His Fiancée Killed My Comatose Brother to Keep Me Away

The cage was smaller than I remembered.

I stood in the center of it — white dress, bare feet — while the auction continued around me like I wasn't even there. The gilded bars caught the light from the chandeliers overhead. Beautiful, really. The kind of thing you'd see in a museum exhibit about something that happened a long time ago to people who weren't real.

Except I was real. And this was the Crawford Museum of Modern Art. And the people bidding were wearing Tom Ford and Cartier.

"Five thousand for the next bucket," someone called from the crowd. A woman in emerald silk. I didn't know her name. I'd stopped learning their names two years ago.

The auctioneer — a man in a tuxedo who probably had a mortgage and a daughter in private school — smiled and raised his gavel. "Five thousand going once."

I focused on the floor. Marble tiles. White with gray veins. I counted the seams. One. Two. Three.

"Going twice."

Four. Five.

The gavel came down.

Two staff members approached with a steel bucket. I could see the ice floating in the water. My hands were already numb from the last round, so I pressed them against my thighs and made myself breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way Tanner taught me when I was twelve and couldn't sleep after the funeral.

The water hit me from above. Cold doesn't really describe it. Cold is something you feel. This was something that erased feeling. My lungs seized. My vision went white at the edges. But I didn't scream.

I never screamed.

The crowd applauded politely. Someone laughed. I blinked water out of my eyes and found the floor again. Six. Seven.

Across the room, Caspian Crawford stood with a glass of scotch in his hand.

He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at the painting on the wall behind the cage — some modern piece, all slashes of red and black. His jaw was tight. His posture was perfect. He looked like a man at a business dinner who was mildly bored.

Three years ago, he would have carried me out of here. Three years ago, he would have burned the building down if someone tried this.

Three years ago, he loved me.

Now he just watched.

Beside him, Davina Herrera leaned close and whispered something to a woman I recognized from the society pages. Both of them glanced at me. Davina's smile was soft and sympathetic. The kind of smile you give when you see a dog with three legs.

"Ten thousand," a man's voice called. Laughter rippled through the room.

I stopped counting.

The auction went on for another hour. By the end, my dress was plastered to my skin and I couldn't feel my fingers. When they finally unlocked the cage, I stepped out carefully. My legs shook, but I didn't fall. I'd learned how to walk on numb legs.

An aide in a gray suit handed me a towel and a clipboard.

"Sign here," she said quietly. Not unkind. Just efficient.

I looked down at the form. ICU Authorization Renewal. Tanner Sullivan. Valid through March 31st, subject to review.

I signed it with a pen that barely worked because my hand was shaking too hard to grip it properly.

The aide took the clipboard back and nodded once. "You're all set."

I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and walked toward the exit. No one stopped me. No one looked at me. I was already gone.

The subway at four in the morning smelled like piss and old coffee. I sat in the corner of the car with the towel still around me and my dress dripping onto the floor. A man across from me stared for a while, then looked away.

The hospital was quiet when I got there. I knew the route by heart. Third floor. East wing. Room 307.

Tanner looked the same as he always did. Pale. Still. Machines beeping softly beside the bed. I pulled a chair close and pressed my forehead against the bed rail.

"I'm fine," I whispered. "It was fine. You just have to keep breathing."

He didn't answer. He never did.

I stayed until the sun came up. Then I went home, peeled off the dress, and got ready to do it again.

Two weeks later, I was at a house party in the Hamptons. I didn't want to be there, but the Crawfords had made it clear that declining invitations was the same as declining Tanner's next authorization form.

I stood near the window with a glass of water I wasn't drinking when a man approached. Mid-thirties. Kind eyes. He smiled like he didn't know who I was.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," he said.

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The party." He gestured at the room. "You look miserable. I don't blame you. These things are unbearable."

I didn't know what to say. No one had spoken to me like a person in a long time.

"Can I get you a real drink?" he asked. "You look like you could use one."

Before I could answer, I felt it.

A shift in the air. A coldness that had nothing to do with temperature.

I turned and saw Caspian across the room. He wasn't moving. He was just standing there, perfectly still, with his eyes locked on the man beside me.

The man didn't notice. He was still smiling.

"I'm fine," I said quickly. "Thank you."

I walked away before anything else could happen.

Three days later, I heard the man's hedge fund had collapsed. Investors pulled out overnight. No one knew why.

I knew.

A week after that, Davina found me at a Crawford Foundation luncheon. She sat down across from me with a warm smile and folded her hands on the table.

"Layne," she said softly. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

I looked at her. Waited.

"I know how hard this has been for you," she continued. "Watching your brother like that. Not knowing if he'll ever wake up."

I said nothing.

"I've arranged something," she said. "A specialist team. From Switzerland. They've had success with cases like Tanner's. I've already paid for everything. They can start next month."

I stared at her. My throat closed.

"You'd do that?" I whispered.

Her smile widened. "Of course. You've been through enough."

For the first time in three years, I cried in front of someone.

I thanked her. I held her hand.

I didn't know she'd already wired the payment to Dr. Emil Strauss.