The hospital corridor was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and floor wax. Keenan, flanked by Detective Fletcher and a bruised Felix, marched toward the administrative offices. Their footsteps echoed, loud and intrusive.

Fletcher flashed his badge at the head nurse. "We need to see all medical records for Aracely Walter. And any surgical logs from today."

The nurse's face tightened. "Due to HIPAA regulations, I can't—"

"I'm her emergency contact!" Felix burst out, slamming his hand on the counter. "She was scheduled for a craniotomy today! You have to tell us what happened!"

Craniotomy. The word was a physical blow. Keenan shoved Felix aside, his face contorted with a desperate, furious denial.

"Shut up! She had migraines! She wouldn't be having that kind of surgery!" he roared, his voice cracking.

Aracely's soul watched him, a hollow ache spreading through her. He was still trying to believe the lie. Because believing the truth—that he had abandoned her when she was dying—was too much to bear.

Fletcher watched Keenan's outburst with a cool, appraising eye.

Just then, a figure in a white coat appeared at the end of the hall. Cheyenne. She walked toward them, her expression a perfect blend of concern and authority.

She went straight to Keenan's side, taking his arm in a proprietary way. "Keenan, darling, what's going on?"

Felix stared at her. "You're... Dr. Walter. Her sister."

Cheyenne gave him a brief, dismissive nod before turning her full attention to the detective. "I'm Aracely's sister and her primary physician. How can I help you, Detective?"

"We need her medical file," Fletcher said, his tone brooking no argument.

Cheyenne let out a long, weary sigh, as if dealing with a tiresome inconvenience. "This whole thing is just a terrible misunderstanding."

Keenan's eyes bored into her, a silent, desperate warning. Don't you dare.

She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll clear this up."

"Misunderstanding?" Felix exploded. "You told me the surgery was life-or-death!"

Cheyenne's eyes flashed with annoyance before she smoothed her features back into a mask of sorrowful patience. "Mr. Riddle, I said the situation was serious. My sister has been... unwell. She has a history of resisting treatment."

Lies. All of it, a seamless river of lies. Aracely's soul thrashed in silent rage.

"Enough," Fletcher said, his patience wearing thin. "I want to see the raw data in the EMR system. Now."

Cheyenne nodded graciously. "Of course. My office is just this way. I'll pull up her file on my terminal." She led them down the hall, her pace calm and measured, a portrait of professional competence.

Inside her pristine office, she sat at her desk and logged into the hospital's system. The loading icon spun on the screen for a moment that felt like an eternity.

Keenan stared at it, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists. He was praying he was right. Praying she was a liar.

Felix was praying for the opposite. Praying for proof that would vindicate her.

The system loaded. Cheyenne's mouse hovered, then clicked. Aracely Walter.

The patient file opened. The official diagnosis appeared on the screen.

Felix's face crumpled in disbelief.

Keenan stared, and a wild, triumphant, and deeply pained look spread across his face.

Aracely floated over them, looked at the screen, and felt the last vestiges of her human heart turn to dust.

The black Lincoln sedan crunched over the gravel driveway of the Walter family estate on Long Island. Keenan got out first, then held the door for Cheyenne, a perfect imitation of a gentleman. They walked toward the grand entrance, hand in hand.

Aracely's soul lingered by the car, the sight of them together a nauseating parody.

Through the large bay window, she could hear her mother's shrill voice.

"I can't believe it! Aracely, that ungrateful child, faking an illness and running off! She's humiliated this family! Humiliated the Rosses!"

The words were like tiny needles in Aracely's consciousness. Not a shred of concern. Only anger at the social inconvenience.

Keenan pushed the door open.

Brenda Walter's face instantly transformed, her features rearranging into a mask of fawning sympathy. "Keenan, my dear boy! I am so, so sorry about Aracely, she—"

"It doesn't matter," Keenan cut her off. "She's in the past." He squeezed Cheyenne's hand, a deliberate, public gesture.

Brenda's eyes darted between their joined hands, and a greedy, calculating light sparked in her eyes.

"I've decided to marry Cheyenne," Keenan announced, his voice echoing in the marble-floored hall. "Next weekend."

Brenda's jaw dropped. The shock was quickly replaced by unadulterated joy. The Ross fortune, the Ross name—it would all stay connected to the Walter family.

"Oh, Keenan!" she gushed, rushing forward to hug Cheyenne, who feigned a bashful surprise.

I'm dead, Mother, Aracely's soul shrieked at the woman who had given her life. Your other daughter murdered me, and you're celebrating.

But her voice was only silence.

"The wedding will be at St. Patrick's Cathedral," Keenan continued, taking a seat on the sofa as if he owned the place. "I want every newspaper in New York to cover it."

"Of course, of course! Whatever you want!" Brenda chirped, practically vibrating with excitement.

Keenan slid a document across the coffee table. A prenuptial agreement. "Sign it."

Brenda didn't even glance at the pages. She snatched a pen and signed her name with a flourish, a mother eagerly selling off her second daughter.

Cheyenne picked up the document, her eyes scanning the clauses, a hungry look on her face. Keenan watched her, a flicker of contempt in his gaze.

He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the rain that had begun to fall. Aracely drifted to his side, peering at his reflection in the dark glass. He didn't look like a happy groom-to-be. He looked like a man possessed.

He spoke, his voice so low it was barely a breath. "I dare you to show your face, Aracely. I dare you."

And she understood. This wedding wasn't for Cheyenne. It was for her. A spectacular, public trap designed to wound her, to smoke her out of hiding. A grand performance of cruelty.

Cheyenne came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "We're going to be so happy."

He didn't move. He just stared at their two reflections in the glass, his expression as cold and hard as the rain-streaked window.

Aracely looked at him, at the madness in his eyes, and made a decision. She wouldn't fade away. She would stay. She would watch this whole, monstrous charade play out to its bitter end.

The VIP suite at the Vera Wang flagship store was a sea of white tulle and silk. Cheyenne stood on a small pedestal, preening in front of a three-way mirror. The wedding gown she wore was a confection of lace and pearls, with a train that spilled across the plush carpet.

She looked like a princess. A triumphant usurper.

Aracely's soul stood beside her, a dark shadow in the bright room. In her mind, she was wearing the red dress. The one Keenan had called the color of a wound.

Keenan sat on a velvet sofa, swirling a glass of whiskey, his eyes cold and detached as he watched the spectacle.

"This is the one," Cheyenne declared, turning to him with a brilliant smile. "It's just like the one Aracely always dreamed of."

A cruel smirk touched Keenan's lips. "She never had the good fortune to wear it."

The words were a casual, brutal dismissal of Aracely's entire existence.

Just then, Keenan's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Aracely saw the message. An unsaved number.

You want the truth? East River docks. Midnight. Come alone.

Keenan's expression didn't change, but a new tension entered his shoulders. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.