My Live-Streamed Suicide

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The scion of a powerful dynasty faked a Stage IV cancer diagnosis just to test if I really loved him.

He went further. He tried to gaslight mesomeone he knew had a history of severe depressioninto taking my own life.

He made a bet with his inner circle: If she kills herself for me, then Ill know shes finally over Rowan.

Standing outside the door, I heard every word.

Five years of devotion? It was just a long con. A sick, twisted game.

I didn't storm in. I didn't scream.

I turned around and put the "diagnosis" back exactly where I found it.

Damon, game on.

You want a tragedy? You want to see me die for love?

Ill play the role. Ill give you the performance of a lifetime.

Until you watch me jump into the ocean. Until you are living in a personal hell of regret that burns for the rest of your life.

---

Chapter 1

For the last month, Damon has been freezing me out.

I grabbed my car keys, determined to drive over to his penthouse and demand an explanation. In my rush, my hand brushed the entry console, knocking over a glass jar filled with folded origami stars.

It shattered.

Hidden among the scattered glass and paper stars was a folded medical document.

I rubbed my eyes, blinking hard, sure I was hallucinating.

Patient: Damon Vance. Age: 28. Diagnosis: Hepatocellular Carcinoma. Stage IV.

The words blurred together.

A high-pitched ring screamed in my ears. The air in the hallway suddenly felt too thin to breathe. My chest constricted, a physical weight crushing my lungs.

Cancer.

The cold shoulder wasn't because he fell out of love. He was trying to break up with me to save me. He didn't want to drag me down with him.

Adrenaline flooded my system. The grief hit me like a physical blow to the stomach, but I shoved it down. I needed to see him. Now.

I had to tell him that I wasn't going anywhere. I would stay by his side through every chemo treatment, every bad day. Just like he had held my hand for five years and pulled me out of the darkness.

But when I found him at the private club, my hand froze inches from the door.

Through the gap, his voice drifted out. Heavy. Resentful.

"Celeste hasn't let me touch her in years. I feel like a damn placeholder."

I stopped breathing.

Through the crack in the door, I saw him. He took a harsh drag from a cigarette, smoke curling around a face twisted in irritation. He didn't look sick. He looked... pissed off.

"Dead exes are the ultimate competition," Damon muttered, ash falling to the floor. "I don't think she ever forgot him."

"But I've wasted six years on Celeste."

He chain-smoked, the movements fluid and aggressive. Not the movements of a dying man.

Trent laughed, swirling a drink. "Bro, are you serious? It's 2026. Who does the platonic relationship thing anymore? You're Damon Vance, for Christ's sake."

"You know the saying, man. You can't compete with a ghost."

"Especially since she tried to off herself for Rowan."

Damons expression went icy. He didn't defend me.

The boys piled on, the locker room talk getting louder. "Exactly. Girls like that? You just have fun with them. You didn't actually catch feelings, did you?"

"You don't get it," another friend chimed in. "Damon spent five years babysitting her. Quit all his extreme sports. Acted like a total saint. Thats a lot of sunk cost. Of course he's not happy."

Damon crushed the cigarette butt into the crystal ashtray, grinding it down until the embers died. His frown deepened.

"She has clinical depression," Damon said, his voice low. "I was worried about her."

Then, he paused. He looked up, his eyes void of empathy.

"Unless... the depression is fake, too?"

A chill started at the soles of my feet and shot up my spine, freezing my blood.

"Hard to say," his friend shrugged.

"I bet the real reason she won't sleep with you is because she's still hung up on the dead guy. She just doesn't want to let you in."

Damon sat there. No emotion on his face. Just a terrifying, radiating coldness.

Chapter 2

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

One of the guys tried to diffuse it. "Look, don't let it get to you. The guy is six feet under. Hes not exactly a threat."

"Is that right?" Damons eyes were devoid of warmth. He swirled his glass, staring into the amber liquid. "I want to know. I need to know if Celeste actually loves me."

"Bro, what are you talking about?"

The overhead lights dimmed, casting Damons face in shadow. He looked like a predator lying in wait.

His voice cut through the noise, clear and venomous.

"Thats why Im faking it. The cancer. The dying. Im going to stage my death to test her." He leaned forward, a dark excitement in his eyes. "I want to see if she follows me. I want to see if she tries to kill herself for me, just like she did for him."

I was standing just outside the door, clutching a thermos of warm honey water Id made to soothe his throat.

My grip on the thermos tightened until my knuckles turned white. My feet felt like they had been encased in concrete. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

He thinks Im using him.

He was ripping open my old scars, not to heal them, but to see if I would bleed for him.

Invisible vines wrapped around my heart, squeezing tighter and tighter with every beat. The pain was sharp, physical, agonizing.

My mind flashed back to that night five years ago. The night the ocean almost took me.

Damon was the one who pulled me out of the freezing water.

He didn't preach. He didn't give me the standard "life goes on" speech.

He just held me while I shivered. "If you can't let him go, then don't," he had whispered. "Bury him deep in your heart. Forgetting isn't a prerequisite for moving on."

He became my anchor.

For three years, I was a ghost, and he was the only thing tethering me to reality. He waited. He stayed.

Then came the morning the sunlight hit the duvet. I reached out, my fingers tracing the warmth on the fabric. The knot in my chest loosened.

By the fifth year, before I finally said yes to Damon, I went to Rowan's grave. I told the cold stone I was moving forward. That I wouldn't be coming back.

I thought Damon understood. I thought he knew.

But standing in that hallway, the illusion shattered. He never believed me.

Inside the room, someone handed Damon another drink. The mood had shifted from locker-room banter to something darker.

"I don't know, man. This seems reckless. What if she figures it out?"

"Yeah, how do you come back from that?" another friend asked. "If her depression flares up, you're back to babysitting. You got time for that?"

"And what if she actually does it? What if she commits suicide and you can't save her in time? You gonna be okay with that on your conscience?"

"It would hurt," Damon admitted. He took a slow sip of his drink, the corner of his mouth lifting into a twisted smile. "But relax. If it proves her love, Celeste won't complain. Shell understand."

He paused, looking around the circle of friends, his ego swelling.

"Besides, the whole city knows shes obsessed with me. If shes damaged goods who tries to off herself, who else is going to want her? Shes stuck with me."

He licked his lips, savoring the cruelty.

"And if she doesn't make it? If she actually dies?"

He shrugged, the indifference chilling me to the bone.

"Then Ill remember her for the rest of my life."

Chapter 3

I stood rooted outside the door. It felt like Id been doused in ice water. My body shooknot from cold, but from shock.

My heart didn't just break; it froze over.

His words hit me like sledgehammers, one after another, slamming into my chest until I had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.

It wasn't cancer.

It was a test.

It didn't matter if my depression came back. It didn't matter if I actually died. In his twisted logic, my death would be the ultimate victorythe only way he could finally beat the ghost of my dead boyfriend.

Despair surged through my veins, hot and toxic. But then, it cooled into something else. Something sharp.

A plan began to form in the wreckage of my mind.

Damon, you want a test? Lets test this.

Lets see who really can't live without whom.

You want to see my depression return? You want to fake your death to see if I break?

Wish granted.

I will play the devoted girlfriend.

I will pretend the darkness has returned to swallow me whole.

And then, I will "die."

Right in front of you.

I will let you watch me disappear. I will let your little plan implode. And then, I will vanish, leaving you with nothing but air.

I cant wait to see the look on your face when the curtain falls.

I turned on my heel and left, driving home in a trance.

Back in our apartment, I stared at the forged medical document.

Date of Diagnosis: One month ago.

This wasn't a whim. This wasn't a drunken mistake. Damon had been planning this for weeks.

My nose stung. Tears, hot and traitorous, slipped down my cheeks despite my rage.

He was the one who said we should wait until marriage.

He was the one who held my hand tight, whispering that he wanted our first time to be perfect, to be sacred.

Wed been officially dating for less than a year. I thought intimacy was something that happened naturally. I never set a timeline. I never told him "no." If he had asked, if he had truly wanted it, I wouldn't have pushed him away.

But in his version of the story? I was the frigid girlfriend, rejecting him because I was still in love with a corpse.

It was laughable. It was sick.

To him, saving me was a burden. A "waste of time."

Why didn't he just tell me?

Six years. Not six days. Six years.

If he had been honest, I would have walked away. I would have healed on my own. I wouldn't be sitting here, heart open and bleeding, realizing I was just a prop in his ego trip.

I dug my nails into the soft flesh between my thumb and forefinger, pinching hard until the sharp pain grounded me.

Its okay.

Its actually okay.

Fate was on my side.

I found out before it was too late. I found out before the depression could actually drag me back under.

And now I knew the truth: A mans love always comes with conditions. Its always a transaction.

When Damon finally came home, I was still sitting on the sofa, staring into the void.

Chapter 4

Snap.

The living room flooded with harsh, artificial light. My pupils contracted painfully, but I didn't turn away.

Damon froze, surprised to see me sitting in the dark. "Celeste?"

I stared right at him, my grip on the paper so tight the edges were crushing into my palm.

"Is this real?"

My voice fractured on the last word. Two heavy, hot tears spilled over, tracing a path down my cheeks.

Damons expression crumpled. He crossed the room in two strides, his thumbs immediately brushing away the moisture on my face. He looked devastated.

"Hey, don't. Please don't cry. I'm okay."

He couldn't hold my gaze. Instead, he pulled me into his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

"Life, death... it happens to everyone, Celeste. Im just grateful I got to spend these years with you. I don't have any regrets."

His grip tightened. "Please don't be sad. I can't handle it if you get sick again. I can't watch you fall back into that hole."

Look at him.

The man holding me together is the same man trying to tear me apart.

The dissonance split my head open. It felt like taking a physical blow to the skull, over and over again. My breath hitched, trapped in a chest that felt too small for my lungs. My body started to tremblea violent, uncontrollable shivering.

Which version is real? The cold-blooded gambler making bets on my suicide in a smoky club, or this tender saint standing in my living room?

Logic screamed at me: End it. Throw the paper in his face, scream the truth, and walk out the door.

But before I could speak, he cupped my face, forcing me to look at him.

"Celeste? You're shaking. Is it happening again? Is the depression coming back?"

Hah.

There it is. Thats exactly what you want to see, isn't it? Why pretend?

I shoved against his chest, breaking the contact. I needed distance. I needed to see his eyes when I dropped the bomb.

"Damon." My voice was a dry rasp, stripped of emotion. "This cancer... its fake, isn't it?"

Silence stretched between us, thin and brittle.

I waited. Maybe hed panic. Maybe hed realize the gig was up and just dump me. Maybe hed admit he was just a jealous, insecure boy.

Just say it. Lets end this.

But he didn't.

Instead, his eyes rimmed with red. He looked at me with a practiced, tragic softness.

"Celeste... I wanted to break up the second I found out. Thats why Ive been so cold this past month. I was terrified of dragging you down with me."

His voice broke perfectly. "I thought if I made you hate me, you wouldn't notice when I... when I just quietly died."

Liar.

If you wanted to spare me, you wouldn't have left the "diagnosis" on the entry console where you knew Id find it.

Chapter 5

"I tried to stay away," he whispered, his voice trembling with practiced vulnerability. "But the isolation... it was torture. Every second away from you hurt more than the cancer. I felt like I was losing my mind."

He looked at me, eyes pleading. "Forgive me for being selfish. But if Im going to die, I need to be with you. Even if it's just for the end."

I slowly closed my eyes.

So, youre really committing to the bit, aren't you, Damon?

"Celeste? Are you okay? Do you need your meds?"

The audacity took my breath away. How could someone sound so concerned while holding a knife to my throat?

I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sharp bite of pain grounded me. I shoved the bile down.

Then, I wrapped my arms around him.

"Damon," I murmured into his chest. "Im going to take care of you. Were going to beat this."

I pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"And if we don't? If you die... then I die, too."

I felt the muscles in his back seize up instantly. A rigid, involuntary spasm.

But he didn't correct me. He didn't say no.

Alright, Damon. Lets play. Lets see who blinks first.

---

Damon checked into a VIP suite at Cedars-Sinaia room hed clearly booked weeks in advance.

I stood outside the heavy oak door, listening. Inside, it sounded like a party.

Standing at the front of the group was a stunning girl, punching him lightly on the chest. "So, does this mean you can't take me racing anymore?"

"Racing isn't for little girls, Sloan. Keep that up and no one will want to marry you."

"Hey!" She sounded like she was pouting. "You promised. Remember the pact? If were both single at thirty, we tie the knot."

"Stop it," Damon said, though his tone was affectionate. "Don't waste your time. I have a girlfriend."

Sloan scoffed. "You mean the charity case? The one whos still obsessed with Rowan?"

My hand hovered over the door handle.

"Im actually curious," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "What does the girl who tried to kill herself look like these days? Is she still... unstable?"

"She's fragile," Damon said quietly. "Shes pitiful, really."

"I think you're the pitiful one," Sloan shot back. "Why settle for damaged goods? If you had just said yes to me back then, wed be married by now."

Damon didn't argue.

I took a deep breath, composed my features into a mask of tragic devotion, and knocked.

The laughter inside died instantly.

When I pushed the door open, all eyes turned to me. Damon, dressed in designer silk pajamas, immediately clutched his chest and let out a series of hollow, rattling coughs.

"Celeste."

He reached his hand out to me, weak and trembling.

I ignored it.

I walked past his outstretched hand and set the thermos of bone broth on the bedside table.

"I made you some broth," I said softly, my voice devoid of warmth but heavy with performance. "What did the doctor say?"

Around the room, his friends watched, their eyes gleaming with amusement. They were the audience. And the show had just begun.

Chapter 6

I wasn't the victim here. I was just playing along with these entitled rich boys in their childish game. And I was just getting started.

"We start chemo soon," Damon lied, his voice grave. "If we catch it early... maybe there's a chance."

Since I walked in, Sloan hadn't taken her eyes off me. She looked at me like I was a stain on the carpet.

"Celeste," Damon said, gesturing to the girl. "This is Sloan. She's a friend we grew up with."

He hit the word "friend" hard. Too hard.

"Hi," I said, meeting her gaze.

She didn't smile. Instead, she reached over and popped the lid off the thermos Id brought.

"I haven't eaten all day. Starving," she announced. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Sloan, I'm the patient here," Damon said, but there was no bite in his tone. "Thats my soup."

"Don't be so stingy! You cant even share a little soup?" She grabbed a spoon and started slurping it down, maintaining aggressive eye contact with me.

I watched her, face impassive.

Enjoy it, sweetheart. Its DoorDash.

She thought she was asserting dominance. She was just eating mediocre takeout Id poured into a nice container.

After a few mouthfuls, she tossed the spoon back into the bowl with a clatter. "I backwashed. You probably don't want it now."

She wiped her mouth and sneered at me.

"He was fine before you showed up. He used to be a legend. Then you came along, and he quit racing, quit skydiving, turned into this... boring, safe guy. And now look? Cancer."

She leaned in, her perfume cloying and sweet. "You're bad luck, Celeste. You're a curse."

"Sloan!" Damon snapped. "Thats enough. If youre going to talk trash, get out. Go back to Paris."

"You're yelling at me?" Sloan stood up, stomping her foot like a toddler. "Im trying to help you, and you treat me like dirt? Fine! Rot here with your bad-luck charm. You deserve each other!"

She glared at Damon, then me, and slammed the door so hard the walls shook. The rest of the entourage took the hint and shuffled out, muttering awkward goodbyes.

Silence returned to the room. Damon rubbed his temples, looking exhausted.

"Shes just... she has a temper. Shes like a little sister. Don't take it to heart."

"Mmhmm."

I lowered my eyes, playing the submissive role, and poured him a glass of water.

Damon grabbed my wrist, pulling me close. He guided my hand to his lips, drinking from the glass while I held it. His eyes locked on mine.

"You're quiet," he murmured, water glistening on his lip. "Jealous?"

"No."

I pulled my hand back and set the glass down.

He tugged me into the bed, wrapping his arms around my waist. "Celeste, seriously. Sloan has no filter. We grew up together, thats it. Don't let her get in your head."

He sounded so sincere. So open.

Like there were no secrets between us.

But over his shoulder, his phone screen lit up on the nightstand.

New Message from: Princess

I don't care what you say. You are taking me racing tonight. Or else.

I stared at the screen until it went black.

It doesn't matter.

While he held me, whispering lies into my hair, I quietly pulled out my own phone.

I opened TikTok and created a new account.

Username: @LovingDamon

Bio: Documenting my fianc's battle with Stage IV Cancer. We will fight this together.

I hit "Create."

Let the record show exactly how much I love you, Damon.

Chapter 7

My first post went live at 8:00 AM.

@LovingDamon: Day 1 of treatment. They say Stage IV is practically a death sentence. Why him? Hes so young. Its not fair. I wish it were me instead of him. CancerSucks FuckCancer MyLove

The photo was a faceless shot of Damon sitting on the hospital bed, hunched over in that depressing blue gown. Tragic. Perfect.

I spent the entire day playing the dutiful girlfriend in that sterile VIP suite. By 6:00 PM, his phone was vibrating against the bedside table every thirty seconds.

I sat in the corner, sketching on my iPad. Drawing him.

As I added the final shading to his jawline, Damon finally cracked.

"Celeste, baby, you've been here all day. You must be exhausted. Go home and get some rest."

I saved the drawing and gave him a brave little smile. "I'm not tired."

He reached out and grabbed my hand. "I worry about you, thats all."

"Don't be."

He was twitching. He didn't even realize how hard he was squeezing my hand; his knuckles were turning white. The anxiety was practically vibrating off him.

I ignored the death grip and held up the iPad. "Look. What do you think? Did I capture the likeness?"

Usually, hed spend ten minutes critiquing the shading or the perspective. Today, he barely glanced at it, his eyes darting back to his buzzing phone screen.

"Its amazing, Celeste. Youre the best."

He didn't even look at me when he said it. His eyes were already back on his texts.

I started counting in my head.

One.

Two.

On three, he dropped my hand and cupped my face, feigning intense concern. "Celeste, seriously. Go home. I hired a night nurse. This is a long fight, a marathon. You can't burn out on Day One."

You just want me gone so you can make your booty call.

I nodded slowly. "Okay. Youre right. Ill go. Try to sleep. Call me if you need anything."

"Ill call the driver for you." He grabbed his phone fast. Too fast. The desperation was leaking out of his pores.

I shook my head. "No need. I drove myself."

I stepped out into the hall and let the heavy door click shut behind me. I waited five seconds.

When I peeked back through the small glass panel, Damon was already ripping off the hospital gown.

Ten minutes later, he emerged from the room. No sign of the sick, dying patient. He was wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, looking sharp. Dangerous.

I trailed him. I kept a two-car distance all the way out of the city and up into the winding canyon roads where the rich kids liked to play street racer.

He pulled into a scenic overlook crowded with souped-up cars. Before he even fully stopped, Sloan shrieked, running at his car. She jumped into his arms the second he stepped out, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Damon caught her effortlessly, burying his face in her neck.

Their friends whistled and cheered, popping champagne bottles. They looked so alive. So vibrant. So utterly untroubled by death.

It felt like my heart was being sliced apart with a dull vegetable peeler. A thousand tiny, agonizing cuts.

I raised my phone. Click.

I got the shot, then turned my car around and drove back to the empty apartment.

Over the next few weeks, the excuses piled up. He needed "private treatments." He had "support group meetings."

I became his shadow.

I watched from a distance as Sloan rode on the back of his Ducati, her arms wrapped tight around his leather jacket, hands waving wildly in the wind.

I watched them rock climbing at an indoor gym, Damon belaying her, looking up at her like she was the most precious thing in the world, making sure she didn't fall.

I watched them at the club, bodies grinding together under flashing strobe lights, Sloan laughing with her head thrown back in his arms.

I watched them act like teenagers at Six Flags, eating cotton candy and taking selfies on the rollercoasters.

And finally, I watched them standing on a bridge, under a sky exploding with fireworks, as they leaned in and kissed like they were the only two people on earth.

Chapter 8

It felt like a fraying hemp rope was wrapped around my heart.

Twisting. Tightening. Squeezing until my ribs threatened to crack under the pressure.

Every single time.

He would push me away with a lie, leave the apartment, and then five minutes later, my phone would buzz.

Damon: Thank you for staying by my side, Celeste. I don't know what Id do without you. I love you.

He sends digital love notes with one hand while the other is tangled in another woman's hair.

Its the oldest story in the book.

The girl who chased him got tired and left. He felt the loss. He started to miss the attention.

Now, shes back. And she wants him again.

So he regrets settling for me.

But what I cant wrap my head around is the cruelty. If you love her, Damon, then be with her. Break up with me. Leave.

Why the theater? Why the cancer? Why try to manipulate me into suicide?

Because hes greedy.

He wants the thrill of the chase and the ego-stroke of the martyr waiting at home. He wants the saint and the sinner.

Damon, you really think you can have it all, don't you?

I kept posting. I fed the algorithm.

On the night I watched them kiss under the fireworks, I posted a photo of the glass jar filled with paper stars.

@LovingDamon: He folded thousands of these. One for every day he helped me fight my depression. I miss the boy he was back then. Forever young. Forever passionate.

I stood on the sidewalk across the street, watching his silhouette fade into the night.

I clutched the jar to my chest. Inside every single star was a handwritten wish Damon had made for me.

I used to believe in those wishes. I used to believe we were heading toward a happy ending.

My mind drifted back to the night I finally cut ties with my parents. The night the illusion of "us" was cemented.

My parentsuptight, old-money snobshad pointed a shaking finger at Damon.

"He is a bastard son," Frank had spat, his face red with elitist rage. "He has no future. The Sinclair family comes from a line of scholars and intellectuals. We will not have our daughter running around with the illegitimate trash of a mistress."

I laughed in their faces.

"Where were you?" I screamed, my voice raw. "You divorced when I was five and forgot I existed. When Dorothy died and I fell into depression, where were you?"

"Now that someone has spent five years stitching me back together, you want to have an opinion? You want to play 'concerned parent'?"

"You don't care about me. You care about your reputation. You are selfish, narcissistic hypocrites."

That night, I cried until I dry-heaved.

Damon stood next to me, hands at his sides. He didn't touch me. He didn't dare.

"I have no status," he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I have no right to touch you. It would ruin your reputation."

But then, the dam broke.

"Don't feel burdened, Celeste," he said, stepping closer. "Love isn't a debt. Its not a transaction. I love you. Thats enough."

"Whether you accept me or not... thats your choice. Your right."

"I just want you to survive."

I collapsed into his arms that night.

He held me like I was made of glass. I felt his hot tears soaking into the fabric of my shirt at my neck.

"Weve been through hell," he sobbed. "We have to make it to the finish line together."

"Celeste, I love you. I want to scream it to the whole world."

Chapter 9

How does a man go from whispering eternal vows to orchestrating this twisted reality show?

How did the person who stitched me back together become the one tearing me apart?

I lower my phone, the screen turning black. That night, as I followed him out, I suddenly felt a wave of apathy. Hoooooonk!

A piercing blast of sound shattered my thoughts. Twin beams of blinding white light cut through the darkness, freezing me in place like a deer on the asphalt.

My muscles locked. I couldn't move.

Thenimpact.

Not the car, but a body.

A violent shove sent me flying. I hit the concrete hard, skin scraping against the grit.

I scrambled up, heart hammering against my ribs, and turned around.

Damon was lying on the road.

Blood. Bright, red, and terrifyingly real. It pooled under his head, staining the pavement.

The world dissolved into chaos. Screams. The screech of tires. The shouting of bystanders. It all blended into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The ground beneath me seemed to tilt.

"Celeste..."

The voice was weak, barely a whisper.

I crawled over to him, my knees scraping the road.

"Damon!"

He reached out, his bloody fingers wrapping around my wrist. A faint, tragic smile played on his lips.

"Its okay," he wheezed. "Im on borrowed time anyway, Celeste. Better me than you."

Thump.

Something inside my chest pulled tight. A physical wrenching of the heart.

I squeezed my hands into fists until the nails bit into my palms.

Damon, who do you actually love?

Why save me? Why risk your life for the girl you're mocking behind closed doors?

Maybe he came back because the guilt ate him alive. Or maybe, the hero complex was just too strong to resist.

---

The car had swerved at the last second. Damon had a concussion and a nasty gash, but he was alive.

We were back in the VIP suite. The air smelled of antiseptic and lies.

I sat by his bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

"Where were you going with the jar of stars?" he asked, his voice rasping.

I looked at the glass jar on the nightstand. I picked it up and held it out to him.

With shaking fingers, he peeled one open. He squinted at the handwritinghis own handwriting.

It was a quote by Tagore: It is the morning of my life. I have cast loose all my yesterdays and I am light of foot.

He read it aloud, then chuckled softly. "I used to write one of these every single day. You have no idea. I was scouring libraries for quotes like I was cramming for the SATs."

I studied his face. The bandage on his forehead. The pale skin.

"Damon," I asked quietly. "Why do you love me?"

He paused, looking surprised. "Where is this coming from?"

He reached out and stroked my hair, his eyes glazing over as if watching a movie montage of our past.

"It was love at first sight. Seriously. And then... I got to know you. You were soft. You were kind. You cared about stray animals and painted beautiful things. You were so serious about everything."

He sighed, leaning back. "Being with you... it just felt quiet. It felt like peace. Like the years were finally gentle."

So I am good. It is not my fault.

I am safe. I am the "peaceful" option. I am the good woman. Its not about me; its about how I make him feel.

"What about Sloan?" I asked.

His smile froze. The mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

He squeezed my hand, buying time. "Sloan? She's just a kid. We come from different worlds."

An evasion is also an answer.

I forced a smile, leaning in closer.

"Damon, you've been 'sick' for a month now. Why haven't your parents visited? Not even once?"

I watched his pupils. I watched the micro-expressions twitching around his eyes.

"You told me once," I whispered, "that you would never lie to me."

Chapter 10

His grip tightened, crushing my fingers, before he yanked me into his chest, locking me in a suffocating embrace.

"You know my family is a mess, Celeste. You know that," he whispered hoarsely into my ear. "You are all I have left."

"Promise me. Promise youll stay with me until the end."

There it is