Chapter 3

I chose a hospital Julian would never set foot in.

St. Anne's Private Clinic, on the east side of the city—forty minutes from downtown, tucked away at the end of a quiet street.

It wasn't part of Julian's medical group's network, and it had no overlap with his professional circles.

Julian had already left for his clinic. Serena was holed up in some room or another. No one asked where I was going.

No one cared.

The whole drive there, I kept telling myself I was probably overthinking this.

Maybe the pills really were just sleep aids. Maybe the policy was some kind of financial planning on Julian's part. Maybe I'd switched off the alarms in a daze.

Maybe I really was, as he said, irrationally anxious and paranoid.

But then why couldn't I stop my hands from shaking?

My doctor was a woman named Patel, early forties.

"Full physical plus blood toxicology panel. And these bottles need a separate analysis of their contents." She looked over the forms I'd filled out, then glanced up at me. "Who prescribed these?"

"My husband."

"He's a doctor?"

"A psychiatrist."

Dr. Patel didn't press further. She simply checked a few boxes on the form, her tone matter-of-fact. "The composition analysis will take about three hours. Blood work should be back this afternoon. Have a seat outside."

Those three hours were the longest of my life.

I sat in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, the paper cup of coffee in front of me going cold and getting refilled, going cold and getting refilled again.

My phone screen lit up a few times. Messages from Julian.

"What do you feel like for dinner? I'll come home early to cook."

"Don't forget to take your medication."

"Babe?"

I could almost hear how tender his voice would be saying those words.

I typed three characters—"Sounds good"—and added a smiley face.

The waiting-room TV was running a midday entertainment show when a familiar scene flashed across the screen.

It was from three months ago—the interview Julian and I had done together.

On screen, Julian leaned slightly toward me, his gaze brimming with warmth and concern. The host asked him: "As a psychiatrist and Ivy's husband, how have the two of you gotten through this past year?"

He was silent for two seconds. "Honestly, the hardest part isn't dealing with the attacks online. The hardest part is watching her struggle with insomnia and anxiety. After her father passed, she lost her most important anchor. All I can do is be there for her, every single day."

After that episode aired, Twitter exploded.

"Julian Cross is the best man I've ever seen."

"Ivy is so lucky—losing her father and still having a husband like that."

At the time, I'd sat on the sofa scrolling through those comments, eyes glistening, heart swelling with gratitude. I'd turned and hugged him, whispered "thank you" in his ear.

He'd held me back, chin resting on top of my head. "It's what I'm supposed to do."

Looking back now, things had started going wrong right after my father died.

One year ago, my father died of a heart attack.

One year ago, the smear campaign started online.

One year ago, Julian began the hypnotherapy.

My father was Robert Harper—one of the most influential directors in Hollywood. While he was alive, no one dared touch me.

The night his heart gave out, I knelt outside the emergency room doors and Julian crouched beside me, stroking my back over and over.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

I was beginning to reexamine everything through a different logic.

At 4:17 p.m., Dr. Patel called my name.

She opened the report and pushed it across to me. "Ms. Harper, let's start with the physical. Every indicator on your psychological evaluation is completely within normal range. No anxiety disorder, no depressive tendencies, and no psychiatric symptoms whatsoever that would warrant medication."

My nails dug into my palms.

"However, your blood sample shows a high concentration of flunitrazepam metabolites, as well as trace amounts of scopolamine."

She explained it one word at a time. "Flunitrazepam is a derivative of what's commonly known as a 'date rape drug.' Chronic low-dose ingestion causes deep sedation, hypersomnia, and memory blackouts. Scopolamine induces hallucinations and cognitive disorientation. Together, they cause progressive deterioration of cognitive function, distorted perception of time, and in severe cases, a complete loss of the ability to judge reality."

She paused.

"Neither of these compounds appears on the prescription labels of your pill bottles. The labels indicate standard sleep aids, but the actual contents do not match the labels at all."

I was silent for a long time.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. One pill a day, a glass of warm water, placed in my hand by him personally.

What I'd been swallowing wasn't medicine. It was poison.

Dr. Patel hesitated. "Ms. Harper, if you believe your personal safety is at risk, you have every right to go to the police."

The police?

I shook my head internally. Not yet.

He was a licensed psychiatrist. He had that interview that had moved the entire internet. He'd tell the police I was his patient, emotionally unstable, suffering from persecutory delusions. All those Twitter posts praising him as a "good man" would be Exhibit A.

He'd already written my script for me.

If I followed his script, I was finished.

"Thank you, Dr. Patel. Please send the report to my agent's office address."

It was fully dark by the time I left the clinic.

I got into my car and dialed the private investigator.

Four rings. He picked up.

"Ms. Harper?"

"I need you to look into someone for me. Everyone around him. Don't miss a single corner."

"Who?"

I closed my eyes.

"Julian Cross. My husband."

A few seconds of silence on the other end. I heard him turn off his TV.

"Done. Forty-eight hours."

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. In the rearview mirror, my own face stared back—gaunt, pale. That face had once filled giant screens, gazed upon by millions. When my father was alive, he used to wait for me at the end of the red carpet on premiere nights, eyes shining with pride.

Now, the person who had shielded me from everything was gone.

But that was all right.

I started the engine and drove into the night.

As the car pulled into the driveway, the living room lights were on. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see Julian busy in the kitchen, an apron tied around his waist. Serena sat behind the kitchen island, chin propped on her hand, watching him with a docile, contented smile.

What a cozy picture.

I composed my expression, opened the car door.

The instant I stepped inside, I put on a smile—just the right amount. "Smells amazing. What are you making?"

Julian turned, his smile warm and beyond reproach. "Baked lasagna. Your favorite. Did you take your pills?"

"I did."

Of course I wouldn't be taking your pills anymore, Julian.

Dad, after you left, they thought there was no one left to have my back.

They were wrong.