Stella March - POV
Every light is on.
I sit in my car at 2:14 AM staring at my house. It's blazing. Every window bright like someone's conducting an interrogation inside. Ethan stands in the living room. Just standing there. Watching me through the glass.
My hands won't leave the steering wheel.
Engine's off. Has been off for thirty seconds maybe. Longer. I should move. Walk up that path. Open the door. But my body won't cooperate because once I go inside I have to lie to the man planning to murder me in nine days.
The front door opens.
Ethan steps onto the porch. Waiting.
I force my fingers to release the wheel. Grab my purse. My legs feel wrong when I stand. Like they might give out halfway up the path. I make it to the steps.
"Hey." My voice sounds too bright. Fake. "You're still up?"
"Where were you?"
Not are you okay or I was worried. Just the accusation.
"I told you. Vanessa and I were talking about bridesmaid stuff and we lost track of—"
"You weren't with Vanessa." He moves aside so I can pass. Doesn't touch me. "I called her an hour ago. She said you left at midnight."
The living room is so bright it hurts. I set my purse down. Take off my coat slowly. Buying time. "We went to her place after. Got talking about the dress alterations and I didn't realize how late—"
"Stella. Stop."
Something in his voice makes my throat close.
"I tracked your phone."
The room tilts.
"What?"
"Find My Friends. We've had it enabled for months, remember?" He holds up his phone. Shows me the screen. A little dot on a map. Timestamp 1:47 AM. An address on the outskirts of town I recognize immediately. "You were here for over an hour. Want to explain whose house that is?"
Carter's address. He tracked me straight to Carter Blackwell's house.
"I don't. The GPS must be glitching or—"
"It's not wrong." He sets the phone on the coffee table. Crosses his arms. Studies me. "You've been lying. About where you go. Who you see. What you're doing. I thought maybe wedding stress. You know, cold feet. Normal stuff. But this?" He gestures at the phone. "This is different."
I need a story. Something that explains everything without explaining anything.
"I've been seeing a therapist."
It comes out before I've thought it through. But I commit. No choice now.
Ethan just stares at me. "A therapist."
"Yes. For six weeks. Twice a week." I sit on the couch because standing feels impossible. "I've been having panic attacks. About the wedding. About marrying you. About not being..." My voice cracks. Real tears threaten because I'm so tired. "About not being good enough."
His face shifts. Not sympathy exactly. Something softer though.
"Why hide it?"
"Because I didn't want you thinking I was weak." The words tumble out faster now. "You're so sure about everything. So confident. And I'm having nightmares and panic attacks and feeling like I can't breathe half the time. Like I'm drowning." The drowning part is true. My voice breaks. "I couldn't let you see me like that."
He sits beside me. Close but not touching yet.
"What's the therapist's name?"
My mind races. Carter's computer screen from earlier tonight. That directory he had open when I first arrived. Names scrolling past. One stuck.
"Dr. Patricia Reeves. She has an office near the library."
"And tonight? That address?"
"She does house calls sometimes. For patients having emergencies." More lies. They keep coming. "I texted her during the party. Said I was having an attack. She told me to meet her at her home office."
Ethan watches my face. Looking for cracks.
"Show me the texts."
"I deleted them." Think. Faster. "I was embarrassed. Didn't want any record of me falling apart."
"Convenient."
"It's true."
Silence. The clock ticks. My pulse pounds in my ears so loud I'm sure he hears it.
Finally he reaches over. Takes my hand. His fingers are warm. Familiar. I used to love this. Now it feels like being trapped.
"I love you. You know that?"
"I know."
"I want to marry you. Build a life. The whole thing." He squeezes my hand. Not hard. Just firm. "But I can't do that if you're keeping secrets. If you're lying about where you are."
Guilt twists through my stomach. Not because I'm lying. He deserves every lie. But because I'm good at it. Because some part of me is performing and performing well.
"I'm sorry." I let my voice break. "I should've told you. I just didn't want you seeing me as broken."
"You're not broken." He pulls me against his chest. Strokes my hair. "You're stressed. It's normal. Wedding planning is insane. But we handle stress together. Okay? No more secrets."
I nod against his shoulder. Count seconds. Wait for him to release me so I can escape.
"I'm calling Dr. Reeves tomorrow." His voice is soft against my hair. "To verify the appointments."
Everything stops.
"You don't have to—"
"I do." He pulls back. Looks at me. "Not because I don't trust you. But if you're struggling this much, I need to make sure you're getting proper care. I want to talk to her about supporting you better."
The lie is falling apart already.
"Patient confidentiality though—"
"She can confirm you're her patient without breaking confidentiality." His eyes are hard now despite the gentle tone. "Unless you're lying. Then she'll say she's never heard of you."
"I'm not lying."
"Good. Then there's nothing to worry about." He kisses my forehead. Releases me. "Go to bed. You look exhausted."
I stand. My legs barely hold me. Walk to the bedroom. Close the door.
Lean against it. Try to breathe.
He's calling tomorrow. Dr. Reeves will say she doesn't know me. The whole lie collapses. Unless I can build a paper trail in twelve hours.
I pull out my phone. Text Carter with shaking fingers.
He tracked my phone to your house. Told him I was seeing a therapist. Dr. Patricia Reeves. He's calling her tomorrow.
Three dots appear immediately.
The files finished decrypting. You need to see this.
Can't. Ethan's awake. Tomorrow.
No. Now. This can't wait.
I glance at the door. Listen. Nothing.
What did you find?
The three dots pulse. Then a photo loads. Screenshot of a document.
Header reads: Asset Extraction Protocol - Subject S. March
Below it, a timeline:
December 31, 10:30 PM: Subject administered sedative (champagne, holiday party)
December 31, 11:15 PM: Subject escorted to lighthouse observation deck
December 31, 11:35 PM: Final confirmation of offshore transfer
December 31, 11:47 PM: Asset disposal
My vision goes dark at the edges.
Asset disposal. That's me. My death. Planned. Scheduled. Timed.
Another text: 11:47 PM, December 31st. Thirteen minutes before midnight.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor. Phone clutched in both hands. Screen blurring.
Thirteen minutes before the New Year. Before everyone counts down and celebrates. While I'm in the Atlantic. Drowning.
They've planned it down to the exact minute.
"Stella?" Ethan's voice through the door. "You okay?"
I shove the phone under my pillow. Force my voice steady. "Fine. Just changing."
"Don't forget your alarm. You have Richardson at nine for the grant meeting."
I'd forgotten. My normal life still exists somehow. Meetings. Schedules. Pretending everything is fine.
"Got it. Thanks."
His footsteps fade down the hall.
I pull the phone back out. Stare at that timestamp.
11:47 PM.
They know exactly when I die.