The Fabricated Vows

The fluorescent hum of the pharmacy is the only thing holding you together. Your hands tremble as you scan the prescription label again—Mara Ellison, 200mg—but the name on the bottle isn't yours. It never is. Three weeks you've been coming here, and every time the clerk, a girl with a silver nose ring, greets you like a stranger. Except yesterday she called you Sarah. You didn't correct her. You don't know which of you is wrong.

You step outside into the thin autumn sun, and the world tilts. The parked cars are all the same model—blue sedans, every one. The trees along Maple Street are identical oaks, spaced at perfect intervals. Your breath catches. You've seen this street before, but not like this. Like a stage.

A black town car idles at the curb. The window rolls down, and Elias Vance leans out, his smile a polished blade. "There you are, darling. I've been looking everywhere."

You don't know him. You don't. But your scarred palm itches where his eyes rest, and the ache in your chest says otherwise.