And that's when something shifts. His foot slips on the wet stone. Not much—just an inch, maybe two—but enough that his weight shifts backward. His eyes widen. His grip on my shoulders tightens reflexively, pulling me with him.
Time fractures.
One second I'm in his grip, my shoulders burning where his fingers dig in. Next, I feel my hands against his chest—but I can't tell if I'm pushing him away or trying to steady us both. His weight tilts backward. The railing is behind him, that decorative iron that was never meant to catch anyone's fall.
"Lana—" My name in his mouth, half gasp, half accusation.
His fingers claw at my arms, my nightgown, anything to arrest his momentum. The silk tears. I hear it rip, feel the fabric give way. His eyes lock onto mine, wide and terrified, and for one crystalline moment I see him—not the man who's controlled and diminished me for five years, but the man he might have been before ambition and cruelty calcified into his bones.
Then he's gone.
No dramatic scream. No slow-motion tumble. Just there, then not there, like a magic trick performed by the storm.
I stand at the edge, rain hammering down, my torn nightgown hanging off one shoulder. My hands are still extended, frozen in the position they held when he was in front of me. Were they pushing? Pulling? Doing nothing at all?
I don't know.
The wind screams. The ocean roars. And I can't remember what my hands did.
I should look. I should lean over the railing and confirm what I already know—that three hundred feet down, Gabriel's body has met the rocks, that the husband I've endured for half a decade is dead.
But I can't move.
My legs have locked. My hands are still outstretched like I'm reaching for him, like any second he'll reappear and grab hold. The rain keeps falling. The storm keeps raging. And I stand here, a statue in torn silk, trying to understand what just happened.
Did I push him?
The question arrives fully formed, clinical, and detached. Did my hands push him, or did they simply fail to pull him back? Is there a difference? Does intention matter when the result is the same?
I lower my arms. They feel heavy, foreign, like they belong to someone else. My nightgown clings to me, transparent now, ruined. I should be cold. I must be cold. But I can't feel anything except the absence where Gabriel was standing.
Move, I tell myself. Do something. Call for help.
But who would I call? The housekeeper lives in town and won't arrive until morning. Our nearest neighbor is three miles down the coastal road. And Gabriel—Gabriel is past helping. I know this with absolute certainty even though I haven't looked, haven't confirmed, haven't done anything but stand here like a ghost haunting her own life.
My feet finally obey. I turn from the edge, walking back across the terrace on legs that threaten to buckle. The glass doors are still open, kitchen light spilling out into the storm. I step inside and the sudden absence of wind is disorienting. The house is so quiet. How can it be quiet when my ears are still full of thunder?
I close the doors. Lock them. The action is automatic, muscle memory from five years of Gabriel's security protocols. Lock everything always. Keep the world out. Keep yourself in.
The kitchen looks untouched. His scotch glass on the counter where the wind knocked it. Papers scattered across the marble. The knife drawer is still closed. Everything normal except for the fact that my husband just fell to his death and I can't remember if I helped him do it.
I walk to the counter and pick up Gabriel's glass. The scotch has barely been diluted by the melted ice—he must haverefilled it just before we went outside. I bring it to my lips and drink. The alcohol burns going down, sharp and necessary. I drain the glass, set it down carefully in the exact spot where Gabriel left it.
Then I notice my hands.
They're shaking. No—not shaking. Trembling, fine and constant, like I'm vibrating at a frequency just below visible. I press them flat against the marble, trying to still them, but the trembling continues.
Did these hands push him? Did they watch him fall and do nothing? Are they shaking from cold, shock, or from guilt I haven't caught up to yet?
I need to call someone. The police. An ambulance. Someone official who will take over, who will tell me what to do, who will transform this nightmare into procedure and protocol.
But I don't move to fetch my phone.
Instead, I walk through the kitchen to the hallway, my feet leaving wet prints on the hardwood Gabriel insisted we install last year. Authentic reclaimed oak from a demolished monastery in France. He loved telling that story at dinner parties, loved the prestige of walking on floors that had once held monks in prayer.
I climb the stairs. Each step measured and deliberate. The house watches me pass through it, each room holding its breath, waiting to see what I'll do.
In our bedroom I peel off the ruined nightgown. It falls to the floor in a wet heap. I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror Gabriel had installed so he could watch me dress and transform myself into the wife he required.
