Chapter 4

Olivia POV

The memorial was a solitary slab of grey stone on a hill overlooking the Hudson. The air hung damp and biting, seeping through my coat.

I parked my car next to Marcus's Range Rover. They were already there, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the stone. From this distance, they looked like a couple mourning a shared loss.

I walked up the hill. My boots squelched into the mud.

"Olivia," Marcus said. His jaw tightened, annoyed that I had actually shown up. "You're late."

"Traffic," I said.

Izzy turned to me. She was wearing a black coat that cost more than my first car. She looked tragic and beautiful, like a widow in a film noir.

"Thank you for coming," she said, dabbing at dry eyes. "Marcus has been such a rock for me. He promised he'd take care of me forever."

She looked at Marcus. "Didn't you?"

Marcus nodded. "Always."

He didn't look at me. He looked at her with a devotion that made my stomach turn.

"I'm hungry," Izzy said suddenly, her grief vanishing instantly. "Let's go to that Italian place in the village."

We took one car. I sat in the back-the perennial third wheel in my own life.

Marcus drove. He and Izzy talked the whole way. They talked about people I didn't know, places I hadn't been, memories I didn't share.

"Remember that night in Milan?" Izzy laughed. "We missed the train and had to sleep in the station."

"Best night of my life," Marcus said softly.

I looked out the window. The rain was blurring the world into streaks of grey. I placed a hand on my stomach. *You will not have this life,* I promised the tiny cluster of cells inside me. *You will not be second best.*

At the restaurant, Marcus snatched the menu. He handed it straight to Izzy.

"Order for us," he said. "You know what I like."

Izzy smiled. She glanced at me. "Oh, Olivia, you look a bit... thick around the middle. Are you gaining weight?"

Marcus frowned. "She's been stress-eating. It's unhealthy."

"Actually," Izzy said, her eyes gleaming. "Are you pregnant?"

The air at the table froze.

"No," I said. "Just bloated."

"Good," Marcus said, exhaling sharply. He sounded relieved. "We're not ready for that yet."

The waiter arrived with a heavy tray of soups. Minestrone. Piping hot.

He stumbled. Maybe he slipped. Maybe he was just clumsy.

The tray tipped.

Time slowed down.

The scalding red liquid arched through the air. It was falling toward the space between me and Izzy.

Marcus moved. It was pure instinct. A primal reflex.

He lunged. Not toward me.

He threw his body over Izzy, shielding her completely.

The soup splattered across me.

It hit my left arm and shoulder.

"Ah!" I screamed. The pain was instant. It was white-hot agony, searing into my skin.

The waiter dropped the tray. Dishes shattered.

"Izzy!" Marcus yelled. "Are you okay? Did it touch you?"

He was frantically checking her face, her hands. He was cupping her cheeks.

"I'm fine," Izzy said, looking over his shoulder at me. Her eyes were wide, but not with concern. With triumph.

I sat there, gripping my arm. The soup was soaking into my dress, blistering my skin. I was shaking.

"Marcus," I gasped. "It burns."

He didn't turn. "Just a second, Olivia. I need to make sure Izzy isn't in shock."

"She's dry," I gritted out, tears streaming down my face. "I'm the one who's burning."

He finally looked at me. He saw my red, blistering skin. He saw the agony in my face.

And for a split second, he looked annoyed that I was interrupting his rescue of Izzy.

"It's just a spill," he said. "Go to the bathroom and run cold water on it. I'll get the check."

"You... you chose her," I whispered.

"Don't be dramatic," he snapped. "She was closer to the edge."

"You chose her," I repeated.

He turned back to Izzy. "Come on, let's get you out of here. This place is a hazard."

He helped Izzy up. He put his arm around her. And he walked her out of the restaurant.

He left me there. Sitting in a puddle of broken glass and boiling soup.

I looked at the waiter. He was terrified.

"Call an ambulance," I said. My voice was calm. The pain was so intense it had become a dull roar.

"Ma'am, your husband..."

"I don't have a husband," I said.