Ethan Cross treats the prognosis like a hostile takeover attempt.
Step one: Gather intelligence.
Step two: Mobilize assets.
Step three: Crush the opposition.
The opposition, in this case, is a mass of abnormal cells the size of a golf ball located in Violet Aurora's brainstem.
He drives back from the coast at three in the morning. Violet is asleep in the passenger seat of the Mustang, wrapped in two blankets, looking small and pale. Ethan drives with one hand on the wheel and the other holding his phone to his ear, navigating the winding cliffs of Highway 1 while negotiating with the chief of staff of the most prestigious neurology center on the West Coast.
"I don't care what Dr. Wells' schedule looks like," Ethan says. His voice is a low, dangerous monotone. "I donated two MRI wings to your facility last year. I am calling in the favor. 8:00 AM. Clear the deck."
There's a pause on the line. Then a sigh. "Mr. Cross... 8:00 AM. Bring the patient."
Ethan hangs up.
He glances at Violet. She's murmuring in her sleep, shifting restlessly.
"I've got you," he whispers, shifting gears. The engine growls, tearing through the darkness. "I'm going to buy the hospital if I have to. We are not doing this. We are simply not doing this."
It's denial. He knows the definition. He just thinks the definition applies to people who don't have his resources.
Dr. Amara Wells does not look easily bought.
She is a woman of sharp angles and sharper eyes, sitting behind a glass desk that is completely clear of paper. On the wall behind her is a high-resolution lightbox displaying brain scans.
Violet sits in the patient chair, swinging her legs. She looks exhausted, but resigned. She's wearing her paint-splattered overalls again, like armor against the sterility of the office.
Ethan is pacing.
"Glioblastoma Multiforme," Dr. Wells says. She taps the screen. A white, spidery mass glows in the center of the dark grey matter. "It's aggressive, Mr. Cross. And the location—here, wrapped around the brainstem—makes surgical resection impossible without causing immediate cessation of autonomic functions."
"In English," Ethan snaps.
"If we cut it out, she stops breathing," Dr. Wells translates calmly.
"Radiation?"
"We've done one round," Violet pipes up. Her voice is hoarse. "It made my hair fall out. And I threw up for three weeks straight. It bought me... what? A month?"
"Roughly," Dr. Wells agrees gently. She looks at Violet with genuine sympathy. "Violet made the decision to stop treatment six weeks ago to prioritize quality of life."
"A bad decision," Ethan interrupts. He plants his hands on the desk, leaning over. "We reverse it. We restart radiation. We combine it with Temozolomide and... what's the experimental one? TTFields?"
"Ethan," Violet warns.
"No," Ethan says. He pulls out a checkbook. It's a useless gesture, archaic, but it feels like a weapon. "I will fund the trial myself. I will fly in specialists from Zurich. There is a price tag on everything, Doctor. Tell me the number."
Dr. Wells takes off her glasses. She looks tired.
"Mr. Cross. You can't bribe biology."
"I can bribe progress."
"The tumor is high-grade," Wells says softly. "It is diffuse. Even if we throw everything we have at it—and poison her body in the process—we are talking about extending her timeline by weeks. Maybe two months. But those two months? She will be bedridden. Unable to speak. In pain."
She looks at Violet.
"Violet wants to paint. She wants to walk on beaches. She wants to recognize her sister."
Ethan feels the room spinning. He grips the edge of the desk so hard the wood creaks.
"So that's it?" he demands. "You're giving up?"
"I'm giving her the truth," Wells says. "Which is something she deserves."
Ethan turns to Violet. "Tell her you want to fight."
Violet looks at him. Her eyes—amber and gold—are incredibly old in that moment.
"I am fighting, Ethan," she says quietly. "I'm fighting to be me until the end. Not a patient. Just me."
"I can't lose you," Ethan chokes out. The cracks in his composure are showing now. "I just found you."
"I know." Violet slides off the chair. She walks over to him, taking his rigid, shaking hands in hers. "I know. And that sucks. It really, really sucks."
She looks up at Dr. Wells. "Thanks, Amara. For trying to explain it to him. He's... stubborn."
"He loves you," Dr. Wells corrects. "It's the same thing."
Violet guides Ethan out of the office. He walks like a zombie, blindly following the tug of her hand.
In the hallway, under the buzzing fluorescent lights, he stops.
He leans back against the white wall and slides down until he hits the floor. He buries his face in his hands.
Ethan Cross doesn't cry. He solves. But there is no solution here.
Violet sits down next to him, ignoring the nurses walking by. She rests her head on his shoulder.
"You can't fix it, Shiny Shoes," she whispers.
"I have so much money," Ethan says. It sounds hysterical. "I have so much money and I can't buy you five minutes."
"You don't need to buy them," she says. "We have them right now. Free of charge."
She taps his knee.
"Take me for waffles?"
Ethan lifts his head. His eyes are red. "Waffles?"
"Belgian. With strawberries. And enough whipped cream to give a cardiologist a stroke."
Ethan looks at her. She's smiling, but her lips are pale.
"Okay," he says. His voice breaks. "Waffles."
They spend the next three weeks in a strange, suspended reality.
Ethan takes a leave of absence from Sterling & Cross. The stock drops 4% on the news. He doesn't even open the notification.
He moves his office into the living room, but he barely uses it. Instead, he focuses his terrifying intensity on Violet.
If he can't save her life, he will optimize her happiness.
He hires a private chef to make her favorite foods (which she mostly just picks at, her appetite fading). He rents out the city planetarium after hours because she said she missed the stars. He fills the penthouse with so many flowers it looks like a jungle.
Violet tolerates it with amusement, but Ethan can tell she's fading.
The headaches come more often. The dizzy spells. She sleeps twelve, fourteen hours a day.
He watches her sleep. He memorizes the rise and fall of her chest. He records the sound of her humming when she thinks no one is listening.
Mmm-hmm-hmm.
He's learning the tune. It's haunting.
One rainy Tuesday, Violet is sitting in front of a canvas. She's staring at it, brush in hand, but she hasn't moved in twenty minutes.
Ethan walks over with a cup of herbal tea. "Stuck?"
Violet drops the brush. It clatters to the floor, leaving a streak of cerulean blue on the hardwood.
She looks at her hands. They are trembling.
"I can't... I can't hold it steady," she whispers. "My fine motor skills. They're going."
Panic flares in Ethan's chest. He suppresses it. "We'll switch to finger painting. Abstract. Or sponges."
"It's not just the hands, Ethan." She taps her temple. "The colors are getting muddy. I look at the blue, and I forget the word for it."
She turns to him, panic in her eyes. "What if I forget you?"
"You won't."
"The tumor presses on the memory centers. Dr. Wells said—"
"I don't care what she said," Ethan interrupts violently. He kneels beside her. "I will remind you. I will tell you who I am every morning. I'll write it on the walls. I'll tattoo it on my forehead."
Violet laughs weakly. "That would look terrible in a board meeting."
"Violet." He takes her shaking hands. "Who am I?"
"Ethan," she says instantly. "Ethan Cross. You drink black coffee. You hate chaos. You play jazz when you think I'm not listening. You smell like cedar and expensive paper."
"See? Perfect data retention."
She leans her forehead against his. "If I forget... promise me something."
"No deathbed promises," Ethan warns. "We're not there."
"If I forget," she pushes on, ignoring him, "don't let me linger. I don't want to be a shell, Ethan. I don't want you to look at me and see... emptiness."
"I will always see you."
She sighs. "You're a bad listener."
"I'm a selective listener."
She closes her eyes. "I'm tired, Ethan. Can we nap? Napping is efficient energy conservation."
"Sure."
He lifts her up. She's lost weight. She feels like a bird—hollow bones and feathers.
He carries her to the bedroom. As he lays her down, she clings to his shirt.
"Hey," she murmurs, half-asleep. "Remember the bridge?"
Ethan freezes. "Which bridge?"
"The one where we didn't meet. The one I fell from."
"You didn't fall," Ethan corrects gently. "You were standing near the edge."
"No," she mumbles, drifting deeper into the fog. "Before. The first time. Adrian caught me. But he slipped..."
She trails off.
Ethan stands by the bed, his blood running cold.
Adrian caught me.
But he slipped.
She's mixing memories. Confusing him with the ghost from her past. Or maybe the tumor is creating false narratives.
He walks to the window, staring out at the grey city. It's raining again.
He hates the rain now. It reminds him of the clock ticking down.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from his brother, Sebastian.
Seb: Board is calling an emergency vote. They think you've lost your mind. Come back to work, Ethan. You can't save everyone.
Ethan deletes the message.
He goes back to the bed and lies down next to her, fully clothed. He pulls her frail body against his chest, wrapping his arms around her like a shield.
"I'm not Adrian," he whispers into her hair. "I won't slip."
Violet doesn't answer. She just hums that melody in her sleep, over and over, until it matches the rhythm of his own terrified heart.
Two days later, she wakes up and doesn't know where she is.
"Ethan?" Her voice is panicked, shrill. "Where am I? Why is it so high up?"
Ethan rushes in from the kitchen with a glass of water. "You're home. You're in my apartment. It's okay."
She looks at him, eyes wide and unseeing. "Home is the bakery. With Lily. I need to feed the starter yeast."
"You moved out, remember? You're staying with me."
She blinks. The fog clears slowly. Recognition returns, but it's slower this time. "Right. Ethan. Shiny Shoes."
She tries to sit up and winces.
"My head splits," she groans. "Feels like... pressure."
Ethan is dialing Dr. Wells on speaker.
"Increase the dexamethasone," Wells says over the phone, her voice tinny. "It reduces the swelling. But Ethan... the confusion episodes? They're going to get more frequent."
"We need stronger meds," Ethan demands. "She's in pain."
"I can call in morphine. But it will sedate her."
"Do it."
"No," Violet says. She's listening. She pushes herself up, swaying. "No morphine. I want to be awake."
"Violet, you're hurting."
"I can handle pain," she snaps. "I can't handle losing time. Today is... what is today?"
"Thursday. May 14th."
"May 14th." She pales. "Oh god."
"What?"
"Eleanor's birthday. My sister. She turns eighteen today." She scrambles out of bed, nearly falling. Ethan catches her.
"Whoa, easy."
"I promised!" She's frantic now, clawing at his shirt. "I promised I'd take her to dinner. It's her eighteenth, Ethan. I can't miss it. If I miss it, she'll know. She'll know I'm dying."
Ethan holds her steady. "Violet, you can barely stand. We can FaceTime her. We can send a gift."
"No!" She shoves him away with surprising strength. "She thinks I'm traveling. She thinks I'm fine. If I don't show up, she'll know I lied. I have to go."
She looks at him, tears streaming down her face.
"Please, Ethan. One last normal night. I want to see my little sister blow out candles. Just... help me pretend? For three hours?"
Ethan looks at the clock. It's 5:00 PM. Rush hour traffic. The roads are slick with spring rain.
Logic says: Stay home. Order delivery. Keep her safe.
Love says: Give her the wish.
"Three hours," Ethan negotiates. "I drive. We stay for cake. If you get dizzy, we leave immediately."
"Yes," she sobs, wiping her face. "Yes. I'll put on makeup. I'll hide the dark circles. Just get me there."
Ethan grabs his keys.
It's a bad idea. Every cell in his body screams that it's an inefficient, high-risk variable.
But she's looking at him with hope, and hope is the only currency they have left.
"Okay," he says. "Get dressed. Wear the blue dress. It's your color."
They take the Mustang.
Violet insisted. The sedan looks like a hearse, she said. The Mustang looks like an adventure.
Ethan drives carefully. Slower than usual.
Violet is in the passenger seat, applying lipstick in the visor mirror. Her hand shakes, but she manages it. She's put on enough concealer to hide the exhaustion, and she's smiling.
"She's going to freak out when she sees the car," Violet says excitedly. "Ellie loves vintage."
"Does she know about me?"
"I told her I met a guy. Didn't say he was a tycoon." She grins. "Surprise factor."
They hit the highway. Traffic is dense. The wipers slap rhythmically against the windshield. Swish, click. Swish, click.
Ethan's phone buzzes in the console. Sebastian again.
Stop ignoring the board, Ethan. They're voting to remove you as CEO on Monday.
Ethan glances at it, his jaw tight. Let them. Let them burn it all down. He doesn't care.
"Ethan?"
Violet's voice changes.
It's that wet, panicked tone from the beach.
He looks over.
She's dropped her lipstick. Her hands are clutching her head.
"Pressure," she gasps. "Ethan. It's... popping."
"Hang on," Ethan says, adrenaline flooding his system. "I'm pulling over."
He checks the mirror. He's in the middle lane. Boxed in by a semi-truck on the right and a speeding SUV on the left.
"I can't see," Violet whispers. "Ethan, everything went black."
"Just breathe, Vi. We're five minutes from the exit."
"I'm scared," she whimpers. "It hurts. It really hurts."
Suddenly, she seizes.
Her body arches back against the leather seat, rigid and convulsing. Her head slams against the window.
"Violet!"
Ethan screams her name. He reaches for her, taking one hand off the wheel to stabilize her flailing head.
"Violet, stay with me!"
He looks at her—eyes rolled back, foam at the corner of her mouth.
He doesn't look at the road.
In the span of a single second—the time it takes for a heart to beat or a camera shutter to click—three things happen.
The SUV on the left swerves to avoid a puddle.
Ethan, distracted and one-handed, overcorrects.
The vintage Mustang, lacking modern stability control, spins.
The world dissolves into screeching tires and shattering glass.
Ethan sees the guardrail coming. He sees the drop beyond it.
He throws his body across the console, trying to cover Violet, trying to shield her with his own flesh and bone.
Not like this, he thinks. Please, not like this.
Impact.
Metal shrieking. The sickening crunch of the frame crumpling.
The car flips. Once. Twice.
Then silence.
Darkness.
Ethan opens his eyes. He is hanging upside down.
The seatbelt is digging into his chest, crushing his ribs. He tastes copper. Blood is running into his eyes.
"Violet?"
His voice is a gurgle.
He turns his head. Pain shoots down his spine, blinding white hot.
Violet is slumped in her seat next to him. Her arm is hanging at an unnatural angle. Her eyes are open.
They are looking at him. One amber. One gold.
But the light is gone.
They are glass. Empty. Fixed.
"No," Ethan whispers. "No, no, no."
He tries to reach for her. His arm won't move. He's pinned.
He can smell gas. He can smell the wet pavement. And underneath it, the faint scent of vanilla perfume.
"Violet," he croaks. "Wake up. Please."
She doesn't move. She doesn't hum.
She is gone.
He failed. He didn't just fail to save her from the cancer. He killed her. He put her in this car. He drove. He looked away.
A sound rises in his throat—a primal, animal keen of agony that has no words.
"Take me back," he begs into the crushing silence. "Please. I'll do anything. Take me back."
The world begins to grey out at the edges. His vision tunnels.
He stares at Violet's face as the darkness swallows him.
I love you, he tries to say.
Then, his heart stops.
3:47 PM.
The wind hits his face. It smells like blooming flowers.
"Excuse me! Coming through!"
Ethan stumbles. The disorientation is violent—like being yanked from deep water by a hook in his gut.
He gasps, sucking in air that smells of sugar and pollen.
He's standing on pavement.
He looks down. His hands are clean. No blood. He checks his chest. No crushed ribs. His suit is pristine.
He checks his watch. Patek Philippe. 3:47 PM.
"What..."
He looks up.
Pink petals are falling like snow. He's in the park.
He knows this park.
He turns around, frantic. His heart is racing, carrying the echo of the crash that just killed him.
A gust of wind rips through the cherry trees.
And through the swirling pink blizzard, he sees her.
Violet Aurora. Alive. Standing on the fountain's edge, holding her camera.
She lowers the lens. She smiles.
It's the first time he's seen it. And the thousandth time.
She steps back. She slips.
"No!" Ethan screams.
He moves. Not out of thought, but out of sheer, terrifying instinct.
He catches her.
They crash together. Her vanilla scent hits him—a punch to the gut.
"You okay?" he chokes out. The words feel like script lines he's forced to read.
She looks up. Amber and Gold. Bright. Alive.
"I..." She hums. Mmm-hmm. "I think so?"
Ethan stares at her, his breath trembling in his lungs.
She's alive. He's alive.
He doesn't understand. Is this hell? Is this heaven?
"Good," he says, but his voice is shaking so hard he can barely articulate. "Because that was almost a very dramatic exit."
She laughs. "I know. I was just... the light was perfect."
It's exactly the same. Word for word.
The horror sets in.
The loop has begun.