering his voice, his brows knitting together. “Didn’t we already agree on this before you came?”

“Let go,” I said.

He froze for a second, then released me.

I looked up at him. I had looked at this face for seven years. I knew every line of it by heart. But now it felt like I was looking at a stranger.

At some point, Scarlett had come over too. She stood half a step behind Vincent, her eyes already red.

“Elena, I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled, on the edge of tears. “I’m just so weak right now. That’s why Vincent worries about me so much. If this bothers you, I can leave. I’ll go right now.”

She took one step forward. Then she wobbled. Not much. But the timing was perfect.

Vincent reached for her on instinct. Scarlett collapsed against him, one hand pressed dramatically to her stomach, her face going pale, this time, genuinely pale, probably from holding her breath.

Vincent looked up at me, and something in his eyes had changed.

“Elena.” His voice dropped. “She only has six months left. Can’t you just—”

“That’s enough.”

I cut him off.

I looked at the performance in front of me, “the dying-cancer act, the whole ridiculous lie”, and felt my heart go cold.

I shoved the door open and walked out.

Behind me, I heard Scarlett’s muffled crying, soft, restrained, just loud enough to be heard.

Then Vincent’s voice, low and gentle, the way you soothe a child. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here…”

I didn’t look back.

The second the car door slammed shut, the world finally went quiet.

I started the engine, hit the gas, and made a call. The hands-free line rang three times before someone picked up.

“Gina, it’s me,” I said. “I need you to check on someone.”

Gina was my source inside New York Presbyterian Hospital. Her husband had once racked up gambling debts. I was the one who made that problem disappear. She owed me.

“Who?”

“Scarlett Morello. I want her medical records. Which hospital she’s been treated at, and which doctor signed off on her diagnosis.”

There was a three-second silence on the line. Then she said, “Okay.”

The call ended. For the next forty minutes of the drive, I didn’t say a word.

I opened my phone and pulled up the text Ethan had sent me.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I typed:

[Find a time. We’re getting married.]

I couldn’t let myself stay trapped inside a lie I had spent five years believing in.

But before Ethan could reply, another message came through first.

From Don Morello.

[Tomorrow. 9:00 a.m. My office.]

His summons came faster than I expected.