The Price of a Perfect Match

Three years after my death, my husband, Caspian Blackwood, visited my mausoleum.

His face darkened at the sight of a bouquet of white roses beside my tombstone.

"What are these?"

The cemetery keeper explained, "Local legend says they mean the deceased's soul has found a new guide in the afterlife and is finally at peace."

"Take them away," Caspian commanded coldly.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"The white roses. Get rid of them all."

In the days that followed, Caspian purchased the entire historic cemetery and turned it into a private memorial park.

He bought out every flower shop within a ten-mile radius, forbidding the sale of a single white rose.

"I won't let you find guidance from anyone else, Aurora, not even in death," he swore at my tombstone. "If you dare, I will hunt you down when I die. Not even death can keep us apart. Wait for me."

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1

It was our fifth anniversary. I was cruising down California's Highway 1 in my Porsche 911 when Caspian called.

His voice was as gentle as ever. "Slow down, Aurora. I've prepared a surprise for you at the cliffside restaurant."

His voice was a familiar comfort, the same gentle tone he always used with me. I smiled, a warmth blooming in my chest. "I know."

I hung up, ready to enjoy the sea breeze, but a deafening roar erupted from behind me. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a black, unplated SUV hurtling straight toward me.

Before I could process it, my world spun into a screeching scrape of metal, followed by a sickening crash. Excruciating pain ripped through me, a brutal force threatening to tear me in two.

Voices swirled around me, muffled and distant.

"Aurora? Aurora…" Someone was saying my name, their voice low and panicked. I fought to open my eyes, but I was sinking into a heavy darkness, unable to move a single inch.

A conversation drifted to my ears. "The emergency room is ready, Mr. Blackwood."

"Hurry."

Caspian's voice. Cold. Detached. My heart jolted, and a sliver of consciousness returned. An emergency room? Why?

I tried to call his name, but my thoughts were a leaden, jumbled mess.

"Do we have to do this, Mr. Blackwood? Your wife…" The man hesitated, his voice thick with unease.

"Stick to the plan. Just make sure the marrow is viable. No more questions."

I couldn't breathe, a crushing weight pressing down on my chest. What was he talking about? Viable bone marrow?

The air was thick with the sharp scent of disinfectant.

I was lying on a hospital bed, the harsh light searing through my closed eyelids.

A woman's voice slithered into the room. It was Scarlett Dubois.

"Are you sure her bone marrow is a match? My doctor said this is my last chance."