When I woke up, it was already the third day.

My phone was on the nightstand. I struggled to reach over and unlock it.

I had been unconscious for twenty-four hours.

Nothing but a few app notifications. No missed calls. No messages from Jason.

The chat log still ended with that payment alert. A silent mockery.

I clicked on his profile. He’d updated his feed ten minutes ago, nine photos in total.

He was still at Sophia’s apartment.

Warm yellow light, cards scattered all over the floor.

Jason was sitting on the carpet, cards in his hand, his profile in the light looking unusually focused and gentle.

The caption was: [Someone’s OCD. She insisted on staying up all night to finish. Keeping her company.]

In the comments, a bunch of their mutual friends were liking and joking around.

[Damn, this is cute.]

[Since when did you have this much patience, dude? Sophia’s got you trained.]

[So when’s the wedding, you two?]

[That’s what love looks like.]

If Sophia once said that playing cards “seemed fun,” Jason would remember.

He bought all the supplies and spent entire evenings doing them with her.

If Sophia mentioned wanting sweet porridge from that place across town at midnight, he would drive across town to get it.

If Sophia had a cold and a fever, he would drop a million-dollar contract and sit by her bed all night.

Scrolling up through her feed was like opening a scrapbook of their romance, except that scrapbook used to belong to me, too.

Twenty-year-old Jason would have done anything for nineteen-year-old Emily.

He got cut off from his family for breaking off the engagement, so he worked three jobs to buy me a diamond ring.

But as I swiped through photo after photo, I noticed something.

At some point, Jason’s wedding ring had disappeared from his finger.

I couldn’t look anymore. I just stared at the ceiling, feeling empty.

The drugs were wearing off. My throat was dry. I wanted water.

But the pain was so bad I couldn’t even get out of bed.

Jason called just as another wave of agony was starting to fade under the painkillers.

His voice was as cold as ever. “Dinner at the family estate tonight.”

I was quiet for a moment. “I don’t feel well.”

He let out a short laugh. “Last time it was your leg. What is it this time? How much do you want?”

“Emily, unless your leg actually fell off, get your ass over here. Don’t forget your place.”

He hung up.

I almost wanted to laugh. I should have just let them cut it off.

At least if my leg was gone, I wouldn’t have to go somewhere I wasn’t wanted.

I pushed myself up off the bed and noticed dark, dried blood on the sheets.

I froze for a few seconds. Then I silently swallowed double the painkillers, got dressed, and went.

The estate was full of laughter.

Sophia was sitting next to Grandma Mitchell in a Chanel tweed suit.

The place where the lady of the house should sit.

When I walked in, she was feeding the old woman orange slices, making her grin from ear to ear.

Jason was on the other side, in a single seater, looking at his phone.

The noise died down for a second when I walked in.

A servant pulled out the chair at the far end of the long table. I kept my head down and sat, a whole room away from the head of the table.

The women went back to talking about jewelry and handbags. No one looked at me again.

After only a few minutes, the dull ache deep in my leg bone started up again.

I was starting to break out in a cold sweat when Grandma Mitchell finally seemed to remember the person at the end of the table. She frowned.

“Emily, where’s the baby? It’s been three years. The Mitchells don’t keep anyone who doesn’t pull their weight.”