The silk sheets were cold against my skin, but the fever had finally broken. I blinked awake to find Camren sitting beside me, still dressed in his black suit, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. "You’re burning up," he’d said hours ago, and hadn’t left since. Now, dawn bled through the curtains, painting gold across the new jewelry on my dresser—necklaces, rings, all more extravagant than the ones I wore yesterday. "Choose whatever you like," he told me when he replaced them, like the old ones meant nothing. But last night, in a locked drawer, I found the box. My photos with Ryan. Our beach trip. His arms around me. And when Camren saw it, his jaw clenched like a trap. "Where did you get that?" he asked, voice low, dangerous. I didn’t answer. I still don’t know if I should.

He stands now, watching me. Waiting. Like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he’s ready for the question.

But if I ask him about Ryan, about the lies, about the way he looks at me like I’m both a stranger and the only person in the world—he might not just walk away. He might erase me again.