A cold blade slid between her ribs. "Juliette," Blake said, soft and practiced, "you always made things difficult." "Blake—" She tried to push him. Her hand landed on silk, then on his wrist. His palm smelled like aftershave and cheap whiskey. "You think the Atelier can survive? You think your father will keep the company together?" He laughed the way a man laughs when he has rehearsed the line in front of a mirror. "Only your death clears the path." "Blake, no." Her voice broke. She tasted copper. She reached for the call button and found empty air. He leaned in close. "I loved you, Juliette. I still do. This is mercy." "Mercy," she said, and heard the word as if someone else had spoken it. "You used my name like a receipt." He smiled as though this was a joke. He pushed the blade further. Warm spread across her fingers. She heard his breath, a low, needy sound. "Please," she said. There was a strange protocol in the hospital of words that could stop a man. It did not work on Blake. He stepped back. "You will be remembered," he said. "Everyone will mourn. Everyone will move around you." Her knees crumpled. The room tilted. He watched her fall. There was no panic on his face. Only relief like a man who had finished a job. "Don't die on my account," he whispered as he walked out. The door clicked shut. Her vision tunneled. The last sound she