The cold was the first thing I noticed.
Not the antiseptic smell, not the fluorescent lights humming above me, not the metal beneath my back. Just the cold. Deep. Bone-level. The kind that doesn't come from air conditioning.
I opened my eyes.
White ceiling tiles. Stainless steel drawers across from me. A body bag on the counter, unzipped, empty.
I sat up too fast. The sheet fell away from my shoulders. I was wearing a hospital gown. Thin. Blue. Open in the back.
My toes touched concrete. Cold. So cold.
I looked down at my left foot. A plastic tag looped around my big toe. White. Red lettering.
Jane Doe 217.
My phone buzzed.
It was on a metal cart near the door, tucked inside a clear evidence bag. The screen was lit up. Notification after notification after notification. The buzzing didn't stop.
I stood up. The gown did nothing. I walked to the cart, pulled my phone out of the bag, looked at the screen.
Fifteen million notifications.
Fifteen million.
I opened the top one. A TikTok link. My husband's handle: @DorianVoss_Life.
The video was still playing.
Bathroom tile. Our bathroom tile. The gray hexagonal stuff I'd picked out because he said he liked modern. A body on the floor. Me. Unconscious. Mouth slightly open. Skin wrong-colored.
Dorian's voice, laughing: "Babe? Babe, you okay? Hello?"
More laughter. Not concerned laughter. The kind you do when something awkward happens and you're recording it for content.
Caption: "When your wife is being dramatic about the flu."
Six hours ago. The video had been up for six hours.
Comments:
"She's so extra lol"
"Is she dead? Dead wife trend?"
"Bro just leave her there she's fine"
"15 million views for THIS"
"Wait is she actually dead"
I checked the time on my phone. 2:47 AM.
I'd been declared dead at 9:14 PM. The hospital sent a courtesy copy to my emergency contact. I checked my email. There it was. 10:03 PM. "Notice of Patient Death - Mara Cross."
Dorian had watched me die. Filmed me dying. Posted it. Gone viral.
I checked his location. Ritz-Carlton, downtown. Room 614.
I checked her profile. Sloane Parrish. Eight hundred thousand followers. Clean girl aesthetic. Beige outfits. Skin care routines. "Morning resets" where she woke up at 5 AM to journal.
Last post: fifteen minutes ago. A mirror selfie at the Ritz. Bathrobe. Hair towel. Caption: "taken."
I wrapped the sheet around myself. Walked out of the morgue.
The hallway was empty. Linoleum. Fluorescent lights. A crash cart against the wall. I followed signs to the exit. Pushed through a door. Alarm screamed. I kept walking.
Parking lot. Cold air. Real air. I breathed it in.
Uber app. Request car. Confirm pickup. The app asked if I wanted to add a stop. I didn't.
The driver pulled up in a Honda Civic. Young guy. Looked at me in the rearview.
"You at a party or something?"
"Something like that."
He dropped me at the Ritz at 3 AM. I didn't have shoes. The sidewalk was cold. The doorman looked at me, looked away, decided this wasn't his problem.
Lobby. Marble. Flowers. A guy my age in a suit on his phone. Didn't look up.
Elevator. Sixth floor. The carpet was patterned. Gold and cream. I followed the numbers.
The door was cracked open. Champagne bucket outside. Ice melted. Room service tray on the floor. Two plates. Half-eaten.
I pushed the door.
King bed. Messy sheets. Clothes on the floor. His. Hers. His watch on the nightstand. Her phone propped up on a tripod, recording.
They were both in the bed. Asleep? No. Dorian's arm was around her. She was facing the camera. Pose even in sleep.
I walked to the nightstand. Picked up her phone. Turned it to face them.
Her eyes opened first. Sloane. Blinked. Focused. Saw me.
She screamed.
Dorian jerked awake. Looked at me. His face did something I'd never seen before. Recognition, terror, confusion, relief, all in two seconds.
"Mara—"
I held up her phone. Checked the recording light. Still on.
"Don't stop on my account," I said. "The lighting's terrible for content."