When I was fifteen, I took the blow of an iron pipe meant for Oliver. When I finally woke up from the coma, my mind had snapped back to that of a five-year-old. My vocabulary shrank until almost everything reduced to a single phrase: “Ollie.” He ripped up his university acceptance letter right there in the hospital corridor, pulled me into his chest, and swore through ragged breaths, “Don’t be scared, Willa. I’m going to marry you. I’ll take care of you for the rest of our lives.” Ten years passed. Last week, when he hosted an intimate family dinner at an exclusive private dining club downtown, he quietly tucked me away in an adjoining parlor, ordering me three baskets of warm, honey-glazed popovers so I wouldn’t wander. I was halfway through the third basket when his mother’s low sigh drifted through the slatted mahogany pocket doors. “You can’t tether your entire life to a simpleton, Oliver.” Beside her, Camille’s voice was like velvet. Soft, measured, forgiving. “It doesn’t bother me. As long as there is room in your heart for me, I don’t mind.” Oliver didn’t answer. Later that evening, after we got home, he washed the insulated travel tumbler Camille had given him three times with scalding water before setting it carefully on his bedside table. Late that night, the cold, metallic voice of the System—dormant for nearly a decade—murmured in my ear. “Your final window to depart this world opens in seven days.” In the dark, I asked, “If I leave, can Ollie finally get married?” “Yes,” the voice replied. I was so happy I couldn’t sleep. I sat at my small desk until dawn, carefully tracing the letters of my own name twenty times over on a slip of torn notebook paper. I wanted to leave him a proper goodbye. The next evening, at his family’s formal dinner party, I mistook the cream cashmere scarf Camille had given him for a linen napkin and used it to mop up a bowl of rich lobster bisque I had tipped over. Oliver threw his silver spoon down so hard the china plate cracked. “Willa,” he snapped, the sound echoing across the dead-silent dining room. “Are you really this hopelessly slow, or are you doing this on purpose to humiliate me?” I held the dripping, orange-stained scarf between my hands, blinking up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. “Once I’m gone,” I whispered, “Ollie won’t ever have to feel embarrassed again.” … “Apologize.” Oliver’s tone was razor-sharp, stripped of all warmth. The dining room went completely still. Silverware ceased clinking against china; every pair of eyes settled on me like lead weights. The cashmere scarf felt heavy and sodden in my grip, dark seafood butter seeping through the fine weave, dripping steadily onto the plush Persian rug beneath my feet. “Oliver, please, let it go,” Camille said gently, stepping up to my side. Her smile was a study in practiced grace. “Willa’s mind is delicate. She didn’t mean any harm. It’s just a scarf.” Oliver’s mother gave a dry, dismissive scoff. “Camille, your heart is simply too soft. She’s lived under his roof for ten years. She hasn’t learned a single shred of manners, but she’s mastered the art of throwing tantrums whenever another woman enters the room.” Oliver didn’t look at Camille. He didn’t look at his mother, either. His eyes were locked entirely on me, dark and uncompromising. “Willa. I told you to apologize.” I blinked slowly. Inside my skull, the flat, synthetic hum of the countdown started. “Time remaining until departure: six days, two hours.” I lowered my head and bent at the waist, performing the clumsy, stiff little bow I used whenever I knew I had made a mess. “I’m sorry. Willa didn’t mean to. Willa will wash it clean for you.” Camille’s outstretched hand froze in midair. She hadn’t anticipated me giving in so readily, without a fight or a whimper. In the past, whenever Oliver raised his voice at me, I would dissolve into quiet, frantic tears and bury my face in the crook of his neck until he caved. Clutching the damp, buttery wool, I turned and slipped into the private washroom attached to the dining suite. I turned the chrome faucet on full blast. Water rushed over the stained knitwear, foaming against the bar of lemon hand soap as I rubbed the fabric between my knuckles. But the reddish-orange grease ring refused to lift; it only spread deeper into the pale fibers. The door clicked open, and Oliver appeared in the mirror behind me. He leaned against the doorframe, watching my frantic, uncoordinated scrubbing with a knot between his brows. “Stop it. Just leave it,” he said, the annoyance in his voice softening into fatigue. He stepped forward and shut off the water. Reaching into his breast pocket, he drew out a clean linen handkerchief and began patting the moisture from my trembling hands, finger by finger. “Do you feel wronged?” he asked quietly. I shook my head. I didn’t feel wronged at all. Because very soon, none of this would matter. He assumed I was giving him the silent treatment. He sighed, reaching out to ruffle the crown of my hair in that old, habitual way. “Camille had someone bring that scarf back from Paris. Today was the first time I wore it.” I looked up into his dark eyes. “Is Ollie going to marry Miss Camille?” His hand paused against my hair. He didn’t give me an answer. Instead, his fingers slipped into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small, foil-wrapped lozenge. He peeled the wrapper away and held the glossy white mint to my lips. “In the future, just leave Camille’s things alone,” he murmured. “Do that, and I won’t lose my temper with you.” I stared at the mint. A long time ago, whenever I had to choke down bitter neurological pills, he would drive half an hour across town to buy handmade honey-caramels from the old confectionery shop on the south side. Later, he told me soft caramels ruined teeth, that it was childish, and he started carrying these sharp, astringent peppermint drops instead. What he had forgotten—or chosen not to remember—was that Camille adored peppermint. I hated it. The medicinal smell made my stomach turn. I didn’t open my mouth. I reached out, took the candy from his palm with my fingertips, and carefully tucked it away into my skirt pocket. … The next afternoon, a new pair of house slippers appeared on the entryway rack. They were meant for Camille. Fluffy, blush-pink shearling mules, set prominently on the top shelf, shoving the scuffed white leather flats Oliver had bought me two summers ago down into the shadowed corner of the bottom tier. I knelt down to straighten my shoes. Before I could touch them, the front lock turned. Oliver came in carrying two paper cups of cold brew from the boutique roastery down the block. Camille walked in right behind him, shedding her trench coat and sliding naturally into the pink shearling mules. Her pointed stiletto heels caught the toe of my white flats with a dull scrape, leaving two thick, black rubber scuffs across the leather. I froze on the floor, reaching out instinctively to move her heels away. “Crash.” The tall glass apothecary jar sitting at the edge of the low console table tipped, tumbling over Camille’s shoulder bag and shattering against the hardwood. Hundreds of tiny, pastel origami cranes scattered across the floor like dead moths. “Oh! Goodness, Willa, I am so sorry,” Camille gasped, pressing a hand to her chest with a look of wide-eyed dismay. “I didn’t see it there.” My mouth parted, but before a single syllable could escape, Oliver’s face darkened. “How many times have I told you to stop cluttering the front hall with this junk?” he said coldly. “Clean it up. Right now.” I watched his heavy dress shoe step directly onto three folded paper birds, crushing their delicate wings into flat, crumpled creases. A sharp, localized pang pinched my chest. It had taken me weeks to fold them, pausing and rewinding old children’s craft tutorials on the television over and over. Oliver had told me once, during our third year in the apartment, that if I folded a thousand cranes, he would make me his bride. He had forgotten. And I didn’t have the heart to remind him. I sank to my knees, slowly gathering the paper birds from among the shards. Oliver let out a heavy breath, laced with thin irritation. “Willa, you’re twenty-five years old, not five. Camille is staying here starting tonight. Clear the floor so she can walk.” Camille took a step forward, looping her arm through Oliver’s elbow. “It’s fine, Oliver. Really, it was my fault for being clumsy. Let me help her.” She bent down, but Oliver pulled her back by the wrist. “Don’t coddle her,” he said flatly. “She needs to do it herself.” He led Camille past me and into the study, closing the door behind them. I stayed on the floor for a long time. A sliver of glass sliced across the pad of my index finger, welling a thick bead of crimson that dripped onto the floorboards. I stood up, intending to ask Oliver where he kept the first-aid kit now. I pushed the study door open an inch. Camille was seated at his desk, holding a battered tin cigar box between her manicured hands. It was my treasure chest. Inside were all the small, worthless tokens Oliver had given me over the last ten years: a wooden marionette with a severed string, an old fountain pen he had discarded, and a yellow plastic butterfly clip he had bought me with his very first paycheck from his clerkship. Camille held up the fountain pen, examining the tarnished gold band with amusement. “Oliver, the nib on this pen is completely splayed. Why on earth are you still hoarding it?” Oliver glanced at the pen, an uncomfortable flicker passing through his gaze. It was the pen he had purchased with his first academic scholarship. When the nib bent during a late-night study session, he had tossed it into the wastebasket. I had fished it out in the middle of the night, wiped the ink off with my sleeve, and hidden it away. “It’s just useless junk,” Oliver said carelessly, looking away. “Should have been thrown out years ago. Only a child like Willa would hoard trash.” Camille smiled, raising her arm toward the metal wastebasket beside the desk. “Then let’s toss it.” “No!” A ragged scream tore out of my throat as I lunged into the room. The nib was already broken. If it hit the metal bin, it would snap clean off. Camille startled at my sudden shout. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug, and tumbled awkwardly onto the floorboards. I froze in place. I hadn’t even touched her. “Willa!” Oliver’s roar shook the room. “That is enough!” Before I could breathe, he was on his feet, sweeping past me to help Camille up. As he hoisted her by the waist, his gaze caught the smear of wet red on the sleeve of her white silk blouse—blood from my cut finger, left behind when I had lunged past her. Oliver spun around and slapped me across the face. The crack echoed sharply in the quiet room. My cheek flared with stinging heat. I stood rooted to the floor, my eyes wide and dry, staring at him. In ten years, he had never once raised a hand against me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply pressed my palms to my thighs and bowed toward Camille. “I’m sorry. Willa was bad.” “It’s alright, really…” Camille shook her head frantically, clutching Oliver’s sleeve. “Oliver, don’t be angry with her. She didn’t mean it.” “I’ve spoiled her rotten,” Oliver said, his voice dropping to a frigid register. He snatched the bent fountain pen from the desk and dropped it straight into the wastebasket with a dull clang. “Clean this mess up. Camille and I are going out.” The front door slammed shut moments later, vibrating the walls. I looked down at my bleeding hand. The pain in my chest was dull and sprawling, like an ache deep in the bone. The blood on Camille’s silk blouse was mine, but he hadn’t even noticed my torn finger. In the quiet, the mechanical countdown whispered again. “Time remaining until departure: five days, ten hours.” I didn’t fish the pen out of the trash. Instead, I picked up the battered tin box—the one I had treasured like gold for ten years—and dropped it into the wastebasket right on top of the pen. … Three days before my departure, Oliver took me to the regional medical center for my annual neurological scan. It was our unwritten ritual. No matter how demanding his executive schedule was, he always cleared this one morning entirely for me. I sat on the vinyl waiting bench, watching him walk out of the chief neurologist’s office holding a large manila envelope. “The pressure on the cranial nerve is stable,” he murmured to himself, thumbing through the scan reports. “As long as she doesn’t suffer severe trauma or shock, there’s no risk of further deterioration.” The rigid line of his shoulders dropped, visibly relieved. A woman in a crisp white lab coat rounded the corner of the corridor. It was Camille. She was an associate chief of pediatric cardiology here, her badge swinging lightly against her lapel. “Oliver? All finished with the scans?” She walked over, offering him a paper cup of warm Earl Grey. “Yes. Nothing new, thankfully,” he said, taking a sip. Camille looked at me with a practiced, radiant smile and produced a small wicker lunchbox from her tote. “I made breakfast sandwiches on brioche early this morning. There’s enough for all of us.” We had left the apartment in a rush; neither of us had eaten. Oliver took a triangle and bit into it. I took mine and lifted it to my mouth, taking a cautious bite. The thick, oily paste hit my tongue immediately. Peanut butter. I have a life-threatening peanut allergy. The viscous paste coated the back of my mouth, and within seconds, my windpipe tightened as if gripped by an invisible fist. The inside of my throat flared with suffocating heat. “O-Ollie…” The syllable came out as a strangled, wet gasp. I reached toward his sleeve, my vision swimming. Oliver glanced at me, his brow immediately furrowing in disapproval. “Willa, Camille woke up early to make those. Finish every bite. Don’t start acting like a picky toddler.” I couldn’t produce sound. I flailed my hands, pointing frantically at my swelling throat, my chest heaving. Oliver’s expression hardened into weary disgust. “You need to outgrow these dramatic tantrums. Eat it. I’m watching you. We aren’t leaving until your plate is clean.” I looked at the half-eaten sandwich in my shaking fingers, then looked up into the cold, impatient wall of his eyes. Slowly, I bowed my head. I forced the remaining bites down, choking against the swelling walls of my esophagus. Camille chuckled softly from the side. “See what a good girl she is? Finished the whole thing.” By the time I swallowed the last crumb, thick red hives were erupting along the collar of my shirt, and my skin felt like it was on fire. I reached out blindly to tug Oliver’s jacket, but Camille stepped between us, pressing a cold bottle of mineral water into my hands. She patted my back rhythmically. “There now, you ate too fast and choked, didn’t you? Drink some water.” Oliver saw only the empty wax paper in my lap. A rare, faint smile touched the corner of his lips. “Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” The hand I had reached out to him dropped back to my lap. At least, for this one moment, he didn’t find me embarrassing. “Oliver, my departmental lecture starts in twenty minutes,” Camille said suddenly, glancing at her watch. “Would you like to sit in?” “Of course,” Oliver replied without hesitation. He turned to me, his tone dropping back to brisk indifference. “Willa, take the crosstown bus home by yourself. Don’t wander off.” They turned down the hallway together, their matching strides smooth and effortless. I watched their retreating backs as the light in the corridor began to fracture into dark spots. The strangling pressure closed around my trachea completely. My knees buckled, and the linoleum floor rushed up to meet me. The last sound I heard before the dark took over was a nurse’s piercing shout: “We need a crash cart! Someone collapsed in hallway four!” When I opened my eyes, the hospital room was dark. Night had fallen. My phone on the bedside stand was completely silent. Not a single missed call from Oliver. I pulled the IV catheter out of the back of my hand, ignoring the sudden sting of blood, and scrambled out of bed. Ollie had told me to go straight home. I had to get home. By the time I caught the final suburban transit bus and walked up the steps to our building, the living room lights were blazing. Oliver and Camille were already there, seated at the kitchen island. The moment Oliver saw me stumble through the door, his jaw tightened. “I told you to come straight home from the clinic. Where on earth did you go wandering off to?” he demanded. “Willa, can you give me one single day of peace?” The allergic rash hadn’t fully cleared; my neck burned with raw, itchy welts. The back of my hand was purple and swollen from the blown vein where the IV had been. I parted my lips, my voice raspy and dry like sand. “I’m sorry… Willa won’t wander anymore…” Oliver’s scowl softened by a fraction, but his next words were delivered with cold, clinical efficiency. “Go upstairs and pack your clothes out of the master suite. You’re moving into the guest bedroom downstairs.” I paused. “Is Miss Camille moving into the master bedroom?” Oliver nodded. “We’re getting married soon. It makes no sense for us to sleep on different floors.” In my ear, the cold digital voice counted down. “Time remaining until departure: two days, one hour.” “Okay,” I whispered, nodding obediently. “Willa will clear everything out right away.” … On the final day, an unseasonal gale tore through the city, battering the glass windows with sheets of freezing rain. Oliver was summoned to an emergency executive board meeting before dawn. The penthouse was quiet until noon, when Camille let herself in with a key. She had come to drop off a leather portfolio Oliver had left in her car. After setting the folder down, she didn’t leave. Instead, she sat on the velvet sofa, nursing a porcelain mug of hot water I had poured for her. “Willa,” she said, her voice abandoning every trace of the gentle warmth she wore around Oliver. “He and I are getting married next month. When exactly do you plan on moving out?” I was wiping water droplets from the coffee table with a rag. I looked up at her. “Tomorrow,” I answered truthfully. Camille blinked, visibly thrown by how easily the word left my mouth. Then her lips curled into a mocking smirk; she clearly assumed I was too dull to grasp the weight of the question. “Do you even understand what I’m saying? You cannot live here with us.” She crossed her legs, leaning forward. “This is going to be our home. Not yours.” I stayed still, watching her. “Oliver is being named Managing Director for the entire Eastern region,” she continued, her tone sharp and precise. “A woman like you—a dependent who can’t even navigate basic society—is a stain on his reputation. You are dead weight around his neck.” She leaned in closer, her eyes flashing with cold intent. “Willa… you need to disappear from his life forever.” The sudden cruelty in her face made me draw back slightly. Before I could move away, Camille rose and walked over to Oliver’s mahogany display cabinet. She reached inside and lifted a delicate, antique Meissen porcelain teacup—a museum-grade family heirloom Oliver’s grandfather had willed to him, his most guarded possession. “I read your notebook,” Camille said softly, turning the fragile ceramic in her fingers. “All those paper cranes you spent weeks folding… you really thought he was going to marry you, didn’t you?” I stared at her, stunned that she had found my private scribbles. “You poor, pathetic idiot,” Camille laughed. “He was never going to marry you. Oliver doesn’t love you. He took care of you for ten years out of nothing more than guilt and obligation.” The words struck like physical blows, a sharp, slicing ache tearing through my ribs. “Smash.” Camille opened her fingers. The antique porcelain shattered into jagged fragments against the parquet floor. Before I could process the noise, she dropped to her knees, picked up a razor-sharp shard of painted china, and dragged it ruthlessly across the soft skin of her own wrist. Bright, arterial red spilled across the cream floorboards. “Camille!” The front door banged open. Oliver burst into the foyer, his coat dripping with rain. When his eyes landed on the pulverized porcelain and the blood pooling around Camille’s trembling hands, his face turned ash-white. “Willa! What the hell is wrong with you?” He lunged across the room, his eyes wild with fury. “Ever since Camille stepped foot into this house, you have done nothing but pick fights! What are you so miserable about?” “When are you going to grow up? When are you going to stop creating disasters for me?” “I didn’t…” I stammered, stepping backward onto the shards, my voice thin. “It wasn’t me…” “Oliver, don’t be hard on her,” Camille wept, clutching her bleeding wrist to her chest. “She knows we’re getting married. It’s only natural she’s having an episode… she’s upset…” “She is twenty-five years old!” Oliver bellowed. He grabbed the collar of my knit sweater and yanked me violently off my feet. “How long am I supposed to tolerate this?” “We have to build a life here,” he snarled, dragging me by the arm toward the stairs. “I cannot spend the next thirty years walking on eggshells around your tantrums.” He dragged me up the staircase. My knees slammed against the hard oak treads with every step, bruises blooming beneath my skin with sickening thuds. He threw me into the narrow, unheated storage room at the end of the hall. Standing in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face was cast in deep, furious shadow. “Since you refuse to learn, you can sit in the dark and think about what you’ve done,” he snapped. “Willa, nobody is going to baby you anymore.” “Slam.” The heavy deadbolt clicked into place. The tiny, windowless room was plunged into absolute, suffocating blackness. Panic hit me like a physical wave. I scrambled to the door, throwing my fists against the wood. “No! Please, let me out!” “Willa was wrong! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” “Oliver! Please, don’t leave me in the dark!” My screams tore through my throat, but the sound of his footsteps only receded down the hall. From the bottom of the stairs, his distant, muffled voice drifted back: “Stop screaming! When Camille and I get back from the emergency clinic, I’ll let you out. Sit there and calm down.” My hands slid down the rough wood of the door. Ten years ago, after I took that pipe to the head for him, those high school dropouts had dragged my bleeding body into an abandoned boiler basement. It had been pitch-black. Rats skittered over my ankles. I had been trapped in that darkness for twenty-four hours before Oliver found me, unconscious and hypothermic. Ever since that day, beyond the cognitive damage, I suffered from violent, paralyzing claustrophobia. When I woke up in the trauma ward a decade ago, Oliver had held me, crying into my hair, swearing he would never, ever leave me in the dark again. And now, for Camille, he had locked me in it himself. I cried until my voice broke into silent, ragged wheezes. I sat curled against the door, shivering violently as cold sweat soaked my clothes, listening to the tiny, dispassionate cadence in my mind. “Time remaining until departure: five hours.” I waited. Hours bled together. Outside, the storm howled, but no footsteps returned. The air in the storage closet felt thick and poisoned. My pulse hammered so fast my limbs began to seize. Then, a chime chimed softly in the gloom: “Departure protocol initialized.” I forced my swollen eyes open. The small, high transom window that had been painted shut for years swung outward with a soft click. A blast of cold, clean rain swept across my face. I pulled myself up using the wall, dragging my bruised body onto the narrow sill. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward and stepped into the empty air. “Goodbye, Oliver.” “I won’t wait for you anymore. And I won’t be your burden ever again.” … At the hospital emergency wing downtown. Oliver stood by the triage bay, waiting for the surgeon to finish stitching Camille’s wrist. His phone began buzzing frantically in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and tapped the screen. It was his building’s superintendent. “Mr. Fairchild? Mr. Fairchild, something terrible has happened!” the man stammered, his voice distorted by static and panic. “Someone just jumped from your second-floor balcony… there’s blood everywhere across the courtyard lawn…” Oliver stopped breathing. The hospital billing slip slipped from his numb fingers, fluttering silently to the linoleum floor.
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