Chapter 2

The truth was, I had nearly collapsed in the deli line. Just days ago, I'd suffered a severe health crisis, something the doctors vaguely termed "extreme stress-induced internal bleeding," a quiet, devastating loss that Julian hadn't even registered. He'd been annoyed I was “unavailable” for one of his parties. He never asked why. He thought I was weak, always. Now, he barely acknowledged the expensive snacks I'd fetched. His eyes, when they did meet mine, held a flicker of something I couldn't place, maybe surprise at my continued silence, my lack of fawning gratitude or tearful apologies for my "slowness." Tiffany, sensing his attention waver for a microsecond, pouted. “Julian, darling,” she cooed, tugging at his arm. “My phone is almost dead, and I need to post about our fabulous night. Can you fetch my charger from the bedroom?” He smiled at her, a genuine smile he never showed me. “Of course, sweetheart.” He got up, and as he passed me, he paused. “A blizzard is hitting tomorrow,” he said, not looking at me. “Tiffany wants a ‘winter wonderland' photoshoot on the rooftop terrace for her Instagram. She has this new white fur coat she wants to show off.” My stomach clenched. The rooftop terrace was exposed, and I was still weak, still bleeding intermittently. “You'll set up the decorations,” he continued, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Early. Before the snow gets too heavy. Fairy lights, those fake snow blankets, the silver reindeer statues from the storage.” He didn't ask if I was well enough. He didn't care. It reminded me of the time, a few months prior, when Tiffany had insisted on a midnight swim in the ocean during a beach trip. I'd told Julian it was too dangerous, the tide was strong. He'd laughed. “Don't be such a killjoy, Ava. Tiffany wants to swim.” He'd pushed me towards the water when I hesitated. A rogue wave had slammed me against a submerged rock. My knee was gashed open, bleeding profusely. Julian had pulled me out, annoyed, then immediately turned to comfort a shrieking Tiffany, who'd gotten her hair wet. “You're so clumsy, Ava,” he'd said later, as I tried to clean the wound myself. “Always making a scene.” The scar was still tender.