Chapter 1: The Sterile Cage

The baby monitor hummed. A digital heartbeat, steady and artificial. It was the only sound allowed in the house.

I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling fan slicing through the stagnant air. My throat felt lined with sandpaper. I needed water. Just a sip to crack the glue sealing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

I shifted my weight to the left. Bad idea.

Fire laced across my lower abdomen. The C-section incision was a fresh, angry mouth sewn shut only four days ago, and every movement made it scream. I grit my teeth, waiting for the white-hot spikes to fade into a dull throb. When my breath returned, I looked at the nightstand.

The glass carafe was there. Sweating condensation. Cool. Perfect.

It was also three inches too far to the right.

I reached out, my fingers trembling. My fingertips brushed the cold glass, but I couldn't hook my fingers around the handle without sitting up, and sitting up felt impossible. Mark knew I couldn't reach this far. He had placed it there before he went downstairs to take a conference call. Or had he? My memory was Swiss cheese lately. Holes where the hours should be.

"Mark?"

My voice was a rusted hinge. I tried again, louder.

"Mark, please."

The baby monitor crackled, but no cry followed. Just the white noise of an empty nursery. Lily was asleep. I should be grateful. I should be sleeping too. That’s what everyone kept saying. *Sleep, Elara. You need to heal. You lost so much blood.*

The doorknob turned.

It moved slowly, silently, like someone testing the lock.

"Mark?" I rasped. "I can't reach the—"

The door swung open. It wasn't Mark.

Chloe stood in the frame, illuminated by the hallway sconces. She looked pristine. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight, efficient ponytail, and she wore one of those athleisure sets that cost more than my first car. She didn't look like a woman living out of a suitcase to help her brother’s invalid wife. She looked like she owned the place.

"Shh," she whispered, a finger to her lips. "You’ll wake the house, Elara."

She stepped inside and closed the door with a soft *click*.

"I need water," I said. "Please."

"Mark is finally sleeping on the couch," she said, her voice smooth and cool, like a stone from a river. "He’s exhausted. You know how hard he’s been working to cover the hospital bills."

The guilt hit me, practiced and immediate. I was the burden. The broken thing that needed fixing.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I just... I'm so thirsty."

Chloe glided to the bedside. She didn't look at the carafe. She looked at me, her eyes scanning my face with a clinical detachment that made me want to pull the duvet up to my chin.

"Hydration is important," she agreed. "But Dr. Thorne was very specific about the schedule. You’re overdue for your pain management. If we get behind, the agony comes back, remember?"

I remembered. The day after we got home, I missed a dose. I spent four hours sobbing into my pillow while Mark held my hand, looking terrified. I didn't want to go back there.

"Okay," I said. "Okay, just give me the water."

"Meds first."

She reached into the pocket of her joggers and pulled out a small paper cup.

"Open up," she said. It wasn't a request. She smiled, the kind of smile you give a toddler who refuses to eat their peas. "Then you can drink the whole pitcher if you want."

I struggled to push myself up on my elbows, the room spinning slightly. I held out my hand.

"I can do it," I said.

She hesitated, then tipped the cup into my palm.

"Don't drop it," she warned. "It's the last one until the refill comes tomorrow."

I looked down at my hand, ready to toss the pill back and wash it down with the promise of cold water. I knew my regimen. I’d been taking the same thing since the surgery. Percocet. A white, chalky oval.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my vision.

The pill in my palm wasn't white. It was yellow. Small, round, and unfamiliar.