I survived another emergency surgery.

Through half-closed eyes, I watched the doctor shake his head at Damian. "Prepare for the end," he said.


Damian said nothing. He silently signed the discharge papers and took me home to our Central Park West apartment.

He carried me in his arms. I no longer had strength to fight him.

These became our final days of strange, peaceful coexistence.


I spotted the fruit knife that had no business being in our bedroom.

"Lori," Damian broke our silence, "with Sienna… it really was an accident at first."


"That party—you were busy with your exhibition. Someone slipped something in my drink. That's when I met her."

"Afterward, I panicked. Terrified you'd leave me if you knew. So I kept quiet."

"Later, I saw her again—clients forcing drinks on her. She reminded me of you when we first met—vulnerable, cornered."

"When you filed for divorce, I thought cutting off your money would force you back. I never imagined you'd choose poverty over me."

"I swear I never blacklisted you with the galleries. Sienna did that on her own."

"I know none of this matters now."

"My love was always real. But so was my betrayal. So was your pain."

"I was wrong. Catastrophically wrong."

"I brought this hell down on both of us."

Fresh blood trickled from my mouth. He gently wiped it away before easing me back against the pillows.

Numbness crept through my limbs.

With my remaining strength, I wrapped my arms around him from behind.

He went rigid.

My fingers inched toward the fruit knife on the nightstand.

Silent tears tracked down my face.

When he'd knelt begging forgiveness, I never intended to grant it. Instead, I'd formed a dark plan to take him with me.

Since I was already dying, why not take him along?

Why should I be the only one to perish? Why should they continue their perfect lives?

I couldn't bear it.

My hand trembled; I lacked the strength to even grip the knife properly.

Suddenly, a warm, large hand covered mine.

Startled, I met Damian's tear-filled eyes. He turned, clasping my hand with the knife.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he guided the blade into his own chest.

Blood coated my fingers. He looked down at me, his face ashen with pain.

Yet somehow, he smiled.

"Lori…"

"Remember how we changed our vows when we married?"

"We promised to remain faithful until death parted us."

"I broke that promise," he whispered. "I betrayed everything."

He smiled again as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"You forget—I've always seen through your lies. Did you think I wouldn't notice your fixation on that knife?"

"Lori, in your next life, steer clear of me."

"Find happiness. Find peace."

My tears finally broke free. He slumped forward, life draining from him.

The knife clattered to the floor.

My consciousness began to fade.

Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

"Damian," I thought as oblivion claimed me, "in the next life, let's be strangers."