The tea tastes wrong.

I notice it halfway through the cup—a bitter, chemical edge beneath the chamomile. But Angelique is watching me with those glittering eyes, her smile sharp as a scalpel, and I'm too tired to care. Too broken to fight.

"Drink up," she says, refilling my cup from the porcelain pot. "You look exhausted, poor thing. This will help you sleep."

We're in the east wing sitting room, the one no one uses. She summoned me here an hour ago with a text: *We need to discuss your mother's surgery. Come alone.* The room smells of dust and old roses. The windows overlook the garden two stories below.

My limbs feel heavy. The walls pulse and breathe.

"What did you put in this?" The words slur together.

Angelique's smile widens. "Just a little something to help you relax. You've been so tense lately." She stands, smoothing her silk dress. "I have a surprise for you. Someone who's very eager to see you."

She glides to the door. Opens it.

Richard steps inside.

The chauffeur's eyes rake over me, dark and hungry. He closes the door behind him. The lock clicks.

"What—" I try to stand. My legs buckle. The room spins like a carousel. "What is this?"

"Your engagement party." Angelique's voice comes from very far away. "Richard has been so patient. I thought we'd give you two some privacy."

She moves toward the door. I lunge for her, but my body won't obey. I crash to my knees on the Persian rug.

"Don't worry," she says, pausing in the doorway. "I'll make sure Isaac hears all about your enthusiastic acceptance. We'll have such lovely evidence."

She's holding her phone. The camera light blinks red.

Then she's gone. The lock turns from the outside.

Richard advances. His shadow falls across me like a shroud.

"I've wanted this for months," he says, his voice thick. "Watching you in those tight dresses, acting like you're too good for me."

His hands reach for me.

Something animal and primal ignites in my chest. I roll away, my vision blurring, and my fingers close around something solid—a brass lamp on the side table. I swing it with every ounce of strength I have left.

The base connects with his temple. He staggers back, cursing.

I don't think. There's no time to think.

I hurl the lamp at the window.

Glass explodes outward in a glittering cascade. Cold night air rushes in, sharp and clean, cutting through the drug-fog in my brain.

Richard lunges again. His fingers catch my sleeve.

I throw myself through the shattered window.

For one impossible moment, I'm flying. The stars wheel overhead. The wind screams in my ears.

Then I'm falling.

The rose bushes break my fall and tear me apart simultaneously. Thorns rip through fabric and skin. Something in my leg snaps with a sound like a branch breaking. Pain detonates up my spine, white-hot and absolute.

I can't breathe. Can't move. The world is thorns and blood and the copper taste of my own terror.

Footsteps thunder across the terrace. Voices shout.

"Ivy!" Isaac's face swims into view above me, his features twisted with something that might be concern or might be fury. I can't tell anymore. Can't tell anything.

"Help," I whisper. Blood fills my mouth. "He tried to—Angelique drugged—"

"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice cuts through the darkness like a whip. "Throwing yourself out a window? What kind of psychotic stunt is this?"

Angelique appears beside him, her face a perfect mask of shock and distress. "Oh my God, Isaac. I left her alone for five minutes. She must have been drinking—"

"I wasn't—she poisoned—" The words tangle in my throat.

"You're out of control, Ivy." Isaac stands, his shadow blocking out the stars. "This is exactly the kind of dramatic, attention-seeking behavior I've been dealing with for months. You can't stand that I'm happy, so you pull this?"

I'm lying in a bed of thorns, my leg shattered, blood pooling beneath me, and my husband is calling me dramatic.

Something inside me dies. Something essential. The last fragile thread connecting me to the girl who believed in love, who believed in him, who believed she deserved to be saved.

"I'm calling an ambulance," someone says. A servant, maybe. Their voice sounds far away.

"Make sure they know she's unstable," Angelique says softly. "This isn't the first time she's been erratic."

Isaac doesn't contradict her.

I close my eyes. The cold ground seeps into my bones. Above me, the stars blur and fade.

And I understand, finally, with perfect clarity: no one is coming to save me.

If I want to survive this, I'll have to save myself.

The coastal wind doesn't care that my ribs still ache from the fall.

It tears at my hair, salts my cracked lips, hammers against the camera equipment cases I've been hauling across wet rock for the past two hours. My left leg throbs with every uneven step—the same leg I shattered in the rose bushes a week ago. The doctor said rest. Isaac said: *be ready by eight.*

I'm ready by eight.

The cliff site is spectacular, objectively. The kind of location I would have scouted myself, once—sea-stacked granite jutting over churning Atlantic gray, light fracturing through cloud cover in silver columns. My fingers find the camera body out of pure reflex, and for half a second, the old hunger stirs. The artist in me, stubborn and stupid, still alive.

Then Angelique steps out of the SUV in a white chiffon gown that snaps like a sail in the wind, and the hunger curdles into something else.

"The light's too flat," she announces, not looking at me. "Fix it."

I lift the reflector. My arms shake.

Isaac stands apart, scrolling his phone, already somewhere else entirely. He's dressed in a charcoal suit, his collar open, looking like an editorial spread for men who've never suffered. He doesn't acknowledge me. He hasn't acknowledged me since they pulled me out of the rose bushes. Since he stood over me in the dark and called me dramatic.

I take the shots.

For an hour, I am only the mechanism behind the lens—adjusting, framing, swallowing the bile that rises each time they touch. Angelique orchestrates their poses with the precision of a woman who has rehearsed this victory for years. She tips her face up to Isaac's. Her fingers curl into his lapel. His hand settles at the small of her back, automatic, absent of tenderness but sufficient for the frame.

The camera records everything I cannot say.

Then Angelique's voice slices through the wind. "I want the one by the edge. Isaac's hands on my face. Really holding me." She turns to look at me directly for the first time all morning. "And I want it close. Intimate. You'll need to get down on the rock to shoot up."

I look at the rock she means. A wet ledge, maybe eighteen inches wide, jutting over a thirty-foot drop to churning water.

"The angle isn't necessary," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I can get the same composition from—"

"I wasn't asking your professional opinion." Her tone is light, conversational, the way a scalpel is light. "Isaac, tell her."

He finally pockets his phone. Looks at me. Through me.

"Just take the picture, Ivy."

The camera feels very heavy in my hands.

"No."

The word falls between us like a stone into deep water. I watch the ripples spread across Isaac's face—surprise first, then something that hardens fast.

"What did you say?"

"I said no." Something has come loose in my chest. Some last bolt of fear I didn't know I'd been depending on. "I won't photograph your engagement. Not that pose. Not any of this." I lower the camera. "I'm done."

Isaac moves. Three strides across the rock, and his hand closes around my arm—the same grip, the same bruising certainty. "You don't get to be done. You don't get to decide anything."

He reaches for the camera.

I hold on.

For three seconds, I hold on—my hands white-knuckled around the strap, my heels sliding on wet granite, every ruined muscle in my body screaming—because the camera is the last thing that is still mine, the last proof that somewhere underneath all this wreckage there is a person with a name and a talent and a life worth living.

He shoves me.

Not a push. A shove—full-shouldered, deliberate, the kind of force that makes a decision for you.

The rock meets my skull with a sound I feel before I hear. White. Then nothing. Then white again, fractured, the sky in pieces overhead, the sea noise enormous and indifferent.

I don't hear them leave. I only know they're gone from the silence.

---

The hospital ceiling has a water stain shaped like a map of nowhere.

I've been staring at it for three hours. The nurse who admitted me—young, efficient, careful not to meet my eyes when the intake form asked *how did this happen*—has not come back. No one has called. No one knows I'm here, or no one who knows cares.

The borrowed phone is a cheap prepaid, pressed into my palm an hour ago by a woman whose name tag read *Greta* and whose expression read *I've seen this before*. "Ten minutes," she'd murmured. "I never gave you anything."

I dial the number I've kept memorized for years. Kept the way you keep an emergency exit in your mind—not because you plan to use it, but because knowing it's there lets you breathe.

It rings twice.

"Ivy." Hugo's voice is steady and low and immediately present, like he was already awake, like some part of him has been waiting.

The ceiling blurs.

"Hugo." My voice breaks on the second syllable. "I need you to help me disappear."