"Don't move—your IV is secure," the nurse said as she pressed the syringe.
"Tell me the ending," I spat.
"Ma'am, please—" the nurse started, voice flat like a script.
"I asked you a question." I swallowed, tasted metal. "Tell me the ending."
The nurse hesitated. "You mean—"
"Yes. Who dies? Who smiles at my funeral? Who gets the insurance?" My voice was sharp enough to cut through the antiseptic air.
"You're not supposed to be asking questions," she said, and for the first time her practiced calm faltered. She glanced at the door.
"I woke up at my own funeral," I said. "Is that salvageable? Be honest."
"You need rest," she said. "And hydration." Her hand hovered over the call button. "Please—"
"Get out." The word landed like a punch.
The nurse blinked, then folded. "If you insist." Her heels clicked. "I'll be down the hall."
The door sighed closed. Alone, I let the memory spill.
Three flashes. Not an explanation, not a theory. Just scenes.
Chapter nine: The confrontation in the atrium where Adr... no, not Adr—Adriana—smiled like the owner of the world. I remember the designer dress, the whisper that cut me off at the mic. Chapter thirty: the fire, the ambulance, the ring. Chapter thirty-two: my name on the ledger, a simple diamond set in a cheap band. My coffin label read Kinsley Winter. I hadn't even made it to thirty-five.
"Stop cataloging," I told myself out
