The penthouse door opened at seven in the morning. I was already awake, sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of ginger tea I couldn't stomach. The nausea had been relentless since the ritual, my body screaming its protest at sustaining two lives while Cameron drained me dry.

He walked in smelling like a crime scene. Cheap floral perfume. The acrid, herbal bite of sage oil. Underneath it all, the faint, sweet rot of flesh that hadn't been properly alive in five years.

Cameron didn't look at me. He went straight to the bar cart, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and drank it in one swallow. His hand was steady. His color was good—the flush I'd bled into his skin last night still holding.

"Cameron." My voice came out softer than I intended. "Let me check your pulse."

His shoulders went rigid. When he turned, his eyes were flat, distant. "Don't."

"It's been less than twelve hours since the ritual. I need to monitor—"

"I said don't touch me." He set the glass down with a sharp crack. "Your hands are ice, June. They've always been ice. Last night, I felt real heat for the first time in years."

The words hit like a physical blow. I stood slowly, my fingers instinctively reaching for him. He jerked back as if I'd struck him.

"You don't understand," I said, my throat tight. "What you felt wasn't—"

"Wasn't real?" His laugh was cruel, brittle. "That's rich, coming from you. The woman who's spent five years smothering me with her paranoid rituals and cold, clinical touch." He straightened his tie, his movements sharp and dismissive. "I'll be networking more. Late nights. Don't wait up."

He walked past me, close enough that I could have grabbed his wrist, felt for the pulse that didn't exist. But I didn't. I stood frozen in the middle of our kitchen, watching my husband—my undead, ungrateful husband—walk away from the woman who bled herself dry to keep him breathing.

The door slammed. The sound echoed in the cavernous silence.

I pressed my palm against my stomach, feeling the faint, impossible flutter beneath my skin. "It's just us now, little spark," I whispered.

---

The brass bell above the door of *Lunar Herbs & Remedies* chimed softly as I entered. The shop was my sanctuary, tucked into a narrow storefront in the East Village that most people walked past without seeing. Protection wards hummed in the walls, keeping out the curious and the mundane.

Jax was already there, standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. He took one look at me and his jaw tightened.

"June." His voice was dangerously soft. "When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He rounded the counter in three strides, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching. Jax never touched without permission. "Your hands are shaking. You can barely stand. How much blood did you give him this time?"

I pulled off my gloves slowly, revealing the fresh, silvery scars webbing across my palms. The skin around the ritual marks was inflamed, angry red against the pale canvas of my hands.

Jax's expression went dark. "This is killing you."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Because from where I'm standing, you're burning yourself out for a man who doesn't even know he's dead."

The words hung between us, sharp and true. I looked away, focusing on the jars of dried herbs lining the shelves. Mugwort. Wormwood. Yarrow. All the bitter, protective things.

"I'm pregnant," I said quietly.

The silence that followed was suffocating. When I finally looked at Jax, his face had gone pale.

"Tell me you're joking."

"Five years of fertility treatments. Ancient herbalism. Blood magic. I did the impossible, Jax. I created life with a dead man."

"You created a death sentence." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You can't sustain Cameron's resurrection and carry a child. Your body will choose, June. And it won't choose you."

"I can handle it."

"You can't." He reached for me then, his fingers gentle on my wrist, checking my pulse. His touch was warm, alive, everything Cameron's wasn't. "Break the bond. Let him go. Save yourself and the baby."

I pulled away, wrapping my arms around my middle. "I owe his family a debt. My mother died—"

"Your mother's debt isn't yours to pay with your life." Jax's voice cracked. "Please, June. I'm begging you. Walk away before it's too late."

But I couldn't. The weight of obligation, of duty, of five years of sacrifice—it was a chain I didn't know how to break.

"I have to go," I said, moving toward the door. "The Brooks Charity Gala is tonight. I need to prepare."

Jax didn't try to stop me. But as I stepped out into the gray afternoon light, I heard him whisper, "I'll be watching. When you're ready to let me save you, I'll be there."

---

The Plaza ballroom glittered like a jewelry box, all crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes and the kind of old money that smelled like privilege and secrets. I stood near the bar in a black silk gown that hid the protective wards I'd stitched into the lining, watching Cameron work the room.

He was magnetic tonight. Vibrant. His laugh carried across the marble floors, drawing people to him like moths to a flame that had been dead for five years.

Then she walked in.

Ava Hicks wore red—a bold, predatory crimson that clung to curves I knew were partially prosthetic. She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her hand resting on a small, rounded bump beneath the silk.

No.

Cameron met her at the center of the room, his hand sliding possessively around her waist. The crowd quieted, sensing a moment.

"Everyone," Cameron's voice rang out, clear and proud. "I have an announcement. Ava is carrying the Brooks heir."

The room erupted in applause. Grandmother Brooks pushed through the crowd, her face radiant with joy as she embraced Ava. I watched, paralyzed, as Ava produced an ultrasound photo from her clutch, passing it around like a trophy.

It was impossible. Cameron was dead. His body was a shell animated by my blood and will. He couldn't create life.

Which meant Ava was lying.

Our eyes met across the ballroom. Ava's smile was sharp, triumphant. She leaned into Cameron, whispering something that made him laugh, and I felt the blood-bond between us pulse with his artificial joy.

I turned and walked out, my hand pressed against my own stomach, protecting the real miracle no one knew existed.

Behind me, the celebration continued, built on a foundation of beautiful, deadly lies.

I found Cameron in the living room, pouring champagne into crystal flutes. Ava's red dress was draped over the back of the sofa like a flag of conquest.

"She can't be pregnant," I said.

He didn't turn around. The champagne fizzed, golden and alive in a way he would never be again. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, June."

"It's not jealousy. It's biology." I stepped closer, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "You can't father a child, Cameron. You haven't been able to for five years."

He set the bottle down with deliberate care. When he finally looked at me, his eyes were glassy, unfocused. The sage oil. Ava had dosed him again. "Is that what you tell yourself? That I'm broken? That I need you?"

"You do need me."

"I need her." His voice was flat, final. "She makes me feel like a man. You make me feel like a patient." He picked up both flutes, the crystal catching the light. "Pack your things. Move into the guest wing. Ava needs the master bedroom. The baby needs space."

The words landed like blows. I watched him walk away, carrying champagne to celebrate a lie, and felt something inside me crack.

---

The guest wing smelled like disuse and expensive furniture polish. I unpacked my ritual supplies in silence—the silver needles, the consecrated oils, the Soul Poppet wrapped in black silk. Through the walls, I heard Ava's laughter, bright and performative.

My phone buzzed. Jax. *I'm outside if you need me.*

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not yet.

A week passed. I moved through the penthouse like a ghost, watching Cameron and Ava play house in rooms that used to be mine. She redecorated. Threw out my herbs. Replaced the dark, protective curtains with sheer white ones that let in too much light.

Cameron looked good. Vibrant. The sage oil and whatever else Ava was feeding him created a convincing illusion of health. But I felt the bond between us weakening, stretching thin like a thread about to snap.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, I heard the crash.

I found Cameron in the kitchen, staring at his hand. The crystal decanter lay shattered on the marble floor, and his index finger had a clean split across the pad. The skin had separated like old paper, revealing not blood but a dry, grayish tissue underneath.

He looked up at me, his face blank with shock. "It doesn't hurt."

"Cameron—"

"It doesn't hurt, and it's not bleeding." He turned his hand over, examining the wound with clinical detachment. "Why isn't it bleeding?"

I moved toward him, but Ava appeared in the doorway, her prosthetic belly preceding her like a shield.

"Baby, what happened?" She rushed to his side, her voice dripping concern. She glanced at the cut, and I saw the flash of calculation in her eyes before she smiled. "Oh, honey, it's just dry skin. The winter air, you know? So dehydrating."

She pulled a small diffuser from her pocket—she always had one now—and misted something into the air between them. The sickly-sweet smell of sage oil mixed with something sharper, more chemical. Cameron's pupils dilated.

"You're right," he said slowly. "Just dry skin."

"Let's get you a bandage." Ava led him away, shooting me a triumphant look over her shoulder.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the shattered crystal and the complete absence of blood.

---

The full moon rose fat and silver over Manhattan. In the guest wing, I prepared for the Stitching Rite with shaking hands. The ritual was already overdue by three days. I could feel Cameron's body starting to fail, the magic fraying at the edges.

I gathered my supplies—the silver needles, the consecrated bowl, the vial of my own blood I'd drawn that morning. The Soul Poppet pulsed with a sickly, irregular rhythm.

The master bedroom door was closed. I knocked once, then entered.

Cameron was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark. He looked up at me, and for a moment, I saw confusion in his eyes. Vulnerability.

"It's time," I said quietly.

He nodded, started to unbutton his shirt.

I set up quickly, arranging the needles, pouring my blood into the consecrated bowl. The incense smoke curled toward the ceiling, carrying prayers in a language older than this city. I reached for the first needle—

The door slammed open.

Ava stumbled in, one hand clutching her fake belly, her face contorted in theatrical pain. "Cameron! The baby! Something's wrong!"

He was on his feet instantly. "What? What's happening?"

"I don't know, I just—" She lurched forward, her arm sweeping across my ritual setup. The bowl tipped, spilling sacred blood across the white carpet in a spreading stain.

"No!" I lunged for it, but it was too late.

The magic backlashed.

Power exploded outward from the spilled blood, raw and uncontrolled. It hit me like a physical force, throwing me backward into the wall. My head cracked against the plaster. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Cameron cry out.

He was on his knees, both hands pressed to his chest. His face had gone gray, the illusion of life flickering like a dying bulb.

"What did you do?" he gasped, looking at me with wild, accusing eyes. "What did you do to me?"

Ava was at his side immediately, her pregnancy scare forgotten. "She's attacking you, baby. I told you she was dangerous."

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't hold me. Blood trickled down the back of my neck. "Cameron, please. Let me finish the ritual. You're dying."

"Get out," he said. His voice was raw, broken. "Get out before I call the police."

I looked at the spilled blood, the scattered needles, the Soul Poppet lying in the spreading crimson pool. The bond between us was unraveling, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I gathered what I could and left, Ava's satisfied smile burning into my back.

The guest wing became my prison. Three days after the failed ritual, I woke to Cameron standing in my doorway. The morning light from the window behind him turned his silhouette into something skeletal.

"You poisoned me." His voice was flat, mechanical. "All those teas. Those needles. You've been making me sick."

I sat up slowly, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. "Cameron, that's not—"

"Ava explained everything." He stepped into the room, and I saw the gray creeping up his neck like frost on glass. He didn't notice. "You're a witch. You've been cursing me for years, keeping me weak so I'd depend on you."

The words were Ava's. I could hear her honey-sweet poison in every syllable.

"Since I stopped your rituals, I've been getting stronger." He held up his hand—the one with the split finger. The wound had spread, the edges of the tear now reaching his knuckle. The skin around it had the texture of old parchment. "See? It's healing. Ava says it's my body purging your toxins."

I stared at the necrotizing flesh he believed was healing. "Cameron, please. Look at yourself. Really look."

"I am looking." His eyes were wild, unfocused. "I'm looking at my wife, who's been sabotaging me. Who's jealous of Ava and our baby." He leaned closer, and I smelled the rot beneath the sage oil. "Stay away from her. Stay away from us. If anything happens to that child, I'll know it was you."

He left. I heard him return to the master bedroom, heard Ava's delighted laughter through the walls.

My phone buzzed. Jax. *I found something. Meet me at the shop. Now.*

---

The club was called Velvet, tucked into a basement in the Meatpacking District. Jax stood in the alley behind it, a crowbar in one hand and a leather messenger bag in the other.

"You broke in?" I asked.

"Ava's locker." He handed me the bag. "Look."

Inside, I found invoices from a theatrical supply company. *Prosthetic pregnancy belly—silicone, medical grade. $2,400.* Receipts for bulk orders of hallucinogenic sage oil from an underground herbalist I knew dealt in illegal substances. And printouts of text messages.

I read them twice, my hands shaking.

*Marcus Sterling: Once the baby's born, we move. Declare him incompetent. You get the wife's share, I get the company.*

*Ava: And if the wife doesn't leave quietly?*

*Marcus: Then we make sure she has an accident.*

Jax's hand was on my shoulder, warm and steady. "We go to Cameron. Show him this. End it now."

"He won't believe me."

"Then I'll make him believe." His voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Get your things. You're not staying in that penthouse another night."

We drove in silence, the evidence bag sitting between us like a bomb. When we reached the building, the doorman's face went pale.

"Mrs. Brooks, Mr. Hamilton—Mr. Brooks left instructions. You're not to—"

Jax walked past him. I followed.

The elevator ride felt endless. When the doors opened to the penthouse, Cameron was waiting.

He looked at Jax, then at me. Something dark and possessive twisted his features. "You brought him here. Into our home."

"Cameron, we need to talk." I held up the bag. "It's about Ava."

"No." He moved fast, faster than a dying man should be able to. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers ice-cold and unnaturally strong. "You're having an affair. That's what this is. You and your childhood sweetheart, plotting against me."

"Let her go." Jax's voice dropped to that dangerous softness.

Cameron's grip tightened. I felt bones grind. "She's my wife. Mine. Not yours."

"Cameron, please." I tried to pull away. "Look at the evidence. Ava's pregnancy is fake. She's using you."

"Liar." He shoved me backward. I stumbled, caught myself against the wall. "You're the liar. You and your rituals and your cold hands. Ava warned me you'd try this."

Jax stepped between us, his body a shield. "Touch her again, and I'll—"

"You'll what?" Cameron's laugh was unhinged. "Fight me for her? She's not worth fighting for. She's barren. Cold. Dead inside."

The word hit like a slap. Dead. He called me dead while his own flesh rotted off his bones.

"I'm pregnant." The words came out before I could stop them. "Twelve weeks. I'm carrying your child, Cameron. The real heir."

Silence. Cameron stared at me, his face cycling through confusion, disbelief, rage.

"You're lying," he said finally. "You're lying to compete with Ava."

"I'm not—"

"Liar!" He lunged. Jax caught him, and they crashed into the coffee table. Glass shattered. Cameron's fist connected with Jax's jaw, and I heard the crack of bone.

I screamed. Ran forward. Cameron's elbow caught me in the stomach.

The pain was immediate, blinding. I doubled over, my hands clutching my abdomen. Something warm and wet spread between my legs.

No. No, no, no.

Jax was shouting. Cameron was backing away, his face pale with dawning horror. I sank to my knees on the marble floor, watching my miracle bleed out in a spreading crimson pool.

"June." Jax's arms were around me. "Stay with me. Stay with me."

But I was already gone, falling into the dark where my little spark had been.