Chapter 3

The pain shot through my knee like lightning as I tumbled down the last three steps. I'd been carrying laundry baskets upstairs when my foot caught on the edge of a stair. Now I lay crumpled at the bottom, unable to move my right leg without searing agony.

"Zachary!" I called out, my voice trembling. "Zachary, I need help!"

He appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from annoyance to concern as he took in the scene. "What happened?"

"I fell." Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to sit up. "My knee—I think it's bad."

He knelt beside me, gingerly touching my swollen joint. "We should get you to urgent care."

"Can you drive me?" I asked, wincing as he helped me onto the couch.

"Of course." He grabbed his keys from the bowl on the entryway table. "I'll just be a minute."

I watched him disappear into our bedroom, presumably to change shirts. The pain pulsed through my leg in waves, making me nauseous. This was the most attention he'd shown me in weeks.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. Zachary's name flashed on the screen, followed by a text: "Leila just called. Panic attack. I have to go. Will bring you pain meds later."

I stared at the message, disbelief washing over me. "Zachary?" I called out, my voice small.

He appeared in the doorway, already halfway out the door. "What?"

"Your text... you're leaving?"

"Leila needs me." His eyes wouldn't meet mine. "She's having a breakdown. I'll be back soon with something stronger than what we have here."

"But my knee—"

"I'll be quick." He was already out the door, closing it gently behind him.

I sat alone in our darkening apartment, clutching my throbbing knee. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, then one, then two. No Zachary. No pain medication.

I eventually limped to the bathroom, wrapping my knee in ice packs and swallowing three over-the-counter pain pills. The swelling had gone down slightly by morning, but the bruising had spread across my entire kneecap.

---

Three days later, I was still hobbling around our apartment when I heard Zachary's key in the lock. He'd been absent most of the time since my fall, offering vague explanations about "helping Leila through her crisis."

"Hey," he said, dropping his keys in the bowl. "Your knee looks better."

"It's still painful," I admitted, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"I've been meaning to check on you." He sat beside me on the couch, his phone buzzing immediately in his pocket.

I watched his face as he checked the screen. "Leila again?"

"Just a quick text." His thumbs moved rapidly. "She's been having a rough time."

Something compelled me to reach for my own phone. "I haven't checked Instagram in days."

Zachary's eyes darted to my screen, then away too quickly.

Leila's Instagram story played automatically:

Her delicate hands carefully bandaging Zachary's right hand.

A close-up of his knuckles, red and raw.

Leila's profile picture in the corner of a hotel room, wearing nothing but a plush white bathrobe.

"Taking care of my hero after he hurt himself helping me," read the caption. "#MyGuardianAngel"

The timestamp showed it was posted just an hour ago.

I stared at the image, at the tenderness in her touch, at the intimate setting. Zachary had never tended to my wounds with such care. Not when I burned my hand cooking his favorite meal. Not when I twisted my ankle on our hike last summer.

"This looks recent," I said quietly.

Zachary shifted uncomfortably. "She had a minor emergency at her hotel. I stopped by to help."

"At her hotel?"

"It's nothing, Noemi." He stood abruptly. "You're making too much of this."

I said nothing as he walked away, leaving me alone with my throbbing knee and the image of Leila in her hotel bathrobe burned into my mind.

---

The London folder sat on my desk at work, its edges worn from my constant handling. I'd been researching the city for days—the neighborhoods, the museums, the food. The creative director position Marcus had offered felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.

"Thinking about taking me up on that offer?" Marcus asked, dropping a coffee on my desk.

"I'm considering it," I admitted.

"The team there is excellent. You'd have full creative control." He leaned against my doorframe. "And London in spring is magnificent."

I smiled, imagining cobblestone streets and blooming gardens. For the first time in months, I felt genuinely excited about something.

That evening, I was arranging travel brochures in my bag when Zachary walked in.

"What's all this?" he asked, picking up a map of London's Tube system.

My heart raced. "Just something I'm planning."

"For us?" His eyebrows raised in surprise.

I nodded, the lie slipping easily from my lips. "A surprise trip. Somewhere we've never been."

"London?" He sounded skeptical. "When?"

"Soon," I said, taking the brochure from his hands. "I want it to be perfect."

He studied my face for a moment, then shrugged. "Sounds fun."

As he walked away, I clutched the brochures to my chest. The thought of traveling with Zachary—of being trapped in another country with him while he prioritized Leila from across the ocean—felt suffocating.

But the London opportunity? That felt like freedom.