While I Was Comatose, My Fiancé Proposed to My Sister

The Howard penthouse smells like money and lies.

They bring me home on a Thursday. Two attendants wheel me through the lobby in a chair I don't need, past doormen who don't meet my eyes. The elevator is mirrored on all sides. I watch myself rise—pale skin, hollow cheeks, a cashmere blanket tucked around my legs like I'm fragile.

I'm not fragile.

The penthouse takes up the entire forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Central Park. The furniture is all cream and gold, the kind of beautiful that means don't touch. My childhood bedroom has been converted into a recovery suite. Hospital bed. Monitoring equipment. A private nurse stationed in the sitting room.

Monica kisses my forehead. "You're home now, darling."

She leaves before I can answer.

Dr. Gonzales arrives at two o'clock for my first "therapeutic blood work session."

He's younger than I expected. Mid-forties, maybe. Dark hair going gray at the temples. He sets his leather bag on the bedside table and pulls on latex gloves without looking at me.

"How are you feeling today, Miss Howard?" His voice is too careful. Each word measured.

"Tired," I say softly. "But better."

He nods. Doesn't smile. He unwraps a tourniquet and ties it around my upper arm. His hands shake. Just a little. Just enough.

"This is part of your recovery protocol," he says. "We're monitoring your blood chemistry to ensure optimal healing."

"Of course," I murmur. "Thank you, Doctor."

He swabs the inside of my elbow with alcohol. The needle slides in. I watch the vial fill—dark red, almost black in the fluorescent light. He fills three vials. Then four. Then five.

"Is that normal?" I ask. "Five vials?"

He doesn't meet my eyes. "Your case requires comprehensive monitoring."

He packs the vials into a insulated case. Labels them by hand. His writing is too neat, like he's done this many times before.

"Will you need more next week?" I keep my voice light. Curious.

"Yes." He clears his throat. "Twice weekly for the first month. Then we'll reassess."

"That seems like a lot."

"It's standard for coma recovery." He snaps his bag shut. "I'll see you Monday."

He leaves.

I pull the small leather notebook from beneath my pillow. It was my grandfather's. I found it in a drawer the second day home. Inside the front cover, his handwriting: *Always write down what doesn't add up.*

I write the date. The time. Five vials. Twice weekly. Dr. Gabriel Gonzales.

I write: *He's lying.*

For two weeks, I play the part.

I forget names. I ask Marcus to explain simple things—what day it is, whether I've taken my medication. I thank everyone. I smile. I let them think the coma left me soft.

Marcus believes it. I can tell by the way he stops watching me so closely. By the way he leaves his briefcase open on the kitchen counter, papers spilling out while he takes phone calls in his study.

I read everything.

Howard Group subsidiary restructuring. Three holdings transferred to a private LLC eight months after my accident. Signatory: Marcus Howard. Witness: Matteo Collins.

I write it down.

Monica brings me magazines. *Vogue*. *Vanity Fair*. Glossy pages full of people who don't matter. I stack them on my nightstand and read the *Wall Street Journal* Marcus leaves by the coffee maker every morning.

I learn that the Howard Group's stock is up. That Marcus gave an interview about "steady leadership during family hardship." That Matteo Collins was named to the board of directors nine months ago.

I write it down.

Ailani visits every afternoon. She sits on the edge of my bed and holds my hand. She tells me about wedding planning. The florist. The cake tasting. The dress fitting at Kleinfeld.

"I wish you could come," she says. Her voice is soft. Sad. "But you need to rest."

"I'm so happy for you," I whisper.

She squeezes my hand.

I squeeze back.

At night, I count the needle marks on my arms. There are thirty-seven now.

Three weeks after coming home, I join the family for breakfast.

The dining room table is Italian marble, imported, twelve feet long. Matteo sits across from me, scrolling his phone. He's wearing the watch I gave him for his birthday two years before the accident. He doesn't look up.

Ailani sits beside him in a cream silk dress. She's glowing. Her hair is perfect. Her skin is perfect. She looks like someone who's never been sick a day in her life.

Monica fusses over her plate. "Are the eggs too runny, sweetheart? I'll have them remake it."

"They're perfect, Mom." Ailani smiles.

Monica turns to me. "Bellamy, are you eating enough? You look pale."

"I'm fine," I say.

Marcus doesn't look up from the *Times*.

I reach for my water glass. My hand brushes the crystal vase at the center of the table. White peonies. Ailani's favorite.

Then I see it.

The ring on her left hand.

Platinum band. Emerald-cut diamond. Delicate filigree along the sides.

I designed that ring.

Matteo showed me the sketch two months before the accident. We were in his apartment. He spread the drawing on the kitchen counter and asked if I liked it. I told him it was perfect. He kissed me and said, "You're perfect."

Now it's on Ailani's hand.

Something in my chest goes cold. Then colder. Then nothing at all.

I pick up the vase.

"Bellamy—" Monica starts.

I smash it against the marble.

Glass explodes. Water floods across the table. Peonies scatter like bones. A shard catches Ailani's dress, dragging a wet line down the cream silk.

She gasps. Matteo jerks back. Marcus lowers his newspaper.

I look at my hand. Totally steady.

"I'm so sorry," I say pleasantly. "My hands are still so weak."

I stand. I walk out of the dining room. I don't look back.

In my bedroom, I open the notebook.

I write: *The ring. He gave her my ring.*

I write: *I don't love him anymore.*

I write: *Good.*

Then I close the notebook and begin to plan.