Page 66 of Omega's Formula

I consider the question honestly. The ache is still there, deep and persistent. Nolan’s face is still lodged in my mind. Nothing has been resolved or fixed or made okay.

But the world feels slightly less grey than it did this morning. The weight pressing down on my chest has lifted, just enough to let me breathe.

“Better,” I admit. “Not good. But better.”

“That’s a start.” She stands, stretching. “Same time next week? We could make it a thing. Sibling bonding. God knows we didn’t get enough of it growing up.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Maybe means yes,” Anna replies and I don’t contradict her.

I gather the empty popcorn container, sticky with butter residue. “Thank you. For coming over. For... this.”

“That’s what family is for.” She hesitates, then adds: “You know you can call me, right? When it gets bad? You don’t have to handle everything alone.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

We walk out into the afternoon sunlight, and it feels brighter than I remember.

That night, I can actually sleep.

Not well—I still wake twice reaching for someone who isn’t there—but sleep nonetheless. Progress.

I think about the agreement I made with Nolan. The marriage, the cohabitation, the arrangement to pay for Ellie’s treatment in exchange for his compliance with Bureau requirements. Technically, legally, I’m bound to continue funding her medical care regardless of what happened between us personally.

The petty part of me wants to stop the payments. Let him feel some consequence for the deception, some price for playing me like a fool but that would be punishing Ellie for her brother’s sins, and whatever else I’ve become, I’m not that person. The treatment continues. A deal is a deal.

The apartment, though.

That cramped space with its thin walls and its lingering scent of him, that’s mine. It’s my apartment. He shouldn’t be in it. It made sense when I didn’t think it would mean anything to me but that’s changed. I want it back. I want to sell it or gut-renovateit or do whatever it takes to erase every trace of those two weeks from existence.

I make a mental note to ask Sara about the options. There might be legal complications, given the Bureau’s ongoing requirements, but surely there’s a way to get him relocated somewhere else into somewhere I don’t own.

I don’t want him in my space.

17. Nolan

It’s almost a month since the cohabitation ended, and I’m sleeping on the couch because it smells like him.

It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I should leave. I’ve been thinking about it more and more, running the numbers in my head like some kind of financial masochist. The agreement says I can stay here for the remainder of the year, but there’s nothing in it that says Ihaveto. Mrs. Kay’s room is still available—she mentioned it last week when I stopped by to check on her. Two hundred a month, utilities included, bathroom down the hall.

I can afford it. It would mean going back to the life I had before: cramped quarters, shared facilities but at least I’d be able to breathe without choking on his scent.

The only thing stopping me is the money itself. Free is free. Two hundred a month is two hundred a month I could be putting toward an emergency fund or future expenses. Perhaps it might even go to towards moment when Erik decides he’s done playing benefactor and pulls the plug on Ellie’s treatment.

That won’t happen, I tell myself. There’s a contract. His own lawyer drew it up. It’s ironclad and binding. He can’t just walk away from his legal obligations because he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble.

But contracts can be broken. I know that better than anyone. Alistair taught me that lesson thoroughly.

I drag myself off the couch and get ready for my hospital visit. The mirror in the bathroom shows me someone I barelyrecognize—hollow-eyed, too thin, with the particular grey pallor of someone who hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly. I’ve lost weight. I’m not sure how much, but my clothes hang differently now, looser in places they didn’t used to be.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.

Ellie is sitting up when I arrive, which has become normal now. The treatment is working better than anyone expected. Her color is good, her energy levels are up, and Dr. Burke has started making cautiously optimistic noises about discharge timelines.

It’s everything I wanted. Everything I sold myself for. My sister is getting better, and that’s what matters.

“You look terrible,” Ellie says by way of greeting. It’s become her standard opening line. I’m starting to hate it.