The funeral home had a catalog. Mahogany, oak, cherry. I chose mahogany because Eleanor had a mahogany desk in her study. The same desk where she'd signed the recommendation letter that got Alexander his first real interview. She'd never told him that. I'd found the carbon copy in her files when I was sixteen.

I made the arrangements on Tuesday. Viewing on Thursday, burial on Friday. I called her colleagues from the firm. Her attorney. The three remaining friends from her bridge club. I wrote the obituary myself on my laptop at 2 AM, then rewrote it because the first version made me cry too hard to see the screen.

Alexander called Wednesday afternoon.

"I heard," he said. "I'm so sorry, babe. Work's been absolutely crazy, but I'll be there. Friday, right?"

Babe. He hadn't called me that in six months.

"Thursday viewing is at four," I said. "Friday burial is at ten."

"I'll do my best." His voice had that distracted quality, like he was reading something while we spoke. "The Morrison account is killing me, but I'll make it work."

He showed up Friday at 10:47 AM. I was standing beside the grave with Eleanor's attorney when I saw him walking across the grass, dress shoes picking their way around headstones. He carried a bouquet—generic supermarket roses still wrapped in plastic.

He kissed my cheek. "Traffic was insane. I'm sorry."

Eleanor's attorney shook his hand. Alexander made appropriate somber faces during the brief service. He stood beside me with his hands folded. When it was over, he followed me to the reception at Eleanor's country club, the one she'd been a member of for forty years.

We sat at a table near the window. Finger sandwiches and coffee in good china. Alexander checked his phone under the table twice in the first fifteen minutes. The second time, his mouth twitched into something almost like a smile before he caught himself.

Mrs. Chen from Eleanor's bridge club stopped by our table. She squeezed my shoulder. "Your grandmother was so proud of you, dear."

"Thank you," I said.

Mrs. Chen glanced at Alexander. "And you must be the young man Eleanor spoke so fondly of."

Alexander smiled his work smile. "I hope I lived up to it."

Mrs. Chen nodded politely and moved on. Alexander's phone buzzed. He glanced down, then stood.

"I have to handle something," he said. "Work thing. You understand."

I looked up at him. His tie was slightly crooked. There was a small stain on his collar I hadn't noticed before—something pale, like frosting.

"Now?"

"It'll be quick." He was already stepping back from the table. "I'll call you tonight. We'll talk properly then. I promise."

He left before I could answer.

I sat there with my coffee going cold. Eleanor's colleagues came by in small clusters, sharing memories. Mr. Parsons from the firm told a story about Eleanor negotiating a merger in 1987 that saved forty jobs. I smiled. I nodded. I thanked everyone for coming.

Lauren, a woman I vaguely recognized from Alexander's office, approached near the end. She'd been at the disastrous anniversary party—I remembered her looking away when Alexander gave Karina the ring.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said. Then, hesitantly, "I saw Alexander leave. Is everything okay?"

"Work emergency," I said automatically.

Something flickered across her face. "Oh. That's... I thought maybe..." She stopped. Looked down at her plate. "I saw Karina's Instagram story the other day. They were at that arcade in Chelsea. You know, the one with the claw machines? She posted like fifteen videos of him winning her stuffed animals."

The room got very quiet in my head.

"When was this?" My voice sounded normal. I don't know how.

"Um." Lauren's eyes went wide. "Thursday night? Maybe Friday morning? The posts were timestamped around 1 AM, I think. I just assumed—I mean, I didn't realize—"

"It's fine," I said. "Thank you for telling me."

She left quickly after that.

I sat at the table for another ten minutes. The reception was winding down. Caterers were clearing plates. Mrs. Chen waved goodbye from across the room.

I went to the bathroom. Stood at the sink. Looked at myself in the mirror. Same face. Same navy dress—different from the anniversary one, but the same careful neckline. Same woman who'd made all the calls and picked the mahogany casket and written the obituary.

The same woman whose boyfriend had been at a Chelsea arcade winning stuffed animals for another woman while her grandmother died asking for him.

I turned on the faucet. Let the water run cold. Pressed my wet hands against the back of my neck.

When I got home that evening, I didn't call Alexander. I opened my laptop instead. My company's internal portal. The London office transfer application page I'd bookmarked weeks ago.

I read through the requirements. The timeline. The salary adjustment. The housing stipend.

I didn't fill it out. Not yet. But I read every word.

Then I opened a new browser tab and searched for the jewelry shop's website. They had an online store. I added three gold beads to my cart. Checked out. Paid for expedited shipping.

499. 500. 501.

The confirmation email arrived in my inbox thirty seconds later. I stared at the numbers.

Eight years. Five hundred and one small acts of cruelty, coldness, or neglect—each one significant enough that I'd marked it, privately, in gold.

I closed the laptop. Sat in the dark apartment. Eleanor's apartment, really—she'd paid the down payment, though Alexander never acknowledged that. Never thanked her. Never even seemed to notice.

My phone buzzed. Alexander's name lit up the screen.

*Sorry had to run. Dinner tomorrow? I'll make it up to you. Promise.*

I looked at the message for a long time.

Then I turned off my phone and went to bed.

The box sat on my kitchen counter for two days before I opened it.

Alexander had texted: *Got you something. Hope you like it.*

I pulled the ribbon. Lifted the lid. White tissue paper, carefully arranged. I pushed it aside.

The shoes were beautiful—burgundy leather, pointed toe, the kind I'd shown him on my phone three months ago. I lifted one out. Something moved beneath the tissue at the bottom of the box.

I saw the pattern first. Diamond scales, brown and cream. Then the head, small and triangular, tongue flicking.

I dropped the shoe. Stepped back. The snake coiled tighter, then struck at the cardboard edge. Its teeth caught my ankle just above the bone.

The pain was immediate. Sharp, then burning. I grabbed the counter. Looked down. Two puncture marks. Blood welling up. The snake disappeared back into the tissue paper.

I didn't scream. That surprised me later. I just stood there watching my ankle swell, the skin going tight and discolored, purple spreading like spilled ink.

Then I called Alexander.

He answered on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"There was a snake in the box." My voice sounded far away. "It bit me. I need to go to the ER."

A pause. "What?"

"A snake. In the shoe box you sent. It bit my ankle."

"Jesus—okay. Okay. I'm coming. Don't move."

He arrived twenty minutes later. I was sitting on the floor with my leg elevated on a chair, the way the 911 operator had told me to do while I waited. Alexander looked at my ankle. His face went pale.

"Christ, Camila."

He helped me to the car. I leaned against him, hopping on one foot. The ankle felt like it was filled with hot sand. He buckled me in. Started driving.

I gripped the door handle. The streetlights blurred past. My hands were shaking but I couldn't make them stop. Alexander's jaw was tight. He kept glancing at my ankle, then back at the road.

We were fifteen minutes out when his phone lit up on the dashboard mount.

Karina's name. Her photo—the one where she's laughing, head tilted back, hair catching sunlight.

Alexander glanced at it. Then at me. Then he answered. Put it on speaker.

"Alex?" Her voice filled the car. Soft. Trembling. "Alex, you promised you'd come tonight. You said you'd be here by eight."

"I can't right now," he said. "Something came up."

"Something always comes up." Her voice cracked. "You always choose her over me. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep being second."

I looked at Alexander. He was staring straight ahead at the highway. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Karina—"

"I need you," she said. "I've been sitting here alone for two hours. You promised, Alex."

The car slowed. Alexander's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then to the shoulder of the road. We were on a dark stretch outside the city—no buildings, just trees and the occasional distant headlight.

He pulled over.

The car stopped. Engine still running. Hazard lights clicking in the silence.

I turned to look at him. My ankle was throbbing. The purple had spread halfway to my knee. I could feel my pulse in the swelling.

"Alex?" Karina's voice again. "Are you still there?"

Alexander reached across me. Opened the passenger door. Cold air rushed in.

"I need to handle this," he said. He wasn't looking at me. "You can call an ambulance. It's probably not that serious—you're still talking fine, right? They'll come get you."

He waited.

I looked at his face. At the open door. At the dark highway beyond.

Something inside me went very still. Very quiet. Like a window closing.

I unbuckled my seatbelt. Grabbed my purse. Slid out of the car. My ankle screamed when I put weight on it. I leaned against the side of the car, breathing through my teeth.

Alexander was already pulling the door shut. "I'll call you later. Make sure you're okay."

The car pulled away. Taillights shrinking. Then gone.

I stood on the shoulder of the highway in the dark. Cars passed every thirty seconds or so, too fast to stop. The air smelled like asphalt and cold dirt. My ankle felt like it was splitting open from the inside.

I pulled out my phone. Dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I was bitten by a snake," I said. "I'm on Route 87, about two miles past the exit for Greenwood. My ankle is swollen. I need an ambulance."

My voice didn't shake. That surprised me too.

The ambulance took eighteen minutes. The paramedics were efficient and kind. They elevated my leg. Started an IV. Asked if anyone was with me.

"No," I said.

At the hospital, the attending physician was a tired-looking woman in her fifties. She examined the bite. Asked about the snake. I described it.

"Non-venomous," she said. "Probably a common garter snake or a rat snake. Painful, but not dangerous. You'll be fine."

A nurse came in while the doctor was setting up the anti-inflammatory IV. She looked at the intake form.

"It says here the snake was in a gift box?" She glanced up at me. "Honey, that's not an accident."

I didn't answer.

I already knew.

I knew whose hands had arranged that tissue paper. Whose idea it had been. Whose spare key had let her into the building to intercept the delivery.

The IV drip was cold going into my arm. I lay back against the thin pillow and stared at the ceiling tiles. Counted them. Forty-two in this room.

I pulled out my phone. Opened the jewelry store app.

Added two gold beads to my cart.

515. 516.

Paid for same-day courier delivery.

The confirmation email arrived while the nurse was checking my vitals. I closed my eyes. My hands had finally stopped shaking.

Something else had gone quiet instead.