She survived, if you can even call it that. I still see her lying on those silk sheets, eyes half-open but never seeing. Her brother Condor moved into the estate too because he was also sick. Scott said we owed it to her. I believed him. I believed everything he told me.
I spent three years nursing my best friend, scrubbing her skin with warm cloths, combing out the tangles in her hair. Feeding her, talking to her, praying she’d come back to me. I cooked for Scott, smiled when he kissed my forehead, accepted that he couldn’t touch me more because he was stressed. I believed I was his wife. I let him show me that piece of paper and never questioned it again.
Stupid. So stupid.
I was halfway down the hallway when I heard their voices — Scott’s low, calm baritone and Condor’s quieter hum. The door to the study was cracked open. I should’ve walked away. Instead I froze.
“…I really want to thank you for everything, Scott. For Jasmine. For me,” Condor was saying.