Chapter 2

The next morning, I didn't go home. I went to the law firm on the ground floor of the Elliston Corp building.

Mr. Holden flipped through the documents. "You're sure you want to file in court?"

"Yes. Mediation is fine too, but I'm not dragging this out."

At ten-forty, Grant texted.

[Lena has her ankle evaluation today. She's emotional. Stop making trouble. We'll talk tonight at home.]

I stared at it for a while. Then typed back.

[Talk about the divorce. Contact my lawyer.]

He called immediately. I declined and turned off my phone.

At the hospital, Ethan was awake. Oxygen mask over his face. He saw me and his eyes lit up.

"Sis."

I leaned in. "Does it hurt?"

He shook his head. "Did Grant come?"

I tucked the blanket around him. "He's busy."

The light in Ethan's eyes dimmed. Then he smiled again, quick as reflex.

"He's a big deal. Busy makes sense."

My throat closed up.

Ethan always liked Grant. He used to say Grant was like a lighthouse. That as long as you could see even a little bit of light, you could hold on.

But I know now. That's not a lighthouse. It's a spotlight. It reaches the Harpers. It reaches the boardroom. It reaches everyone worth being seen with.

It just never reaches us.

That afternoon, the hospital called about the remaining balance.

I went to a pawnshop. Laid everything on the counter. My mother's necklace. My father's old pocket watch. The diamond ring Grant gave me on our wedding day.

The owner looked at me. "Emergency?"

"Life or death."

He quoted low. I didn't negotiate.

When I swiped the payment, my phone buzzed. A bank alert.

[Your supplementary card has been restricted. Transaction categories blocked: medical institutions, pawn services, large transfers.]

A few minutes later, Grant's assistant called.

"Mrs. Elliston, Mr. Elliston believes you've been emotionally unstable lately and may make impulsive purchases. He's placed a temporary spending restriction for your protection."

"He says you need to learn financial planning."

I gripped my phone. "Tell him I'll be forwarding this to my lawyer."

Half an hour later, my GoFundMe went down.

Platform notice: Your campaign has been flagged for exaggerating medical conditions and leveraging a public figure's name for traffic. Under review.

Customer service said a verified corporate account filed the complaint.

Reason: I was exploiting my status as Mrs. Elliston to manipulate public sympathy and damage company reputation.

I stared at that ten-dollar donation still sitting in the account.

Grant wouldn't save me. And he wouldn't let anyone else save me either.

That evening, he showed up at the hospital. A medical loan packet in his hand.

"Good terms. Sign it and the money hits your account today." He set it on the table. "And delete the GoFundMe."

"Why?"

"You're Mrs. Elliston. Public fundraising makes the company look bad."

"Ethan is dying and you care about how it looks?"

His jaw tightened. "I care about you not turning yourself into a beggar. Pawnshops, loans, crowdfunding. Any of those work. Why do you always have to come to me?"

"Because you're my husband."

He scoffed. "A husband isn't an ATM."

"And a wife isn't a line item you get to freeze."

His face went cold. "You've gotten real mouthy lately, Vivian."

I said quietly, "I used to think if I just held it in long enough, you'd feel bad for me. Turns out all it did was make you more comfortable."

I picked up the loan packet. Tore it apart. Page by page.

"I'll figure it out myself."

Grant stared at me. "Then remember this. Don't call me at two a.m. crying and begging again."

He left.

A while later, Ethan woke up. He looked at the shredded paper in the trash can, then spoke.

"Sis."

"The fire. Six years ago."

His voice was barely there.

"The one who ran in and pulled him out. It wasn't Nora Harper."

"It was me."