Sloane grabbed for the phone. I stepped back.
"That's mine," she said. Voice high. Brittle.
"I know." I looked at the screen. "You're recording in 4K. Nice. Most people don't bother with the resolution setting."
Dorian was still processing. Sitting up now. Sheet around his waist. Looking at me like I was a ghost. Which, technically, I was.
"You're dead," he said.
"Apparently not."
"The hospital called. They said—"
"I know what they said." I looked at the screen again. "Fifteen million views. That's impressive. Your last video only got forty thousand."
Sloane swung her legs out of bed. Wrapped in the sheet. Made for the bathroom. I moved. Blocked her.
"Where are you going?"
"To call security."
"You're naked under that sheet. You want to explain to security why you're in a hotel room with a married man whose wife just died?"
"Ex-wife," Dorian said.
I looked at him. "We're not divorced, Dorian. We're not separated. We're married. Legally. On paper. The paper you signed six years ago."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Sloane's phone buzzed in my hand. New comment. I read it out loud.
"'Wait is she actually the dead wife? The one from the video?'"
Sloane's face went pale. The kind of pale that's not makeup.
I scrolled. "You have eight hundred thousand followers. About five percent engagement usually. But tonight? Tonight you're going to get numbers." I held up the phone. "This is content. Real content. Not your morning routine. Not your skincare. A dead woman walking into your hotel room."
"That's not my phone," Sloane said. "That's my private phone. My personal one."
I looked at her. "You have two?"
"My content phone. It's in my bag."
I turned to the bag on the chair. Opened it. Pulled out the second phone. Rose gold. Big case with a ring light attached.
On the screen: a live stream. Ten thousand viewers. Comments flying.
Sloane had been live when I walked in.
I turned the screen to face her.
"Oh," she said.
The comments:
"WHO IS THAT"
"is that the dead wife"
"omg she's real"
"this is not a skit"
"someone call 911"
"She's not dead," Dorian said. To himself. To the room. To no one.
"No," I said. "I'm not."
I held up both phones now. Her personal one with the video still recording. Her content one with the live stream still going. Fifteen thousand viewers now.
"Which one do you want back?"
Sloane's eyes darted between them. Calculating. I could see it. Influencer math. Which phone has more value. Which video can she salvage. Which narrative wins.
"The live one," she said. "I can end it. Say it was a prank."
"It wasn't a prank."
"I know. But I can say it was. People love prank content. It's a whole genre."
Dorian looked at her. "Sloane."
"What? It's damage control."
I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised me.
She looked at me. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—" I shook my head. "You're really something."
"I'm protecting my brand."
"You're in a hotel room with my husband. I was declared dead six hours ago. And you're worried about your brand."
She straightened. Found some dignity somewhere. "You don't understand how this works."
"No," I said. "I don't. I was a cybersecurity engineer before I became the woman who stayed home. I understand systems. I understand data. I don't understand people who film themselves brushing their teeth and call it content."
Dorian got out of bed. Pulled on his pants. "Mara. Put the phones down. Let's talk."
"I'm not putting anything down."
"You're being dramatic."
"Like in the video? When you said I was being dramatic about the flu?"
"That was a joke."
"I was unconscious, Dorian. From carbon monoxide. From the faulty exhaust in the Range Rover you were supposed to fix last month."
He went still.
"You knew," I said. "You knew it was leaking. I told you. Three times. You said you'd take it in. You didn't."
"That's not—"
"The garage called to confirm the appointment. You canceled it. Said you'd reschedule. You didn't."
Sloane looked at him. "Dorian?"
He didn't answer.
I looked at the live stream. Twenty thousand viewers now. Comments flying too fast to read.
"Here's what's going to happen," I said. "I'm going to walk out of this room. I'm going to take both phones. When I'm in the elevator, I'm going to end the live stream. The other video—" I looked at Sloane. "That one stays with me."
"You can't do that."
"I just did."
I walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back.
"The champagne outside is melted. If you want another bottle, room service starts at 6."
I left.