Everything changed the moment Scarlett returned to Seattle. She began to insert herself into every corner of Jasper's life.

My insecurity flared, sparking arguments with Jasper. My anxiety spiraled, and Scarlett deliberately provoked me at every turn.

I had been battling depression for a long time, yet she seemed to delight in twisting the knife. She knew I was sick, and it only made her torment more relentless.

On a private social media account, she posted a photo of herself in Jasper’s college sweatshirt, lounging on the bed in our room. The caption read: "Some things are just meant to be. After all the twists and turns, they find their way back to their rightful owner."

Her words were poisoned daggers, each one twisting in my heart.

When I told Jasper about my depression, he accused me of being jealous and unreasonable.

When I broke down and smashed things, he called me emotionally unstable.

When the pain kept me awake at night, he said I was just overthinking.

...

By the time I climbed onto the railing, I was numb, unable to tell if I was dead or alive.

I stood on the balcony of our unfinished penthouse, letting the high-rise wind whip my dress around my legs. My phone was still lit up with Scarlett's latest post.

She was showing off a new tattoo on her shoulder blade—the very design meant to be a matching set for Jasper and me.

I gazed at the city lights in the distance until they blurred into a single, mocking sneer.

Dozens of floors stretched below, and the wind howled in my ears like a thousand screaming voices.

Strangely, I felt no fear. Only a profound sense of release.

My phone vibrated again.

I forced my eyes to the notification. Scarlett had sent a picture: Jasper, gently kissing her new tattoo.

The text read, "He said this design is only sexy on me."

My fingers twitched. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering as it plummeted into the abyss.

A construction foreman heard the sound and looked up. His face contorted in terror when he saw me.

Just as my consciousness began to fray, the construction door was kicked open. When Jasper burst through, his eyes widened in horror.

There, on the dimly lit rooftop, my frail figure teetered on the edge, looking as if the wind could sweep me away at any moment.

He stumbled, his knees crashing hard onto the sandy, gravel-strewn ground, but he paid it no mind. He called my name, his voice a raw, trembling thing.

"Genevieve… come down! Look at me!" he shouted hoarsely. "Call 911!" he roared at the doorway, but he crawled toward me, his movements agonizingly slow, as if he were afraid one wrong move would shatter me.

The moment I was pulled to safety, he scrambled over and crushed me in an embrace so tight I thought my bones would splinter.

"Hold on, Genevieve. I'm begging you. I can't live without you," he pleaded. I could smell a perfume on him, and it wasn't mine.

In the hospital, Jasper sat by my bed, his fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of the medical chart.

"Genevieve, stop," he said, his tone so calm it was chilling. "Is this how you're going to get my attention now? Are you trying to threaten me?"

I stared at him. He was frowning, his expression a mirror of a parent scolding a misbehaving child.

"Scarlett's situation is different," he continued. "After the car accident, she developed severe PTSD. I became the only person she trusts. We grew up together. Her family is abroad, they're barely around, so she's always relied on me."

He paused, his gaze falling on my vacant eyes. "Now, she doesn't recognize anyone but me. After the accident, I'm the only one who makes her feel safe..."

Jasper’s fingers toyed with my IV line, his eyes drifting toward the window. "Her psychologist said she’s like this because of an extreme lack of security."

He turned back to me, his brow furrowed. I met his gaze, noting the weariness and helplessness etched on his face.

"It's not like that between us." A hint of urgency crept into his voice. "She's like a sister to me. You get that, right? Besides, you know what her condition is like."

His gaze turned cold. "You know she's sick, so why do you keep holding it against her?"

He sighed. "Don't do this, alright? You're my wife. Nothing is going to change that."

Jasper gently brushed a strand of hair from my face, then snatched his hand back. "Once Scarlett's condition stabilizes, I'll make it up to you. We'll go to Italy, see those ancient buildings you love. Okay?"

I watched his eyes flicker away. The telltale sign of a lie.

"Right now..." he lowered his voice, "can you just… try to understand?"

His eyes were pleading. "Scarlett really needs me. This is just temporary, okay?"

I listened to his so-called explanation in silence, then turned my head to stare blankly at the ceiling.

The words seemed to come from far away, muffled, yet they drilled into my ears, impossible to ignore.

I managed a soft "Mm-hmm," my voice raspy and bitter, not my own.

The numbness of severe depression had stolen even the strength to argue.

He wanted me to wait. He said he’d make it up to me. He hoped I’d understand.

His words were feathers, too light to cause a ripple in my dead heart.

I watched Jasper glance at his phone again and again, inching toward the door.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Hilarious. For three years, he’d fed me the same lines, and for three years, I’d swallowed every one.

"Go on," I said, my own calmness surprising me.

The relief that flooded his face was a fresh sting on my numb nerves. He rushed back to my side, reaching to stroke my hair.

I flinched away.

"You..." He froze, then offered a helpless smile. "Don't be difficult, okay? I'll be back soon."

I watched him turn and leave, his voice softening as he answered his phone. In that moment, I knew. My heart was already dead.

Killed by Jasper's repeated choices, by Scarlett's taunts, and by my own foolish hope.

The door clicked shut, locking us in two separate worlds forever. I slowly closed my eyes, letting the darkness consume the last flicker of light.