My Fiancé Hung Up While I Died

Collin set his glass down on the bar.

I saw him do it. I was mid-sentence, telling Ryland about a gallery opening in Chelsea, and I saw Collin's hand release the whiskey tumbler and start moving through the crowd toward us.

Ryland was saying something about a Rothko he'd acquired last year. I kept my eyes on him and nodded.

Collin arrived at my shoulder.

"Selene," he said.

I turned. Slowly. "Collin."

He looked at Ryland. Then at me. Then his hand came to rest at the small of my back — light, familiar, possessive.

I stepped sideways. Just half a step. Just enough.

His hand fell away.

"I don't believe we've met," Collin said to Ryland. His voice was smooth. Too smooth.

Ryland extended his hand with easy confidence. "Ryland Turner."

"Collin Lynch." They shook. Collin's grip lasted a beat too long.

"Ryland runs the Turner auction houses," I said. My tone was pleasant. Professional. The tone you'd use with someone you barely remembered. "We were just discussing his collection."

Collin's jaw tightened. "I see."

Ryland smiled. "Selene was telling me about a gallery in Chelsea. You're familiar with it?"

"No," Collin said. He wasn't looking at Ryland anymore. He was looking at me.

I met his eyes. I felt nothing.

"If you'll excuse me," Collin said finally. He turned and walked away without another word.

I watched him go. Watched him push through the crowd toward the exit, his shoulders rigid, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Ryland took a sip of champagne. "Old friend?"

"Something like that," I said.

We kept talking.

I stayed until eleven. I said my goodbyes. I collected my coat and walked out into the rain.

Bentley was waiting at the curb. He'd come to the gala briefly, made his rounds, and left early to finalize paperwork on the partnership we'd been negotiating for weeks. Now he stood beside a black sedan, collar turned up against the drizzle, scrolling through his phone.

He looked up when I approached. "How was it?"

"Productive," I said.

He opened the door for me. I slid into the back seat. He went around and got in beside me.

The driver pulled into traffic.

Midtown at night was all headlights and brake lights and the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

"You okay?" Bentley asked.

I opened my eyes. "I'm fine."

He studied me for a moment. Then nodded. "The contracts are signed. We're officially partners."

"Good."

We turned onto 57th Street. The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the roof. The driver slowed at a yellow light.

I looked out the window at the city blurring past.

I thought about nothing.

Then the world exploded.

The impact came from the right — a massive, unstoppable force that lifted the car and threw it sideways. Glass shattered. Metal screamed. My body slammed against something hard and then I was weightless, spinning, and then I wasn't.

Everything stopped.

I couldn't breathe.

There was pressure on my chest. Something sharp in my side. The taste of copper in my mouth.

I heard Bentley's voice, distant and muffled. "Selene. Selene, can you hear me?"

I tried to answer. Nothing came out.

I turned my head. Slowly. The world tilted and blurred. I saw shattered glass everywhere. The door was crumpled inward. Something warm was spreading across my lap.

Blood.

Mine.

I couldn't feel my legs.

Bentley was leaning over me, his face pale, his hands pressing something against my side. "Stay with me," he was saying. "Stay with me, Selene."

I tried to nod.

My phone was on the floor. Cracked screen, still glowing.

I reached for it.

My hand barely moved. My fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. I stretched. Strained. Touched the edge of the phone and dragged it toward me.

Bentley was yelling something. At the driver. At someone outside.

I unlocked the phone. My vision was narrowing. Everything was getting darker at the edges.

I found Collin's number.

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

Pick up.

Please.

Three times.

Then a voice. Not his.

"Hello?" Harlow said. Her tone was light. Curious.

I tried to speak. My voice came out as a rasp. "Collin—"

"Oh, Selene." She sighed. I heard rustling. Movement. Then her voice again, quieter now, almost amused. "You know, this is getting a little desperate. Calling him at this hour? Really?"

"Please—" I whispered.

More rustling. Then Collin's voice in the background. "Who is it?"

"It's Selene," Harlow said. I heard the smile in her voice. "She's calling you. Again."

A pause.

Then Collin's voice, closer now. He must have taken the phone.

"Selene." He sounded tired. Annoyed. "If you're going to put on a show, at least make it convincing."

I tried to say his name. I tried to tell him.

Nothing came out but a sob.

"I'm done with this," he said.

The line went dead.

The phone slipped from my fingers.

I heard sirens. Distant. Growing closer.

Bentley was still talking. His hands were still pressing against my side.

I looked up at the roof of the car. At the rain streaking across what was left of the windows.

I thought about the red dress.

I thought about Ryland's laugh.

I thought about nothing.

The darkness at the edges rushed in.

And everything went black.