I go to the arraignment.
Paige is in tan jail-issue scrubs. She has lost 11 pounds in 6 weeks. When her eyes find me across the courtroom, the hatred in them is undiminished.
Wesley sits at the co-defendant's table. The polite mask is gone for good. He looks like a man whose face has finally caught up with him.
The evidence phase comes.
Soren's legal team submits the back-end logs from Project Threshold's firmware: every override Wesley pushed, every speech-channel inversion, every audio file fabricated for my first-life trial. The recovered text-message chain between Paige and Wesley is admitted next.
Paige's words, on screen:
"As long as Iris is locked up, nobody else can make the capsules."
"The sicker Soren gets, the more he needs them."
"Iris has been the lucky one her whole life. It's finally my turn."
My mother is in the gallery. She is sobbing audibly enough that the bailiff turns to look. I don't reach for her.
The verdicts come in.
Wesley Vance: guilty on all counts. 18 years federal.
Paige Marchetti: guilty on conspiracy and accessory. 9 years state.
When the gavel comes down, Paige spins in her seat and looks at me.
"Iris. You think you won."
She is smiling in a way that is not for the camera anymore.
"You sold so much joy for so many years. You can't even feel anything now. Soren can love you all he wants. You won't be able to tell."
The gallery moves.
Soren is sitting beside me. His fingers curl on his knee.
【Is she right.】
【Is Iris hurting right now.】
I stand up.
Paige's eyes track me up, waiting for me to break.
I smile at her instead.
"Of course I won."
"You're in cuffs. I have $30 million in the business account and 30% of Threshold Bio."
"Whether or not I can feel love is none of your problem."
The smile drops off Paige's face like it was clipped to her ear.
I walk out.
The light on the courthouse steps is hard and white.
Soren catches up at the bottom step. His voice is quiet.
"Iris. Is that true. That you can't feel happiness anymore."
I look at the crowd around the courthouse — paralegals on the phone, photographers, two food carts.
"More or less."
He is quiet for a long minute.
Then: "Then I'll give it back to you."
I think he means money. Equity. Lawyers.
What he does is drive me to a climate-controlled storage unit on West 30th.
The door slides up.
Inside: floor-to-ceiling glass-fronted pharmaceutical refrigerators, lit from underneath. Each shelf is lined with rows of wax-sealed capsules. Pale gold. Bright orange. Pink. Hundreds of them.
Densely packed. Like a galaxy in cold storage.
I stop breathing in the doorway.
Soren says, quietly, "Every capsule you've sold that I could find — I bought back. From clients, from estate sales, from your bankruptcy auction."
I walk to the first refrigerator.
The capsule on the front-left of the top shelf is labeled in my own handwriting from 6 years ago.
"First time receiving roses. I.M. 2019-04-12."
The next one:
"Series A closing. I.M. 2020-09-30."
The next:
"At Cara's wedding, the reception. I.M. 2021-03-14."
Every one of them is a piece of me I sold to keep the studio rent paid. Pieces I had assumed were gone the way a song is gone after you sing it.
I put my fingertips on the cold glass.
"When did you start."
"First life."
His voice is almost not there.
"I noticed you weren't laughing the way you used to. I had someone start collecting. I didn't get them back to you in time."
In his second life, he had kept collecting.
In this third life, he still is.
Something hits me in the chest like a small interior door has been kicked off its hinges.
It is not enough to balance what he has done.
It is not even close.
But the hate inside me cracks. One thin hairline crack. Not the whole structure.
Soren opens the center refrigerator and lifts out a capsule from the middle row.
"This one I haven't seen before."
The wax label reads:
"Unknown joy. Source: I.M."
I take it from his hand.
The wax disc is warm from being out of the case for 3 seconds.
I know which day this is.
It's the day I distilled my first capsule and realized it had worked. Not the day a man gave me flowers. Not the day my father told me I was a good daughter. Not the day a check cleared.
It was the day I realized I could build something with my hands that no one else could take away from me.
(They took it from me anyway. Twice. But that was after.)
I put the capsule between my teeth.
The wax breaks. The compound rises into the soft palate.
I hear myself laugh — once, very softly. Not at anything in the room.
It is small.
Soren is standing 3 paces behind me.
He doesn't move closer.
His thinking is loud enough to rattle.
【She laughed.】
【She actually laughed.】
【Don't cry, Soren. Hold it.】
I look back at him.
His eyes are wet.
"What are you crying for."
He looks at the wall. "I'm not crying."
【Pathetic.】
【But she laughed.】
【I could die now and it would be worth it.】
I walk over to him.
He straightens up like a soldier.
"Yes."
"I am not going to forgive you because of these capsules."
"I know."
"And I am not going to start something new with you."
His throat moves. "I know."
"But you can get in line."
His head snaps up.
"To date me," I clarify.
The light in Soren's face goes up by 4 orders of magnitude.
【What number am I.】
【Is there anyone else in front of me.】
【Can I cut.】
I look at him, level.
He says, instantly, "I'll follow the rules."
Behind us, the rolling door rattles up another foot. Vivienne Ashby-Vance steps through. She has heard the last sentence. Her face goes through several expressions and settles on something I have not seen on it before. Something close to humility.
She holds out a folder.
"Marchetti Supply is in Chapter 7. Your parents' house in Larchmont is on the auction list."
I take the folder. I look inside long enough to confirm the numbers.
I feel nothing in either direction.
"They want to see you," Vivienne says.
"No."
She nods. She does not push.
At the door, she pauses. She bows her head a degree toward me.
This time, it is not a request for me to save Soren.
It is an apology.
I do not respond.
Some injuries do not dissolve on contact with the word sorry.
But I do not let them keep their hand on my throat anymore, either.
Vivienne leaves.
Soren is still standing in the middle of the warehouse with the capsules behind him.
"I'm taking all of these," I say.
"Okay."
"You're paying me back what each one cost."
"Okay."
"If you want to buy capsules going forward, you book an appointment."
"Okay."
【She can book me for the rest of my life. I'll take that.】
6 months later, Marchetti & Co. reopens on Lispenard with a new sign and a new mission statement.
I do not sell joy capsules to private clients anymore.
We work with two academic neuropsych labs on documented, IRB-approved emotional-stabilization research. Every batch is registered with the FDA. Every label has a lot number. We are boring on paper, which is the point.
On the day of the reopening, there are 9 press photographers across the street and a small line of niche-fragrance bloggers in front of the door.
One of them lifts a microphone. "Miss Marchetti. After everything you've been through, do you still believe in love."
I look into the lens.
"I don't take personal questions."
Soren is standing at the back of the press, against the brick wall of the building opposite, holding a single-stem red rose.
His tie is crooked.
He has done this every morning for 6 months. Comes to the door. Leaves a flower. Buys a capsule if I am selling one that day. If I'm not, he sits on the bench across the street for 10 minutes and goes back to his office.
The entire city knows Soren Ashby is courting me.
The entire city also knows I haven't said yes.
When the press cycles off, I walk across the street.
Soren holds out the rose with both hands.
"Happy reopening."
【I wrapped it myself this morning.】
【I crooked the tie on purpose.】
【She might fix it.】
I take the rose.
I don't touch his tie.
The light in his face goes down a notch and is hidden almost before it goes down.
"I have a board call. I'll get out of your way."
He turns to go.
"Soren."
He stops.
I lift my hand. I straighten the silk of his tie under his collar. The knot snugs against his throat.
He stops breathing.
His interior voice goes silent for 3 full seconds.
Then it explodes.
【She touched me.】
【Does she like me a little.】
【Don't push. Be cool. Soren. Be cool.】
I drop my hand.
"Next time, come correct. You're a hazard to the streetscape."
He laughs.
It is the first real laugh I have ever seen from him. Not cold. Not engineered. Not held back at the corners.
Like a man who has just been told his sentence is suspended.
I turn back to my front door.
The glass swings shut between us.
Before the latch catches, I hear him.
【Iris. Take your time.】
【This time, I'll be the one waiting for you.】