The chandelier hums above us, vibrating through the floorboards like a lie I’ve lived for five years. I stand beside Kevan, my hand in his, smiling at people who call me ‘poor thing’ behind their champagne flutes. He leans close, voice low, thinking I can’t understand. “Just play along tonight,” he says. “We’re almost past this phase.”

My fingers tighten. I remember the hospital room, the way he gripped my hand when he woke up blind and deaf. I chose silence then—to stay with him, to be understood. But now, music swells, and I realize: he doesn’t want me to understand. He wants me to disappear.

Across the ballroom, Lena locks eyes with me and raises her glass—just slightly. A signal. The envelope in my coat burns against my skin. Inside: my full name, my bank access, and a ticket to Geneva.

I have three choices: stay and pretend a little longer, walk out now and vanish, or step onto the stage and speak into the microphone waiting for the next speaker.