Chapter 3

I confirmed the time for the procedure.

The nurse's voice came from behind the counter, calm as if she were talking about the weather. “Friday at ten a.m., Ms. Valenti. No food for eight hours beforehand.”

“Okay.”

I signed my name on the form. The pen tip cut into the paper.

When I stepped out of the consultation room, the smell of disinfectant in the hallway suddenly turned sharp, almost nauseating. I leaned against the wall and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Adora said she'd be here any minute and told me to wait in the café.

I turned toward the elevators—then ran straight into someone at the corner.

A white hospital gown. A narrow, fragile frame. And that face—pale, but still breathtaking, the kind of beauty only dancers have, every line sculpted with cruel precision.

Sophia.

She was holding a small bouquet of lily-of-the-valley. When she saw me, she stopped.

The air froze for a few seconds.

Then she smiled. It was light, like a feather brushing skin—soft, and needling.

“Phoenix Valenti.” She said my name as if tasting each syllable. “I've heard so much.”

I looked at her. “Sophia.”

She seemed pleased—pleased, and unsurprised—that I knew who she was. As if I was supposed to. Because people always mentioned her. Or rather, they never forgot her.

“Jared's talked about you.” She took a step closer, the corners of her mouth still lifted, her voice low enough for only us. “He said you're very capable.”

She spoke like she was praising me, but the words landed like dirt.

“Managing the family. Handling all those… messy things.” Her eyes flicked over me. “That must be exhausting.”

The hallway lights were a cold white that made her skin look nearly translucent.

“But,” she tilted her head, turning the little bouquet once between her fingers, “what does it matter? In front of everyone, the person at his side is me. Do you know how serious his eyes were when he promised me?”

She paused and watched my face.

“He said he'd take care of me until the end.” Her voice softened further, honey over a blade. “You know how much he values promises, don't you? When he gives his word… he'll keep it, even if it kills him.”

My fingers curled hard into my palm.

“So,” she murmured, “you lost. No matter how many years you spent.”

A faint laugh drifted out of her. She stood there in the light like a tragedy heroine's portrait—perfect, fragile, saintly. Cold and anger braided together in my chest, but I only tugged my mouth into something like a smile.

Then I spoke.

“I wasn't trying to win.”

I met her gaze, my tone edged with mockery. Her lashes trembled.

“The prize you think you're getting,” I went on, my voice so flat it didn't even sound like mine, “is just a pile of garbage. If you want it, take it.”

Sophia's smile froze. She clearly hadn't expected that. Her eyes sharpened—she was about to say something—

And then her body suddenly pitched.

The bouquet slipped from her hand. White petals scattered across the floor. She reached for the wall, missed, and started to fall sideways.

A pair of hands caught her from behind.

Fast—so fast it was almost unreal.

Jared pulled her into his arms, smooth and practiced, like he'd done it a thousand times. He bent his head to look at her, and his expression changed in an instant—tight, urgent, almost panicked. A look I rarely saw on him.

Then he lifted his head and looked at me.

His eyes were ice.

“Phoenix.” He said my name, each syllable hard. “She's a patient.”

He didn't accuse me outright, but the accusation was already there—in his eyes, in his voice.

He was taking her side.

I looked at his hand braced at her waist. The tension in his forearm. The way he dropped his gaze to check her, and the almost—almost—vulnerable softness I had never once been given.

And then I laughed.

“I didn't touch her,” I said. “Your wife fell all on her own.”

The word *wife* hung in the air like a needle.

Jared's face turned colder.

“Jared…” Sophia whispered from his arms. Her voice suddenly weak, but clear enough. “It's not Phoenix's fault. It's me… my legs just went soft.”

She lifted her head to him. There was physiological shine at her lashes, tears that made her look even more breakable.

“You know,” she said gently, every word both excuse and display, “this illness is like that. Sometimes you just can't stand. It isn't anyone's fault.”

She was “clearing things up.”

In a way far more skillful than a direct accusation.

She was telling me she didn't need cheap tricks. She only had to stand here and he would come back to her. That he still had feelings he couldn't cut loose. That he couldn't even bring himself to resent her for leaving him once, chasing her dancing dreams.

She was proving she didn't have to *do* anything—she'd already beaten me.

How noble.

How disgusting.

Jared's throat bobbed once. He finally looked at me, brows drawn, jaw tight, his eyes a tangled knot of conflict. His lips parted—

For a second, I thought he might say something. Defend me. Explain. Even scold Sophia.

He didn't.

He just held Sophia tighter, as if she were something fragile.

And said nothing.

Sophia kept going. “All right, Jared, I'll go back myself. You two probably still have things to talk about.”

Like a generous wife, she patted his arm, signaling him to let her go.

Jared answered at once. “I'll take you back.”

In that moment, seeing the way his arms tightened on instinct, the way his brows creased—unhappy with her decision, but unwilling to contradict her—my last trace of hesitation evaporated.

I let out a cold laugh, turned to leave, unwilling to watch another second—

And then my eyes caught something, and I stopped dead.

Jared's hand.

That hand that always wore black gloves—black leather that symbolized power and taboo—was bare.

And in his right hand, he was holding a fruit knife. In his left, an apple half-peeled, the spiral of skin dangling, fresh pale flesh gleaming where it had been exposed.

He was peeling an apple.

Bare-handed.

For another woman.