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At my husband's five-year remission gala, I saw him kissing Vivienne Cole through the terrace glass. The silver badge marked 0714 gleamed on her dress-the number Adrian believed belonged to the woman who had saved his life. I took six photographs, returned to the ballroom, and watched him thank her before two hundred guests. He mistook my silence for forgiveness. It wasn't. I had thirty days to finish repaying his family. Then I would take back my mother's glasshouse-and leave.