Chapter 2

The next day, I began to pack. Not my clothes, but my memories. I pulled out a large cardboard box and started filling it with everything that tied me to Arthur.

Photographs of us smiling in Paris. The silly keychain he won for me at a carnival. The first paintbrush he ever bought me, telling me he believed in my dream. Each item was a ghost.

I had given up so much for him. When his leukemia was diagnosed, I put my art career on hold. I deferred a prestigious residency in Florence to be by his side. I learned to manage his medications, to cook the bland, sterile meals his immune system could handle. I even have a small, faded scar on my arm from where I burned myself rushing a pot of soup to his bedside when he was too weak to feed himself.

The scar tingled, a phantom pain. It was a reminder of a love that was now a source of agony.

I took the box to the fireplace. I lit a match and dropped it in. The photos curled, the faces melting away. The keychain plastic bubbled and warped. The wooden paintbrush blackened and turned to ash.

I watched the flames consume our past. The love I felt for him, the hope I had for our future, it all turned to smoke and drifted up the chimney, disappearing into the cold New York sky.

He had promised me the world. He had promised me forever. Was that all a lie? Or had the man who made those promises simply died on the operating table, replaced by this cruel stranger wearing his face?

It didn't matter anymore. I didn't care what happened to him, or to his "cellular memory," or to Diana.

I walked over to the calendar on the wall and ripped off the page. Twenty-nine days left.

I was getting out.

That evening, Arthur came into my studio. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "What are you working on?"

His touch made my skin crawl. I forced myself to remain still, to not flinch away.

"Nothing yet," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "Just thinking."

He frowned, sensing something was off. "You've been quiet lately, Ella. Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, Arthur."

"I know I was harsh about the locket," he said, his voice a low apology. "But Diana... she's so fragile. I feel this overwhelming need to protect her. You understand, don't you?"

I turned to him, a bitter, sarcastic smile on my lips. "Of course. It's the cellular memory."

He seemed relieved by my answer, completely missing the irony. "Exactly. I knew you'd get it. Thank you for being so understanding."

He kissed my cheek. "Get dressed. We're going to my grandfather's birthday gala tonight."

My stomach tightened. Another public parade. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. It's important. And I want you by my side."

I knew what that meant. I was a prop. A placeholder until Diana was ready to take my spot officially.

The gala was at The Plaza, a glittering affair of old money and power. As soon as we arrived, Diana was surrounded. She was wearing a stunning vintage gown that I knew for a fact Arthur had bought her. She looked perfect, every bit the real estate heiress in waiting.

"To Diana! For her strength and grace!" someone toasted.

As they raised their glasses, Arthur shot forward. "No! She can't drink."

Diana gave a small, martyred smile. "It's nothing, really. I can have one glass."

"Absolutely not," Arthur insisted, taking the champagne flute from her hand. "Gavin wouldn't want you to. Your health is too precious."

His eyes then landed on me.

"Ella," he commanded, his voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "You drink for her."

The room fell silent. All eyes were on me. This wasn't a request. It was a public humiliation.

I remembered a time I had a stomach flu and Arthur wouldn't even let me have a sip of wine, fussing over me, making me herbal tea with his own hands. That memory was a ghost now, haunting me from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

My hand trembled as I took the glass from him. I downed it in one gulp, the bubbles stinging my throat.

Then another toast was made. And another. Each time, Arthur would intercept the glass meant for Diana and hand it to me. "Drink," he would order.

I drank until my head spun and my stomach burned. The glittering lights of the ballroom blurred. The faces of the guests morphed into grotesque masks, their whispers and stares closing in on me.

I stumbled away from the crowd, needing air. I made it to a secluded balcony, leaning heavily against the railing. My stomach lurched, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I coughed, and my hand came away from my mouth with a smear of blood.

My ulcer. The stress had made it act up again.

I was about to go back inside to find some water when I heard their voices from around the corner.

"Are you happy now?" Arthur asked Diana, his voice low and intimate.

"She was so mean to me about the locket," Diana whimpered. "I just wanted her to feel a little bit of pain, like I do every day."

"I know, my love. I know. Seeing her suffer for you... it's the only thing that makes me feel like I'm honoring Gavin's memory."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't about cellular memory. It wasn't about guilt. It was intentional. It was a targeted, sadistic punishment designed to please Diana.

"There's one more thing," Diana murmured, her hand tracing a pattern on his chest. "Gavin had a tattoo... right here. A small 'D' for Diana. Every time I see you, I imagine it's still there."

"It's not," Arthur said, his voice tight.

"I know," she sighed. "But if it were... it would be like having him back."

There was a long silence. Then I heard Arthur's voice, full of a terrifying resolve.

"I can do that for you."

I heard a sharp intake of breath, then the sound of something sharp tearing through fabric. I peeked around the corner.

Arthur had a shard of a broken champagne glass in his hand. He had ripped open his shirt, revealing the smooth skin over his heart where a small, elegant 'E' for Ella was tattooed. It was the first gift I had ever given him.

He pressed the jagged edge of the glass to his skin.

"Arthur, no!" Diana cried out, though her eyes were gleaming with triumph.

He didn't listen. He dragged the glass across his skin, slicing through the ink, through the symbol of his love for me. Blood welled up, dark and thick, dripping down his chest. He gritted his teeth, his face a mask of agony and ecstasy.

"Now," he panted, the word a ragged gasp. "Now, this heart only beats for you. For Gavin."