The images flickered through his mind like an old film reel.


    A winter day, snow nketing the world outside. He was reading the paper when Evangeline tiptoed down the stairs and mischievously snuggled into his arms.


    "Soren, you''re so cold," she had giggled. "You''re going to catch a cold. Here, you have to wear these."


    She had slipped a heat pack under his sweater. Her delicate, soft hands slid beneath the wool, her warmth seeping through the thinyer of his dress shirt. He had looked down at her flushed, smiling face and found himself unable to think of anything else. A fire had ignited deep in his gut. He had grabbed her hand, pulled her down onto the sofa, and...


    Her body was a fatal addiction. Once he''d had a taste, he found it impossible to quit. He was satisfied with her physically, and he had never bothered to restrain his desire for her.


    There had been a time, a brief period, when Soren had genuinely tried to love her. He epted her small acts of kindness, allowed her to get close, and even asked her what gifts she wanted when he went on business trips. They were like any other couple—they went shopping, watched movies, saw friends. They''d had a honeymoon phase, a time when even he thought they could make it work for a lifetime.


    "Soren, why?" A voice, sharp with pain, echoed in his memory. It was Evangeline, her eyes red-rimmed, her lips bitten so hard they were white.


    Soren''s eyes snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was freezing and burning up at the same time, a deep ache settling into his bones. He was still in Evangeline''s small, empty apartment. She was nowhere in sight.


    It had all been a dream.


    Staring at the closed door, he felt an unfamiliar sense of destion. So this was what it was like to wait. It was... unpleasant. For years, she had been the one waiting at home for him. Now their roles were reversed.


    He felt as if he were still trapped in a dream. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, but something hard dug into his shoulder. He reached under the pillow and pulled out a small, red booklet.


    A divorce certificate.


    He''d already had Gregory confirm its authenticity at city hall. He had epted the reality of their divorce. But seeing it now, in his hand, his heart still gave a painful lurch.


    Their rtionship had deteriorated after he''d found out she''d physically attacked Poppy out of jealousy. But he had never wanted a divorce. All he wanted was an apology, a promise that it wouldn''t happen again. Instead, she had refused and resorted to threatening suicide.


    A wave of frustration washed over him. He couldn''t pinpoint the source of it, but as he recalled throwing her out of the vi in a fit of rage, remembered the look of devastation on her face, he felt a flicker of regret. At the time, all he could think was that Poppy was the one suffering, and Evangeline had no right to y the victim.


    But now, all he could think was: *she must have been so cold.*


    The thought made him shiver, and he pulled the nket tighter around himself. He remembered the times he''d been sick, how Evangeline had stayed by his side, never leaving. When he was cold, she would make him hot ginger soup and press hot water bottles into his arms. Sometimes, if that didn''t work, she would slip under the covers with him, warming him with her own body. After he had grown cold toward her, she hadn''t dared to be so bold, but she still stayed up all night, changing the cool cloths on his forehead and brewing him bitter medicinal teas.


    He had never realized until now just how miserable it was to be sick.