The conference room was vast. A long mahogany table separated them like a canyon.

The Notary Public, a stern woman with glasses on a chain, asked for identification.

Jada pulled her driver's license from her wallet and slid it across the table.

Darius looked at it.

Jada Long.

He felt a flicker of something-satisfaction? possessiveness?-at the name. But then his eyes fell on the signature line of the document before him, and he knew what was coming.

"Sign here, here, and initial here," the lawyer instructed, pointing to the flags on the document.

Jada picked up the pen. Her hand was steady. She didn't hesitate.

Scritch. Scratch.

She signed her name with a clear, defiant flourish: Jada Ryan.

She pushed the papers toward Darius.

Darius stared at the signature. It was a rejection, a reclamation, an erasure of the last three years. He had never noticed she still thought of herself this way, as separate. As her own person. The realization was like a shard of ice in his gut.

He held his pen. He hovered over the signature line. He hesitated for a fraction of a second. He looked up at Jada.

"Last chance," he said. "You can stay married and still do the surgery. You don't have to do this alone."

"I'd rather die," Jada said softly.

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a tombstone.

Darius looked down. He signed his name. The scratching sound was loud in the silent room.

"The settlement agreement is executed," the lawyer stated, gathering the pages. "We will file with the court immediately. But until the judge signs the final decree, you are, in the eyes of the state, still married." The Notary stamped the seal with a heavy thud.

Jada stood up. She felt lighter, yet strangely empty. Like a helium balloon that had lost its string.

"The surgery is in forty-eight hours," Darius reminded her, slipping back into business mode. "The car will pick you up at 6:00 AM Tuesday."

"I'll be there. I keep my word," Jada said.

She turned to leave. "Goodbye, Darius."

She walked to the door.

Darius felt a sudden, irrational urge to stop her. To grab her hand. To tell her... what?

He stood up abruptly. "I'll walk you out."

"No need," she said without turning around.

"I insist," he said.

He followed her. Harrison trailed behind.

They exited the office building into the busy midtown street. The noise of the city rushed at them-horns, sirens, chatter.

Suddenly, flashbulbs exploded.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

A dozen paparazzi were waiting at the curb. They shouted questions.

"Darius! Is it true about the divorce?"

"Jada! Are you really donating your liver to his mistress?"

"Look here! Look here!"

Darius instinctively raised his hand to shield Jada's face. "Back off!" he roared at the photographers.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb.

Jada frowned. She had called an Uber.

The back window of the limo rolled down.

A face appeared. Pale, beautiful, with large, doe-like eyes that seemed to hold all the tragedy in the world.

Hazel Lawrence.

The paparazzi went wild. "It's her! It's the mystery woman!"

Hazel opened the door. She didn't look at the cameras. She looked straight at Darius.

"Darius! I was so worried when you didn't answer! I tracked your phone-I thought something happened!"

She leaned out, offering a fragile smile to Jada.

"Oh, and Jada. You look... tired."

Darius looked trapped. He stood between his ex-wife and his dying first love. The cameras were clicking furiously.

"Hazel, what are you doing here?" Darius asked, his voice tight.

"I came to pick you up," Hazel said sweetly. She extended a thin hand. "Get in. Let's have a thank-you dinner. My treat. We should celebrate the... resolution."

Jada laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "I'm not hungry."

"Please," Hazel coughed, a pitiful, wet sound that made Darius flinch. She clutched her chest. "It might be my last meal out. Don't deny a dying woman her wish, Jada."

Darius looked at Jada. His eyes pleaded with her. Don't make a scene. Not here. Not with the cameras.

Jada looked at Hazel's outstretched hand. She looked at the vultures with cameras.

"Fine," Jada said. "One meal."

She climbed into the car.

The inside of the limo smelled of vanilla and sickness.

Darius practically shoved Jada in to escape the flashing lights, then climbed in after her. Hazel sat in the middle, effectively separating them.

As the car pulled away into traffic, Hazel clung to Darius's arm. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Your hands are cold, darling," she cooed, rubbing his knuckles-the same knuckles Jada had tried to touch at the anniversary dinner.

Jada sat on the opposite seat, facing backward, staring out the window at the blurring city lights.

"I saw some beautiful wedding venues on Pinterest today," Hazel said dreamily. "Just dreaming, of course. Who knows if I'll make it to a wedding."

Darius looked uncomfortable. He shifted his arm. "Hazel, not now."

"Why not?" Hazel blinked, her eyes wide and innocent. "Jada understands, don't you? You're moving on. We're all moving on."

Jada didn't answer.

They arrived at Le Coucou. It was another impossibly expensive French restaurant. The staff fawned over Darius.

"Mr. Long! And Mrs. Long!" the maitre d' greeted them, looking at Hazel.

Hazel didn't correct him. She just smiled. Jada stayed silent, her face a mask of stone.

They were seated at a prime table near the window.

Hazel picked up the menu. "I'll order for everyone," she announced. "Jada shouldn't have anything too heavy. Or alcohol. For the liver's sake."

She ordered a bottle of expensive Burgundy for Darius, then turned to the waiter with a sad, fragile smile. "And just a bottle of Evian for me, please. I do miss the taste of a good wine, but my health won't allow it."

Jada gripped her water glass. The performance was flawless.

Darius looked at Hazel with a mixture of pity and admiration. "You're being so strong through all this."

Hazel's eyes filled with instant tears. They pooled on her lower lashes, glistening perfectly. "I have to be. For you," she whispered, placing a delicate hand on his.

The food arrived. Hazel pushed her peas around her plate.

"I'm so grateful, Jada," Hazel said suddenly, her voice loud enough for the nearby tables to hear.

She reached across the table, trying to take Jada's hand. Jada pulled back.

"It's so noble of you," Hazel continued, undeterred. "To give up your husband and your body parts. You're like a saint."

Jada snapped.

"I gave up the husband gladly," she said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. "The liver is a theft."

The table went silent.

Hazel gasped, clutching her chest theatrically. "How can you be so cruel?"

Darius glared at Jada. "That's enough, Jada."

"Is it?" Jada leaned in. "She's enjoying this, Darius. Can't you see it? The performance?"

"She is dying!" Darius raised his voice. People turned to look.

"She looks pretty healthy for someone with organ failure," Jada observed coldly.

Hazel started to hyperventilate. "I... I can't breathe..."

Darius panicked. He reached for Hazel's water glass to help her.

In the commotion, Hazel's hand shot out, as if in a spasm, and knocked over Darius's full glass of red wine. It tipped directly toward Jada.

The dark red liquid splashed across the table and soaked into Jada's white silk blouse. It spread instantly, staining the fabric a deep, violent crimson. It looked like a chest wound.

"Oh no!" Hazel cried, covering her mouth. But Jada saw it. The tiny, fleeting smirk behind the hand. "I'm so clumsy! My hands, they just... they shake so much now. I'm so sorry!"

Jada stood up, dripping. The wine was cold against her skin.

"You did that on purpose," Jada stated.

Darius stood up, grabbing napkins. "Stop it, Jada! It was an accident. Go clean up. You're embarrassing yourself."

Jada looked at him. He was dabbing at the tablecloth, worried about the furniture, while his ex-wife stood there soaked in red.

"I'm embarrassing myself?" Jada laughed bitterly. "I'll go clean up. Enjoy your date."

She turned and walked toward the restrooms, heads turning as she passed, a woman marked by red wine and betrayal.

Jada scrubbed at the stain in the bathroom sink, but it was useless. The silk was ruined. The red mark sat right over her heart.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked ghostly pale.

Why am I doing this? she asked her reflection. Why am I saving her?

Because of grandma, the reflection answered.

She took a deep breath and walked back out. She wasn't going to let Hazel win. She would finish this dinner and then she would vanish.

When she returned to the table, Darius and Hazel were holding hands. Hazel was whispering something in his ear, and Darius looked... pained. Conflicted.

Jada didn't sit down.

"I'm leaving," she said.

Darius looked up. "Sit down. We are not finished."

"I am," Jada said. "I'm done playing your sick game. I'm done being the third wheel in my own divorce."

Hazel looked at Darius, her eyes wide with fake concern. "See? She hates me. She's unstable, Darius. She might sabotage the surgery. What if she backs out at the last minute?"

Darius looked at Jada. The paranoia planted by Hazel took root instantly.

"You will do nothing of the sort," Darius growled.

"Maybe I should," Jada lied. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to feel a fraction of the fear she felt. "Maybe I'll walk out of here and get on a plane to nowhere. Maybe I'll let nature take its course."

Darius stood up. His chair crashed backward onto the floor.

He grabbed his own, nearly empty wine glass. He stared at her, and for a long moment, the chaos of the restaurant faded into a low hum. All he could see was her face, the defiance in her eyes, the stain on her blouse that looked like blood. He saw her walking away, free, while he was left shackled to this duty, this guilt. The thought of her leaving, of her choosing to leave, was a physical pressure in his chest, an unbearable tightening. His grip tightened uncontrollably. His knuckles turned white.

"You promised," he hissed.

"Your promises meant nothing," Jada retorted, stepping closer to him. "You promised to love and cherish me. You broke that. Why should my promise hold?"

CRACK.

The sound was sharp and sickening.

The crystal stem of the wine glass snapped in Darius's hand. The bowl shattered.

Shards of glass sliced into his palm. Blood gushed out instantly, dark and fast. It mixed with the wine on the tablecloth, creating a pool of gore.

Hazel screamed. "Darius! You're hurt!"

Darius didn't look at his hand. He didn't seem to feel the pain. He stared at Jada, his eyes wild, dilated, terrifying.

"You make me crazy," he whispered.

It sounded like an accusation. It sounded like a confession.

Waiters rushed over with napkins and towels. "Sir! Sir, let us help!"

Hazel jumped up, pushing Jada aside with surprising strength. "Let me see! We need a doctor! Oh, my poor darling!"

She wrapped his bleeding hand in a napkin, cooing over him. "Look what she made you do. Look what she did to you."

Darius looked at Jada one last time over Hazel's head. He looked broken. He looked like a man who had lost the map to his own soul.

"Get her out of my sight," Darius told Harrison, who had appeared from the shadows like a grim reaper.

Hazel led Darius away toward the exit, looking back at Jada with a smile of pure triumph.

Jada stood alone at the bloody table. The patrons were staring. The ruined dinner lay before her.

The manager approached timidly, holding a leather folio. "Ma'am? The... the bill..."

Jada looked at him. She looked at the blood on the table.

She laughed. It was a hysterical, jagged sound.

"Put it on Mr. Long's tab," she said.

She turned and walked out into the rain. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't have a coat. She pulled out her phone and dialed the only number that mattered.

"Chloe," she said when her best friend answered. "I need a place to stay. Now."