Items of marital property.What exactly counts as marital property in a fake marriage that became the most real thing I’ve ever had?
The ring I left on his dresser? The photos on the console table? The memories of his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, his laugh in my bed?
I stare at the blinking cursor in the reply window.
1. Name and addressI could fill that in.2. Maiden nameI haven’t decided yet if I can bear to let go of Easton when I never really got to keep it. Especially since it’s bound to change to Volkov soon enough.3. Marital propertyAll I can think of is his t-shirt I took and the wedding picture.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
And I type the bare minimum. At the very least, I should make this as quick and painless for both of us as I can. The sooner this is over, the sooner Scottie really can move on.
The only thing holding me together is the knowledge that somewhere out there a doctor is about to call Scottie’s family and tell them there’s sudden hope.
I close the email with a short reply.
Somewhere across the city, Scottie is lacing up his skates, getting ready for another game.
He probably thinks I’m in New York, staring a new life without him. Moving back in with Irina.
He has no idea I’m in a different kind of cage again, one with legal terms and family legacy and a diamond necklace I’ll never wear.
“I’m sorry. I chose you. You just… don’t get to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SCOTTIE
I don’t remember falling asleep last night.
I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, telling myself she didn’t mean it.
Telling myself there had to be something,anything, that would make sense of the way she’d looked at me in the hallways outside of the locker room.
Like we were strangers again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and for one stupid, reckless second, I think—Please be her.
It’s not.
It’s my mom.
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “Hey, Ma.”
She doesn’t even say hello. She sounds breathless. “Scottie—” And right away, I brace.
Good news never sounds like that from my mother.
But then she laughs. The kind of laugh that wavers like she’s crying.
“Sweetheart, the clinic called.”
“What? Why?” Confusion starts first. Why would they be calling when they turned us down, and the waitlist is a mile long?
“They—they have a sponsored spot.” Her voice cracks. “Your father got in. They’re giving him the position. Completely paid.”
I sit up too fast, dizziness washing over me.
“What?” I say again, like I didn’t hear her right. “Ma—Ma, are you serious?”
