He was asleep in the hospital bed when I found him, so I took a seat opposite it. His round face was sunken, his bright hazelnut skin sallow, his lips chapped. When we had first faced cancer, he’d had to go in for treatment, but they let him come home afterward. He never collapsed. He never had to stay.

I was told a doctor would be in to talk with me shortly, but it was maybe thirty minutes after I arrived when a tall, older man in a white coat came in.

“He needs ChapStick,” I said.

The doctor blinked, then said, “Are you his next of kin?”

“Yes,” I said, still watching Uncle in bed.

“Good. We’ve been needing to talk to someone. Your…” He trailed off, waiting for me to supply my connection to Uncle.

“Uncle.”

“Your uncle hasn’t given us anyone to contact. We’ve done all we can do here. Now he’ll need round-the-clock care. We can suggest some good hospices, or if you have the means, in-home providers.”

Rushing. Like the waves outside Grayson’s window. Or the blood in my ears when he touches me.

“Miss?”

“What are you saying?”

“Your uncle is dying.”

I read somewhere that doctors have to say it that way, have to be horribly blunt, so we accept it. So it feels real.

I still didn’t believe it.

“But he said he had two years, maybe more.”

The doctor made a face. “He has a few months, maybe, if he decides to continue treatment, but I don’t think he will. If you want to be there with him—”

“I do.” I said. “I do.”

“Don’t make any travel arrangements.”

GRAY

At the end of my hellish day, I waited for Story. Grayson fucking Crowne doesn’t wait, but I waited for Story, pacing back and forth like an idiot.

Some bullshit party was happening to distract everyone about Abigail. I looked at myself in the mirror, in my stupid fucking tux.

Where the fuck was she?

I wasn’t going to wait through another party to find out what happened to her, and I could think of only one place to find her. Halfway to the servant’s quarters, I collided with a body.

My mother.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere.”

I skirted around her, continuing.

“She’s most likely gone,” my mother said to my back. “Let her go.”

I paused.

“What did you do?” I didn’t turn around.

“Only told her what she needed to know, what you refused to tell her,” my mother said simply. “She’s a mistress, Grayson. You’re marrying Charlotte. Those are facts.”

In that moment, resolution steeled my spine.

Before I saw Story again, there was something I needed to do.

I turned from the quarters, pulling out my phone.