Paid to Be His Past

1 Back at Greenhill House, when the three of us were just scrawny girls sharing a fire escape on humid July nights, we made a pact. We swore on the city skyline that we would get rich. "Only the rich have the luxury of saving anyone," Rachel had said, nursing scraped knees. "Mrs. Gable gave her entire life to this shelter. We can't let thirty kids end up in the county system when she's gone." Rachel was the oldest, but she fell first—conned by a smooth-talking contractor who took every dime of her nursing school loans before skipping town. Hannah went next, sinking five years of retail savings into a cryptocurrency Ponzi scheme run by a guy she met on Hinge. By the time I aged out, I had already drawn my own conclusions. No romance. No speculative investments. If I was going to secure the money Greenhill needed to survive, I would treat wealth like what it actually was: an extractive industry. I would be a trophy, a kept woman, a professional mistress. I would do the job cleanly, competently, and without an ounce of sentiment. So when Garrett Montgomery looked down at me across a velvet banquette at an Upper East Side gala and told me I had the exact mouth and sorrowful hazel eyes of the woman who broke his heart, I didn't flinch. I tilted my chin, gave him the precise, melancholy smile he was buying, and nodded. Take from the private equity class to feed the foundlings. It felt almost biblical. He assumed I was enchanted by his old-money ease, his cashmere overcoats, the effortless way restaurant owners cleared corner tables for him. In truth, I only cared about the sterile, metallic scent of his liquidity. The vintage Chanel flap bag he bought me after our third weekend in the Hamptons became twenty-four commercial bunk beds with fire-retardant mattresses. The wire transfers he sent to my private checking account each month turned into two-ton pallets of flour, antibiotic rounds, and thermal blankets for the winter. The sleek Mercedes coupe he leased for me was traded out within forty-eight hours through a friendly broker, transformed into a commercial rooftop solar system so the kids wouldn't have to take cold showers when the county grid failed. For two years, the arrangement was seamless. Garrett got a docile, impeccably styled shadow of his past, and Greenhill got a quiet lifeline. Then Genevieve Russell flew back from Paris. Garrett broke the news to me by running a hand over my crown, petting my hair with that lazy, practiced indulgence of an owner who thinks he’s being gentle. "Don't read into it, Nora," he said, smoothing down my collar. "She’s Genevieve. You’re you." The next day, he closed on a twelve-million-dollar brownstone in the West Village in her name. Then he wired a hundred thousand dollars into my account. He spent four hours in the private salon at Hermès on Madison Avenue while Genevieve selected a six-figure Himalaya Niloticus Birkin, and when his driver dropped off the shopping haul, there was a fifty-dollar printed silk twill scarf tossed onto my dressing table—the obligatory quota item required to purchase the main event. In the social columns and the quiet, venomous corners of the group chats, the consensus was unanimous. Nora Mercer's expiration date has arrived. A counterfeit only lasts until the original walks back through the revolving door. I didn't argue. I didn't smash vases. I opened my banking app, pulled up my spreadsheets, and did the math. If I liquidated the apartment Garrett had put in my name on the Lower East Side, alongside the Cartier love bracelets and the Patek Philippe in my safe, the ledger would finally balance. There would be enough in the trust to fund Greenhill House until the youngest toddler turned eighteen. That was the finish line. That was the only finish line Rachel, Hannah, and I had ever cared about. If Garrett wanted his prize songbird back, he was welcome to her. I had thirty children upstate who needed college funds and dental work. Our business was concluded. It was my twenty-sixth birthday, and the penthouse on Fifth Avenue was silent. Garrett hadn't come home. As a hired companion, I had enough professionalism not to call. He was my client, not my husband. Around nine that evening, my phone buzzed on the marble island. Nora. Genevieve’s ragdoll cat has an intestinal blockage. I’m at the emergency veterinary clinic with her on 62nd. Understood, I texted back. Hope the cat recovers. Genevieve drove a Porsche Cayenne. She had two personal assistants. She didn’t need Garrett Montgomery to hold a cat carrier in an emergency waiting room. She needed him there because she knew what day it was on the calendar. I didn't care to pull the thread. In seventy-two hours, none of this would belong to my reality anyway. Thirty minutes later, my phone pinged with a Google alert. A clip from a Manhattan nightlife blog was already trending on X. Billionaire Garrett Montgomery Rekindles Romance with International Photographer Genevieve Russell. The video was grainily cinematic: Garrett shielding Genevieve from the flashes on the wet pavement outside the hospital, his broad back blocking the rain, one heavy, protective arm slung over her shoulders. When a freelance paparazzo shouted from the curb, asking if the rumors of an engagement were official, Garrett didn't deny it. He just pulled her closer against his chest. Genevieve glanced up at the camera, her lips painted an effortless Parisian berry, offering a coy, breathless little sigh. "Please, give us some room to breathe." The post already had two hundred thousand impressions. Garrett despised having his private life turned into tabloid fodder; he normally kept PR teams on retainer to scrub photos like this within minutes. The only reason this clip was still circulating was because Genevieve had leaked the address herself. She was staking her claim in public. My phone started chiming with messages from the loose circle of socialites and trust-fund wives who had spent the last two years tolerating my presence at dinner parties. Happy birthday, Nora! Where’s Garrett taking you tonight? Heard Genevieve is back in town. Guess the stand-in’s shift is over. You got two years at the top of the tower, sweetie. Most girls don't make it six months. Count your blessings. I didn't reply to a single one. Garrett’s monthly retainer covered my silence, my poise, and my discretion. I had signed an emotional non-disclosure agreement the day I moved in, and I took pride in being good at my work. I sat down with a legal pad and went through the ledgers one more time. Greenhill’s roof repair, electrical overhaul, and code inspections: three hundred thousand. Surgeries and specialty physical therapy for six of our kids with chronic conditions: two hundred and fifty thousand. Commercial fire suppression systems, backup generators, and ADA ramps: one hundred and fifty thousand. If I sold the rest of the jewelry tomorrow, we were home free. The doorbell chimed softly. It was Megan, Garrett’s junior executive assistant. She stood on the welcome mat holding a black velvet gift box tied with an ivory ribbon. "Miss Mercer," she said, her voice tight with professional embarrassment. "Mr. Montgomery asked me to bring this up to you." "Thank you, Megan. Come in out of the drizzle." "I have to get back to the office, but... happy birthday." I took the box and opened it under the foyer chandelier. A stainless-steel Jaeger-LeCoultre. An exquisite, understated piece—and the exact item you bought at the boutique to build up spend history for a rare leather allotment. I didn't say a word. I smiled, thanked her, and closed the door. A gift was a gift. Whether it came from guilt or logistics, its value in cash was identical. I took three high-resolution photos of the dial and serial number, then sent them to my luxury consignment contact in the Diamond District. His response came back three minutes later: Mint condition. I can wire you twelve thousand first thing tomorrow morning. Twelve thousand dollars. That was the commercial swing set, the rubberized mulch, and two adjustable basketball hoops for the backyard court Toby and Sam had been begging for since last summer. I blew out the single candle on the bakery cupcake I had bought myself, and then my phone rang. It was Rachel. "Happy birthday, baby," Rachel's voice was soft, laced with that perpetual, protective ache she’d carried since we were seven years old. "How are you holding up?" She had seen the footage from the vet clinic. "I’m doing great," I said, leaning against the kitchen counter, my tone bright and steady. "He gave me a twelve-thousand-dollar watch as an apology. Toby and Sam are getting their basketball court." There was a heavy, mournful pause on the line. "Nora..." she whispered. "Hannah and I have news too. I passed my clinical board review today. My salary bump starts next pay cycle. That’s an extra eight hundred a month—we can cover all the textbooks and art supplies ourselves. And Hannah’s Etsy store cleared four thousand in orders this week. We can carry the weight now. If you’re miserable down there... just pack your bags and come home." My throat tightened, a sudden, burning lump catching behind my teeth. "I'm coming home," I promised, blinking rapidly against the heat in my eyes. "The state transfer hearing is in six days. I’ll be standing right beside you and Hannah when Mrs. Gable signs over the deed." "Good," Rachel breathed. "We’re waiting for you." I hung up, looking out over the sprawling, indifferent grid of Central Park below. Garrett had found the woman he actually wanted. That meant my utility was spent. We were even. The next afternoon, Garrett walked into the penthouse. The shadows under his eyes were deep, his jaw shadowed with gray stubble, looking like a man who had spent thirty-six hours managing someone else's emotional storm. "Nora," he said, loosening his silk knit tie as he crossed the hardwood. "We need to talk." I handed him a double espresso, pulled short, just the way he liked it. He took the porcelain cup, his shoulders dropping a fraction, that familiar look of relief crossing his face—the look of an exhausted executive realizing his domestic staff was functioning smoothly. "Genevieve’s health has been precarious lately," he said, watching the steam rise. "The doctors in France were concerned about her autoimmune markers. She shouldn't be living alone right now. I’m thinking of having her stay here for a while." I kept my face perfectly still. First the sick cat. Now the mysterious, fragile illness. Next would come the shared zip code, the press releases, the soft launch of an engagement. Women understood the choreography immediately; men simply let themselves be swept along by the flattery of being indispensable. "Living together... the three of us wouldn't make sense," Garrett continued, not looking me in the eye. He reached into his coat pocket and slid a key card across the island. "I’ve set up the condo in Battery Park for you. It’s quiet, and it’s only ten minutes from my parents’ place. My mother always liked having you drop by for tea." "Of course," I said smoothly. "I'll pack this evening." I set down my mug and turned toward the hallway. Garrett blinked, visibly caught off-guard by the lack of friction. "There's no rush. She won't be moving her things over until next week." I shook my head, keeping my voice gentle, practical. "It's better if I leave tomorrow morning. That gives Martha enough time to deep-clean the guest suites and air out the master bedroom. Genevieve prefers damask rose essential oils, doesn't she? We’ll need to diffuse that through the HVAC to clear out the jasmine. And I'll tell Martha to have the heavy curtains and the linens swapped out for ivory linen before Friday." Garrett stood frozen, the espresso cup halfway to his mouth. He stared at me for several long seconds, his brow creasing with something unreadable—something uncomfortably close to shame. "You remember all of that?" he asked quietly. I gave him a pleasant, professional smile. "Of course I do. You told me during my first month here. I took notes." When I was first hired to play this part, Garrett had handed me an unwritten catalog of Genevieve’s preferences—the brands of sparkling water she drank, the way she liked her cashmere folded, the tempo of her laughter. I was an understudy drawing a high-bracket wage; it was my job to know the lines. Garrett watched me, his gaze softening into something heavy, almost proprietary. "You've always been so steady, Nora. So reasonable. Sometimes I don't think I could survive without you." A faint shudder ran down my spine, cold and warning. Don't start rewriting history now, Garrett. "There's an art gala tomorrow night at the Whitney," he added abruptly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "A benefit for foster youth. Come with me. Whatever you like on the block, I'll buy it for you. Consider it an official birthday present." My first instinct was to decline. But then I thought of Greenhill. Toby needed an updated motorized wheelchair before the school year started. Lily needed speech therapy sessions that Medicaid refused to cover. If I could secure one more tangible asset tomorrow night, those kids wouldn't just scrape by—they would thrive. "All right," I said. "I'll go." The gala was crowded with Manhattan's philanthropic elite. Before Garrett and I could clear the coat check, Genevieve appeared, drifting across the polished concrete in a column of dove-gray silk. She caught my wrist in both of hers, her touch light, cold, and calculated. "Nora, darling! I told Garrett he simply had to bring you tonight," she said, her voice carrying easily over the clink of champagne flutes, drawing the eyes of three nearby board members' wives. "You've taken such marvelous care of him while I was away in Europe. Really, you've been an absolute saint. Pick out anything you like from the catalog tonight—my treat." It was a masterclass in high-society condescension: thanking the nanny before handing her a severance check and showing her the service elevator. I didn't pull my hand away. I smiled evenly. "Thank you, Genevieve." At the auction table, Garrett sat between us—me on his left, Genevieve on his right. Lot number one was an Edwardian emerald pendant. I leaned forward slightly, studying the cut in the brochure. Genevieve immediately raised her paddle. "Oh, it's exquisite," she murmured, leaning her bare shoulder against Garrett's sleeve. "Garrett, don't you think that stone matches my eyes?" Lot number two was a 1920s gold pocket watch. I raised my paddle at the opening bid. Genevieve didn't even look at the stage; she raised hers an instant later, casting a triumphant little glance over Garrett’s chest straight at me. Garrett put a hand over hers, murmuring, "Genevieve, Nora was looking at that." "But I adore vintage timepieces, darling," she pouted, her voice dropping into a melodic, practiced purr. "You know I collect them." Garrett’s fingers hesitated, then slid off her wrist. The hammer fell. The watch went to Genevieve. The third lot went the same way. And the fourth. Every time I signaled the slightest interest, Genevieve claimed it was an essential piece for her collection, and Garrett gently nudged me to yield. Around us, the muffled snickers from the surrounding tables began to settle into an embarrassing rhythm. Genevieve was establishing the hierarchy in front of everyone who mattered. Whatever she wanted, I had to surrender. I was only permitted to scavenge what she deemed beneath her. Near the end of the evening, the auctioneer introduced a canvas by an emerging artist—a young man who had grown up in the New York foster system. It was a painting of wild, thick-stemmed sunflowers turning toward an overcast sky, rough-textured and ablaze with fierce, defiant yellow. It wasn't an investment piece. It wouldn't appreciate in value; Christie's would never re-list it. But for the dining hall at Greenhill House, it would mean everything. In the lower right corner, the boy had scratched into the wet paint: Keep reaching for the light. "I’d like this one," I said, turning to Garrett. The opening bid was four thousand dollars. Genevieve glanced at the screen, letting out a sharp, amused breath. "An amateur piece with zero provenance? Honestly, Nora, your taste is so... regional." Garrett’s jaw tightened slightly at the jab, but he said nothing to correct her. He looked at me. "You're sure about this one?" "I'm sure." Garrett raised his paddle. At eight thousand dollars, the hammer dropped. When the attendant brought the paperwork to the table, a strange warmth settled in my chest. The yellow was so bright it almost hurt. The kids would see it every morning over their oatmeal. "Oh, wait!" Genevieve suddenly gasped, pressing two manicured fingers to her collarbone. "Garrett, look at the dimensions! That canvas would fit the blank wall above the linen sofa in my new sitting room perfectly! Nora wouldn't mind letting me have it, would she?" I froze. Even this? A five-thousand-dollar piece of student art that carried no social capital? Garrett looked caught. He looked at the painting, then at Genevieve’s pleading, wide-eyed gaze, and finally at me. "Nora," he said softly, that familiar, dismissive weight in his voice. "Let Genevieve take this one. We’ll find you something from a major gallery next week." A collective murmur of amused contempt rippled through the surrounding tables. A stand-in really is just a stand-in. Look at her. Wonder if she’s going to cry right here on the museum floor. A dull, hollow ache blossomed in the center of my chest. Over the last two years, whenever I accompanied Garrett to galas, he had showered me with whatever I pointed at. But the moment the real thing walked into the room, I wasn't even entitled to a forgotten canvas. Whatever you like on the block, I'll buy it for you. His promise wasn't even twenty-four hours old, and it had evaporated into thin air. I wasn't in love with him, but I was human. I had done my job with meticulous dignity, and being publicly humiliated as a spectator sport was not part of the contract. I kept my chin level, swallowing down the prickle in my eyes. "Of course. It's hers." I excused myself to the ladies' lounge and splashed cold water over my wrists. Before I could turn off the brass faucet, the heavy door swung open. Genevieve stepped inside, the click of her stilettos echoing sharply against the Italian marble. She pulled an YSL lipstick from her clutch and watched me in the gilded mirror. "Finally figured it out?" she said, outlining her cupid's bow. "You can't compete with me, Nora." I dried my hands with a linen towel, my face expressionless. "I was never competing with you." She spun around, her smile turning brittle and mean. "Then why are you still lurking around? Why haven't you packed your cheap clothes and vanished?" She looked me up and down, her lip curling with raw disgust. "I know your type. Foster-kid sob story, playing the sweet, demure little victim just to siphon off as much of Garrett’s capital as you can get your claws into. Well, I'm back now. If you had an ounce of pride, you'd slip out the back before you have to be thrown out." "I am leaving," I said evenly. "The moment Garrett tells me directly that my services are no longer required." Genevieve laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. She whipped her iPhone out of her purse, tapped the screen, and put Garrett on speaker. "Garrett?" she cooed, her tone instantly morphing into sweet, petulant vulnerability. "If you had to choose between me and Nora right now, this second... who would it be?" There was a brief pause on the line, followed by Garrett’s dry, amused chuckle. "Genevieve, what kind of party game are you playing? Stop being ridiculous." "I want an answer, Garrett. Tell me." Two beats of silence. "You, obviously. It’s always been you." Genevieve’s eyes flashed with predatory delight. "And if I want her out of the apartment? For good?" Garrett’s voice came through the speaker, low, fond, and carelessly resigned. "Whatever you want, sweetheart. You know I can't say no to you." The call ended. Genevieve locked the phone, stepping forward until she was inches from my face. "Understood now?" "Perfectly," I said. Any lingering trace of guilt I might have felt about liquidating his gifts and walking away dissolved into dust. "I’ll be out of the penthouse by tomorrow afternoon," I told her quietly. "And out of New York by nightfall." Genevieve reached out, tapping two manicured fingernails against my cheek, her eyes bright with victory. "Good girl." She swept out of the room like a peacock with its plumage flared. I looked at my reflection in the glass. My eyes were slightly red, but my hands were entirely steady. By ten the next morning, my final consignment checks had cleared. My entire life was packed into a single navy rolling suitcase by the front door. My phone rang. The screen displayed Genevieve’s name. I tapped accept. Before I could speak, a shrill, hysterical barrage blasted through the receiver. "What the hell are you pulling, Nora?! You swore you were leaving the city today! Playing games behind my back? If you think you can pull a fast one on me, I will destroy you!" I frowned, holding the phone away from my ear. "Genevieve, what are you talking about? My bags are packed." "Stop lying, you little parasite!" she shrieked. "You know exactly what you did!" The line went dead. Martha, Garrett’s longtime housekeeper, was standing by the kitchen island, looking at me with worried eyes. "Miss Nora? Is everything all right?" We had shared a kitchen for two years. She knew better than anyone that I wasn't the monster the social columns made me out to be. "It's fine, Martha," I said, pulling a thick leather-bound binder from my tote bag and handing it to her. "This is for you. It's Garrett's medical history, his dietary restrictions, the timing for his allergy shots, and his preferred dry cleaners. The last ten pages are Genevieve's preferences. It'll make the transition easier." Martha looked at the binder, bewildered. "Miss Nora, you're only moving to Battery Park, aren't you? Mr. Montgomery will still want you to look after these things." "Just in case," I said gently. "If he ever asks, you won't have to scramble." Before Martha could reply, the heavy front door flew open. Garrett strode into the foyer, his face dark, his tie askew. Without a word of greeting, his fingers clamped around my wrist, pulling me toward the elevator. "Genevieve collapsed," he said, his voice clipped and strained. "We're going to the hospital." I was shoved into the back of his Town Car and driven at breakneck speed to Montgomery Memorial, the private medical center his family's trust funded on the East Side. It wasn't until a charge nurse ushered me into a prep bay and began unwrapping a phlebotomy kit that the pieces slammed together. Genevieve and I shared the exact same, extraordinarily rare blood type: Rh-negative. "You're Garrett Montgomery," I said, staring at him as the nurse swabbed my inner elbow with iodine. "Your family runs half the hospital boards in the tri-state area. You couldn't source rare units from the regional blood bank?" Garrett ran a frantic hand through his hair. "The Manhattan bank is depleted, and the courier from Philadelphia is stuck on the turnpike. There isn't time, Nora." The threat Genevieve had hissed into the phone flashed through my mind: I will destroy you. "Did you actually see her?" I asked, pulling my arm back. "Did you see the labs? Let me see her before you take my blood." Garrett stepped in front of the gurney, his jaw tightening into that rigid, immovable wall of executive authority. "She's already prepped for emergency abdominal surgery. She's unconscious. There's no time for you to interrogate the staff. Just sit down." I gritted my teeth. I knew Garrett. When he was convinced he was managing a crisis, dissent wasn't tolerated; it was treated as insubordination. "If I do this," I whispered, "am I free to leave?" "Yes," he said, exhaling sharply. "Just let them draw." A heavy needle pierced the vein in my crook. Dark red blood began pulsing through the clear tubing into a collection bag. Four hundred cubic centimeters. My head was already swimming by the time the nurse clamped the line. I grew up on processed government cheese and powdered milk; my baseline iron was always precarious, and two years of high-end catering hadn't erased a childhood of malnutrition. I swayed as I tried to stand. The attending physician glanced at the chart and frowned. "Mr. Montgomery, Miss Russell's surgical prep indicates severe internal hemorrhaging. One unit won't cover the baseline risk. We need a second." Garrett’s brow furrowed. "Take another." Panic spiked through my haze. "Garrett, no! You know my vitals run low! I can't give two units back-to-back!" A flicker of genuine anguish crossed his eyes, but it vanished beneath his panic for Genevieve. "Nora, please. Just hold on. Her life is on the line." "I don't believe her!" I cried, trying to yank my arm away. "This is a setup! She called me this morning—she threatened me! I'm not playing this game with my body!" I had thirty kids upstate counting on me to step off the train tonight. I couldn't afford to collapse here for Genevieve Russell's vanity. I tried to push off the gurney, but Garrett’s two private security guards immediately stepped forward, their heavy hands clamping down on my shoulders, forcing me back onto the cushions. An edge of cold impatience hardened Garrett’s voice. "Nora, behave. Stop acting like a child." He turned to Megan, who was hovering in the doorway. "Get her glucose tablets and an electrolyte drip ready. She gets hypoglycemic." The guards held my arms pinned. "Draw it," Garrett ordered the doctor. The second needle bit into my flesh. I didn't cry out. I didn't look at the plastic tubing filling with my life. I just looked at Garrett. His eyes were distant, clinical, and completely shuttered. When the second bag was unhooked and rushed out the double doors toward the operating wing, the room spun in violent, nauseating circles. Black spots danced across the fluorescent lights. "Can I... go now?" I whispered, my lips numb. Garrett took a half-step toward me, his hand reaching out as if to steady my shoulder. "Nora, you need to lie down for an hour. Don't be stubborn—" "Don't touch me," I managed to breathe. Before he could answer, the surgical doors banged open again. A scrub nurse hurried into the bay, her mask hanging from one ear. "Dr. Bennett! Miss Russell’s pressure is tanking on the table! The vascular tear is wider than anticipated—we need a third unit on standby immediately or she won't make it off the bypass!" The air left my lungs. Three units? That wasn't a donation. That was exsanguination. "She's lying," I croaked, trying to stand, my knees buckling beneath me. "Let me see her monitor. Let me see the chart!" Garrett moved instantly, blocking my path, his chest a solid wall. "Nora, please. Just one more. I'm begging you." I looked up at him. This was the man who had held me against his chest on rainy Tuesday nights, who had whispered against my neck that he liked the way I smelled of rain and clean laundry, who had promised me the world at an auction forty-eight hours ago. "And if I say no?" I whispered, my vision tunneling. "If I tell you it will kill me?" Garrett looked torn in half, his jaw working violently. But then his eyes hardened with the desperate, ruthless logic of a man who refused to lose his first love. "Whatever it takes to save her, Nora," he said, his voice dropping into a desperate, transactional clip. "I will compensate you. Whatever you want. Name the figure." A dry, bitter sob caught in my throat. Compensation. Of course. To him, every boundary had a routing number. "Right," I whispered, nodding as cold sweat drenched my hairline. "A kept woman only cares about the payout. What's my life worth to you, Garrett? What's the bid?" Garrett flinched, shocked by the venom in my voice. He swallowed hard. "A million dollars. In your account within an hour. Is that enough?" I closed my eyes. If Genevieve had demanded my heart, he would have written a check for my chest cavity. "Fine," I breathed into the dark. "Take it." I didn't open my eyes again. When the third needle pierced my vein, the world simply ceased to have edges. When the room went quiet, I was alone on the vinyl gurney. The doctors had vanished into the surgical theater. Garrett and his security team were out in the waiting corridor, pacing beneath the brass clocks. The ceiling lights hummed like an angry hornet. I sat up, my entire skeleton shaking, my skin cold and clammy with shock. I didn't care about my luggage. I didn't care about the million dollars. I didn't care if I collapsed on the sidewalk. I just had to get out of this building before Garrett Montgomery remembered I existed. Dragging my hand along the wall for support, I pushed through the emergency exit, tumbled into the damp chill of the alleyway, and flagged a yellow cab at the corner of 68th. "Penn Station," I told the driver, my voice paper-thin. "Eighth Avenue entrance." The cab pulled into the evening traffic. With every block that separated me from the hospital, the suffocating weight in my lungs began to ease. New York was over. Garrett Montgomery was over. Behind me in the ICU corridor, the heavy double doors swung open with a violent crash. A lab tech sprinted toward Garrett, her face pale, waving an emergency requisition sheet. "Where is the donor?!" she gasped, out of breath. "Where is Nora Mercer?!" Garrett turned, his brow furrowing. "She's resting in the recovery bay. What's wrong?" "She can't be giving blood!" the tech cried, thrusting the sheet into his chest. "We ran a STAT panel on the whole blood units before cross-matching. The HCG markers are through the roof! Miss Mercer is approximately four weeks pregnant!" Garrett stood entirely still, the paper trembling in his grip, the color draining from his face until he looked like a corpse. "What did you just say?"