Chapter 1

Three years since I was diagnosed with depression, and Asher James had guarded me through every one of them.

He said my medication mattered more than his own life, and he reminded me three times a day, more punctual than any alarm.

His childhood sweetheart, Eliana Fox, had come back from abroad too. A PhD in psychology. She sent me mindfulness recordings every day and taught me breathing exercises.

I thought there wasn't a luckier patient in the world than me.

Until last week, on the lower level of the downtown financial center mall, when I went to buy a hot Americano in my face mask and rounded a corner and saw them.

Asher had his hand locked around Eliana's wrist, pressing her whole body against the wall beside the elevator.

His forehead was against hers, his voice low, the same low voice he used when coaxing me to take my pills. "Just a little longer. She's finally doing better. If I say we're breaking up now, something will happen to her."

Eliana tilted her head up and kissed his chin. "Mm. No rush. We've already registered the marriage anyway."

...

That scalding cup of Americano stayed steady in my hand.

Not a single drop spilled.

I turned and left the mall through the other exit.

Back home, I poured that long-cold coffee into the sink.

The black liquid spun and vanished down the drain.

At seven o'clock sharp, Asher's call came in, right on time.

"Elaine Harding, did you take your medicine?"

I held those few white pills in my hand and answered him calmly.

"I took them."

"Good girl."

I heard the soft clatter of a keyboard on his end. He seemed busy.

"How are you feeling today? Did you listen to the recordings Eliana sent you?"

"I listened."

"That's good. Don't overthink things. I'll be home soon."

He hung up.

One by one, I dropped the pills into the toilet.

I pressed the flush, and the white pills spiraled away to the same place as that cup of coffee.

The lock clicked softly. Asher was home.

He took off his suit jacket, his tie hanging loose, a strange perfume clinging to him.

The one Eliana always wore. White tea.

He came over and reached for me out of habit.

I turned aside to avoid him and poured him a glass of water instead.

He froze for a second, then chalked it up to me being in a bad mood today.

"What's wrong? Upset again?"

He reached out to feel my forehead.

"No."

I pushed the glass into his hand.

"Asher."

"Hmm?"

"Let's get married."

I looked into his eyes and said each word clearly.

His fingers around the glass suddenly tightened.

The water inside gave a little shiver.

A crack showed in the gentle mask on his face, but he covered it over perfectly a moment later.

"Elaine, why bring this up so suddenly?"

He set the glass down, came over, and cupped my face.

"You're not well yet. A wedding is such a hassle. It would wear you out."

"Didn't we agree? Once you've fully recovered, we'd hold the wedding on the most beautiful island in the world."

His tone was gentle enough to drip.

Every word was sugar laced with poison.

Once, I loved hearing him coax me like this more than anything.

Now it only turned my stomach.

"We don't need a wedding. Just register the marriage."

I looked at him, stubborn.

"I want some security."

That line was like a needle, puncturing his feigned patience.

The smile on his face thinned.

"Elaine, what are you talking about?"

"I've been with you three years. Isn't that security enough?"

"Or has someone been running their mouth in front of you again?"

His tone carried a trace of impatient interrogation.

Something that had never once passed between us.

After my diagnosis, he was always so careful, unwilling to say even a single harsh word to me.

Suddenly I found it absurd.

"No one's been running their mouth."

"I just think it's time we got married."

The air froze in an instant.

We stood there looking at each other, neither willing to back down.

At last he sighed, as if giving in.

"All right, Elaine. We'll do whatever you want."

"When you go in for your checkup this week, if the doctor says you're stable, we'll go register the marriage."

He pulled me into his arms and patted my back gently.

"Stop overthinking, okay?"

The familiar embrace, the unfamiliar heartbeat.

I buried my face against his chest, breathing in that white tea scent that wasn't mine, and closed my eyes.

Look at that, Asher.

A liar doesn't need to rehearse his lies.