Chapter 1

1.

Three years after I died, my husband came asking for my kidney again.

He showed up at my old apartment with the donation papers. The unit had new tenants.

Desperate, he tracked down the landlord.

"Ivy? She's dead. Died months ago. Something about a kidney transplant, couldn't afford the anti-rejection meds. Infection took her," the landlord told him.

My husband didn't believe it. He decided the landlord and I were running a con.

His brows snapped together. "Cut the bullshit. It's one kidney. Who the fuck dies from donating a kidney?"

He squared his shoulders and turned to leave. His expensive Derby shoes hammered the floorboards, grinding his fury into the wood.

The landlord watched him go and sighed.

"The girl's ashes are still at the funeral home. Her father hasn't claimed them."

***

I drifted in the air. I watched Ashford Lynch shove through the apartment building door, jaw tight, each step meant to crush the floor beneath him.

Three years. He still looked infuriatingly good. The cruelty around his mouth had only sharpened.

"Ivy Shaw. I went to her unit. The new people said she moved."

Ashford was still fuming about the two new tenants who'd slammed the door in his face.

He grabbed the landlord on his way out. The questions came like an indictment, like he was pouring every grievance he'd ever had onto this one old man.

"Where is Ivy Shaw living now? Don't tell me you don't know."

The landlord was pushing seventy. The brute force of Ashford's demand rattled him. He frowned.

"Ivy Shaw? She…"

"Spit it out," Ashford said, his voice a blade. "I have urgent business with her."

"Your business doesn't matter," the landlord said, his voice flat. "Ivy's dead. Something about a kidney transplant, couldn't afford the anti-rejection meds afterward. A full-body infection took her."

"Wha… what? Dead?"

Ashford's face went rigid. The words didn't land.

But only for a moment. He rebuilt his sneer in seconds.

"You two cooked this up together," he said, pulling out his phone and stabbing at a voice message. "Let me play you something."

Whitney Vance's voice spilled out. Soft. Calculated. Caring.

"Ash, I spoke with the lead surgeon. The procedure went beautifully. Ivy moved to a regular room the next day. I know she's always had issues with me… but I really hoped this time, for the sake of how far back we go, she wouldn't disappear on you again. I'm just… scared. Terrified something might still go wrong."

Ashford finished listening. He shoved the screen in the landlord's face.

"You hear that? The doctors at Johns Hopkins said she was fine. You think this fairy tale is funny?"

"Why would I lie?" The landlord's face went pale. "Ivy is definitely…"

"Shut up," Ashford cut him off. "Ivy Shaw is a selfish, crazy bitch. Not only does she let people die, she hires actors to sell the lie. Whitney needs her kidney. What right does she have to hide?"

"Young man, what is wrong with you?" the landlord said, his patience snapping. "The woman is dead. Stop making a scene."

Ashford wasn't listening. His mind was a locked room with Whitney inside it.

"Tell her this. If I don't see her at NewYork-Presbyterian tomorrow, she'll never see another dime of child support for that little brat."

He turned and walked. His Maison Margiela boots cracked against the floor like he wanted to split the boards with his rage.

The landlord watched his back disappear. He shook his head. His voice dropped to a murmur.

"The girl's ashes are still at the funeral home. Her father hasn't claimed them."

***

I floated in the hallway. The words hit me like the cold of the morgue, seeping through my transparent body. I saw the little blanket I'd knitted for Luna, sitting alone on a nameless shelf, covered in dust.

Luna. My daughter. She died without her mother ever looking back at her.

Ashford was outside now. He pulled out his phone and dialed Whitney. His voice went soft in an instant.

"Whit, don't worry. I'll make Ivy donate that kidney. If she tries to hide, I'll make sure she never sees that little thing again."

On the other end, Whitney coughed weakly. Her voice dripped with false concern.

"Ash, don't be too hard on her… she is still your wife. On paper, at least."

Ashford laughed.

"Wife? She wishes. If your family hadn't moved to the West Coast, do you think I ever would've married a venomous woman like her?"

I floated behind him, listening. My soul shuddered.

So that's what I was to him. I didn't even deserve the word wife.