Chapter 5
I made dinner that night. Roman seemed surprised, then touched.
"You cooked?" He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and smiled at me with that perfect warmth. "What's the occasion?"
"Our last night before the procedure," I said. "I wanted it to be special."
He didn't catch the double meaning. Or maybe he did, and he simply didn't care.
We sat across from each other, eating in candlelight. I studied every line of his face — the jaw I'd traced with my fingers, the mouth I'd kissed a thousand times, the eyes that had watched me being cut open and felt nothing.
"You're staring," he teased.
"Just memorizing you," I said.
Again, that flicker of satisfaction. He thought I was being romantic. He had no idea I was memorizing the face of my would-be murderer.
After dinner, he pulled me onto the couch and wrapped his arms around me. His hand rested on my lower back — right over the scar where my kidney used to be.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" he murmured against my hair.
"A little."
"Don't be. I'll be right there when you wake up." He pressed his lips to my temple. "I'll always be there."
*No you won't,* I thought. *Because I won't be waking up. That's the plan, isn't it?*
"Roman?" I tilted my face up to his.
"Hmm?"
"Do you love me?"
He looked down at me, and for just a moment — just one fraction of a second — something complicated moved behind his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by his practiced tenderness.
"More than anything," he said.
I smiled. "Good."
At 2 AM, while Roman slept, I slipped out of bed one final time.
I opened his laptop. His email to Dr. Voss was still in drafts, unsent but written: *Increase propofol to ensure she doesn't regain consciousness during the marrow harvest. Prepare documentation for cardiac arrest as cause of death. Transfer all viable material to E.M. immediately. Arrange cremation — no autopsy.*
I forwarded it to Nadia.
Then I kissed Roman's forehead — gently, like he always kissed mine — and whispered, "Goodbye."
I grabbed the emergency bag I'd hidden in the garden shed three days ago and disappeared into the night.
At 5 AM, I was in a hotel room across the city. At 5:01, Nadia confirmed: everything had been delivered. News outlets. The DA. The police.
At 7 AM, my phone lit up. Roman.
*Good morning, beautiful. I'll pick you up at 9 for the appointment. Wear something comfortable. Love you.*
He didn't know I was gone yet. He thought I was still in bed, still his obedient lamb walking to slaughter.
At 7:30, another message: *Camille? Baby, where are you? The bed's empty.*
At 7:45: *Camille, answer me.*
At 8:00, my phone rang. Roman's name flashing. I let it ring.
Then the texts came flooding: *Where are you? Are you okay? I'm worried. Please pick up. Camille, whatever's wrong, I can fix it. Just come home.*
At 8:15, a single message from Nadia: *It's live. Check the news.*
I turned on the TV in my hotel room. Every channel. Roman Hale's face. The headline: **TECH CEO ACCUSED OF HARVESTING WIFE'S ORGANS FOR SECRET LOVER.**
My phone exploded. Roman calling, over and over. Then, finally, a text that dropped all pretense:
*What have you done?*
I typed back two words: *Survived you.*
Then I blocked his number and let the world burn.
"You cooked?" He set down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and smiled at me with that perfect warmth. "What's the occasion?"
"Our last night before the procedure," I said. "I wanted it to be special."
He didn't catch the double meaning. Or maybe he did, and he simply didn't care.
We sat across from each other, eating in candlelight. I studied every line of his face — the jaw I'd traced with my fingers, the mouth I'd kissed a thousand times, the eyes that had watched me being cut open and felt nothing.
"You're staring," he teased.
"Just memorizing you," I said.
Again, that flicker of satisfaction. He thought I was being romantic. He had no idea I was memorizing the face of my would-be murderer.
After dinner, he pulled me onto the couch and wrapped his arms around me. His hand rested on my lower back — right over the scar where my kidney used to be.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" he murmured against my hair.
"A little."
"Don't be. I'll be right there when you wake up." He pressed his lips to my temple. "I'll always be there."
*No you won't,* I thought. *Because I won't be waking up. That's the plan, isn't it?*
"Roman?" I tilted my face up to his.
"Hmm?"
"Do you love me?"
He looked down at me, and for just a moment — just one fraction of a second — something complicated moved behind his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by his practiced tenderness.
"More than anything," he said.
I smiled. "Good."
At 2 AM, while Roman slept, I slipped out of bed one final time.
I opened his laptop. His email to Dr. Voss was still in drafts, unsent but written: *Increase propofol to ensure she doesn't regain consciousness during the marrow harvest. Prepare documentation for cardiac arrest as cause of death. Transfer all viable material to E.M. immediately. Arrange cremation — no autopsy.*
I forwarded it to Nadia.
Then I kissed Roman's forehead — gently, like he always kissed mine — and whispered, "Goodbye."
I grabbed the emergency bag I'd hidden in the garden shed three days ago and disappeared into the night.
At 5 AM, I was in a hotel room across the city. At 5:01, Nadia confirmed: everything had been delivered. News outlets. The DA. The police.
At 7 AM, my phone lit up. Roman.
*Good morning, beautiful. I'll pick you up at 9 for the appointment. Wear something comfortable. Love you.*
He didn't know I was gone yet. He thought I was still in bed, still his obedient lamb walking to slaughter.
At 7:30, another message: *Camille? Baby, where are you? The bed's empty.*
At 7:45: *Camille, answer me.*
At 8:00, my phone rang. Roman's name flashing. I let it ring.
Then the texts came flooding: *Where are you? Are you okay? I'm worried. Please pick up. Camille, whatever's wrong, I can fix it. Just come home.*
At 8:15, a single message from Nadia: *It's live. Check the news.*
I turned on the TV in my hotel room. Every channel. Roman Hale's face. The headline: **TECH CEO ACCUSED OF HARVESTING WIFE'S ORGANS FOR SECRET LOVER.**
My phone exploded. Roman calling, over and over. Then, finally, a text that dropped all pretense:
*What have you done?*
I typed back two words: *Survived you.*
Then I blocked his number and let the world burn.